‘cause when the stars align, you might bring the beast out | allie hayes + dean di laurentis
Dean’s eyes finally drift over to you, and he smirks. That wordless expression conveys all he wants you to hear—that could have been you on his lap if only you weren’t such a brat, pissing him off, stressing Allie out.
contents — 18+ content, smut, mean dom!dean, mean switch!allie (sub-leaning tbh), sub!brat!reader, dirty talk, brat taming, punishment, bondage (handcuffing), gagging, one slap, voyeurism, deanallie ignoring reader :(, allie riding, no action for reader, orgasm denial, essentially a deanallie smut :P
word count — 1.3k | title — beast by mia martina + waka flocka
requests — An Allie x Dean x reader fic pleaseee 😩 + I was wondering if you could write mean/hard dom!dean x sub!reader or mean/hard dom!dean x switch!Allie x sub!reader?? + Can I please, politely beg for an established poly relationship! With mean!dom Dean mean!switch Allie and very subby!reader!!! Dean and Allie punish reader😏
gabby says — not a repost this time 🤭 it’s not as long but i really enjoyed writing this. i hope you guys enjoy reading just as much 🫶🏼
“You’ve been such a bad, bad girl,” Allie purrs as she crawls over your naked form on the bed until she has her thighs on either side of your head as she straddles your face. “Why don’t you make yourself useful and eat mommy’s pussy?”
You do not waste another second, and dive in between your girlfriend’s thighs. Your tongue finds her clit and she shudders over you, her hips rocking against your face.
Meanwhile, Dean is watching intently from the edge of the bed, his hand wrapped around his cock as he strokes slowly. A smirk ghosts over his lips as he unwraps his hand from his length, and he utters a single word in a rough, low voice, “Stop.”
Allie’s hips still immediately, and so do you, your tongue instinctively freezing against her cunt. You feel a whine bubbling in your throat, but you quickly swallow it down—you really do not need to be in deeper trouble than you already are.
“Allie-cat, why don’t you fetch me your favorite pairs of handcuffs?” Dean purrs from the edge, his dark eyes fixed on you still laid on the back. “Stay still. You’re perfect right there.”
The lack of a nickname for you is like a bucket of cold water thrown over you, and your heart drops when you realize that you are deep in it this time—you have pushed their buttons so far tonight. You have been on a bratty streak the past few days—leaving them on delivered for hours, teasing them in public, touching yourself despite being explicitly told not to. But tonight—wearing an insanely short dress that leaves little to the imagination, using your fuck me heels at the club, deliberately flirting with various people on the dance floor, keeping your eyes on your partners as you do so—easily tops them all. You had enjoyed seeing their darkened eyes on you, their jaws clenching, their grips tight around their glasses, but now, it is time for you to pay the price.
Allie eagerly swings her legs off the bed and drops to her knees, sliding an unsuspecting storage box from under Dean’s bed. She lifts the lid and spots two pairs of fuzzy handcuffs.
“Good girl.” Dean grins as he looks directly at Allie. “Cuff her to the bed frame,” he talks *about you like you are not in the same room as them, and your thighs squeeze together in an attempt to alleviate the growing pressure between them—him outright ignoring you makes you wetter than you’d like to admit.
“You look so pretty like this,” Allie coos, locking the cuffs into place. She ghosts her lips over your skin enough to make you squirm and whine softly. “Shh, toys don’t complain.” She wraps her slender fingers around your throat, squeezing just enough to make your breath hitch. “Now, what do you say?”
“Release me.” You smirk as you look up at your girlfriend, whose eyes darken even more, the browns of her irises almost completely swallowed by her dilated pupils.
“I see you’re still being a bad girl,” she whispers, pressing a fleeting kiss to your lips as she releases your throat. Just as you begin to relax on the bed, she grips your chin tightly, her manicured nails digging slightly into the skin. She holds your soiled panties in her other hand as she speaks firmly, “Open.”
You do not budge for a few seconds before gasping when her palm connects with your cheek.
She takes this moment to shove the fabric into your mouth and grins as she leans back to admire her handiwork. “There. Now, you’re tied up and quiet.”
“Did such a great job, gorgeous,” Dean growls, beckoning her over with two fingers. “Come here, baby. You deserve a reward.”
You watch as Allie crawls over to where Dean is seated on the bed. You keep your gaze fixed on them as the latter pulls her into his lap, her bare cunt settling over his hardened cock.
“Tell me what you want,” Dean purrs, his lips meeting hers in an urgent kiss. “Allie-cat, tell me what you want.”
“You,” she whispers against him, her hips grinding instinctively against his, and they both moan at the sensation. “Fuck, I need you.”
“Your wish is my command, babydoll.” Dean grins as he grips her hips, guiding her down on his length. “Holy shit,” Dean groans, while Allie sinks down on him. “Allie, fuck, you are choking my dick, baby.” He laughs, all drunk and dazed on the sensation.
Meanwhile, you squirm on the bed, tugging on your restraints, and whining into the fabric of your panties stuffed into your mouth. “Please,” your plea is muffled behind the makeshift gag, but you whine anyway. “Please.”
However, neither Dean nor Allie pay attention to you, too wrapped up in each other to notice you.
Allie pushes Dean on his back, bracing both her hands on his chest as she starts riding him. “You are so fucking big,” she moans, “So deep.”
“Yeah?” Dean breathes out, still gripping Allie’s hips like his life depends on it. He is guiding her movements on top of him. “You love that I’m filling you up so good, huh?” He growls. “I know you can do that better, baby. Show me how much you love this.”
And so Allie does—she rides him harder, her hips now lifting off him, only to slam back down. Her hands are still braced firmly on his chest, her nails digging into the skin. “Holy fuck, you’re even deeper!” She gasps, throwing her head back at the delicious feeling of his dick stretching her out, reaching spots inside her she didn’t even know existed before Dean—and before you.
“Good fucking girl,” he groans, planting his feet steadily on the bed to meet her downward strokes with upward thrusts. “Oh, yeah? Feels good? Uh-huh?” He grins when Allie’s moans rise in volume as she gets closer and closer to her peak.
“Fuck, I’m so close, I’m so close,” she breathes out, her hips now rolling and grinding against his lap. A few more rolls of her body have her cumming around Dean’s cock, who groans loudly.
“Oh, yeah,” he grunts, one of his hands sliding up her back, and tangling into her curls. He pushes the back of her head to crash his lips against hers, his moans and groans now muffled by her mouth.
You are watching all this with tears of frustration in your eyes. You tug helplessly at the cuffs, groaning muffledly when they do not budge—the rattling of metal against the bed frame just irritates the hell out of you.
At the sound of your frustration, Dean’s eyes finally drift over to you, and he smirks. That wordless expression conveys all he wants you to hear—that could have been you on his lap if only you weren’t such a brat, pissing him off, stressing Allie out. He keeps his eyes on you as he grips Allie’s hips tightly, keeping her still on his lap as they cum together, their sounds blending in.
It takes a few minutes for them to come down from their highs, and when the waves of pleasure subside, Dean gently maneuvers Allie off of him and lays her on the mattress beside him. He then moves over to you, and your heartbeat spikes as the familiar heat pool in your core, but your heart drops when your boyfriend speaks,
“I’m going to take those cuffs off you, then I’m going to run you both a bath.”
“W-what?” You sputter weakly, watching as he unlocks the handcuffs and massages your wrists gently as he laughs mockingly.
“Oh, baby,” he croons, stroking your cheek with his thumb. “Did you really think I would let you cum after that stunt you pulled tonight? Cute. You’re lucky I didn’t leave a vibrator buzzing on your little clit.” He leans down, teasing your skin with a featherlight kiss as he whispers, “You don’t get to cum until we say you can. I don’t care if it takes a week—you’re going to earn that fucking orgasm.”
Dean had never denied you release, and neither had Allie. In fact, they make it a challenge among themselves to make you beat your orgasm record every time, but this time… Oh, you are so fucked.
warnings ! fluff. mild talk of insecurities. dean is literally so sweet.
wc ! 1.8k
author's note ! don't you worry my loves i have at least two more parts planned!!
to be added to my taglist.
part one.
You were nervous. A nervous wreck, really. Part of you was convinced this was all some ploy, but Hannah told you otherwise. "He's not like that, I promise," she said. And you chose to believe her. You had to believe her.
You wanted to.
You spent an hour getting ready, taking multiple pictures and sending them to Hannah and Allie for feedback. By the end, you were satisfied, even if still nervous. You waited anxiously on your couch for the text from Dean.
Twenty minutes later, there was a knock on your door. You swallowed. You hadn't expected him to actually come up to your door, but then again, you hadn't expected any of this. You stood up, walking over and opening the door.
Dean was holding flowers, a small smile on his face. His eyes raked over you, slowly and with no intention to hide his gaze. "Wow," he breathed out. You felt a little uncomfortable, not because of him, but because you weren't used to such an intense stare.
"Hi," you greeted softly, a small smile on your face.
"Hi," he repeated back. He held his hand out with the flowers, and you took them slowly. "I, uh, I asked Hannah what your favorites were."
You smiled a little brighter at that, sniffing the flowers and nodding. "That's sweet. Come in, let me put these in a vase."
He followed you inside, sitting on your couch as you searched your kitchen for a vase and set the flowers up on your countertop. Once you were done, Dean stood up, holding out his hand. "Shall we?"
You nodded. "We shall."
He chuckled, leading you out of your house, letting you lock your door, before leading you to his car. He opened the door for you, before rounding the car and getting in. "Where are we going?" you asked.
Dean smiled. "That's a surprise, sweetheart." You swallowed, not the biggest fan of surprises. Dean glanced at you. "Trust me. Hannah gave me all I needed to know."
That made you feel a little more at ease. You thought it was sweet he took the time to ask Hannah about you, but you tried not to let it go to your head. After all, you needed to be realistic. You doubted very seriously that you two were actually compatible.
Still, he let you pick the music and the talk in the car was easy and friendly, like it just flowed. You didn't get into deep conversations and you didn't ask many questions outside of the basic ones, saving all of that for when you got to wherever you were going.
Soon, you pulled up to your all-time favorite restaurant, and a small smile encompassed your face. Dean looked at you, a smile on his. "See, some surprises are worth it, hm?"
You giggled, nodding. Dean got out, rounding the car and opening your door, holding his hand out. You took it gladly, letting him guide you out of the car and into the restaurant. You were seated in a booth, Dean across from you as you both ordered your drinks.
"What do you like most about this place?" Dean asked once the waitress left.
"The atmosphere. I'm big on energy, and the energy here is always so good."
Dean nodded, eyes studying you. Not critically or anything, just a small glint in his look that made you aware he was taking notes. "I have to ask," you started. "Why'd you wanna go on a date with me?"
Dean tilted his head, like the question was the most puzzling thing in the world. "Why wouldn't I? You're beautiful and kind."
You shook your head, giggling. "No, I mean...you're not the type to go on dates, Dean."
Dean nodded, his throat working as he swallowed. "Well, maybe it's time to change that."
It was your turn to tilt your head, but the question remained unasked as the waitress brought your drinks. You both took a few minutes to look at the menu before ordering your food. By the time the waitress left once again, the energy had changed slightly.
Not bad. Just...different.
"So, hockey's not your thing. What is?"
Dean's forearms were on the table, him leaning in slightly as if what you were about to say was the most important thing in the world. You smiled slightly. "Peace."
The answer was simple, but somehow, Dean didn't need to ask any follow-ups. He just nodded, taking note of what you said.
"What's your favorite thing about hockey?" you asked.
Dean thought for a second. "The team. Nothing's better than a good team. Sure, the ice is nice, the game is cool, and the winning is amazing, but I'd be nothing out there without my boys. Don't tell them I said that, though."
You giggled, a genuine smile on your face. That was honestly the last thing you expected him to say, especially as a defenseman. "Secret's safe with me, Dean."
"Thanks, sweetheart." He smiled back at you, soft and small like it was the most raw thing he'd ever done. "Favorite place?"
You tilted your head in thought. "I think maybe the creek behind my old house. It's full of nature and peace and I really enjoyed reading out there. Like nothing could get me when I was with the Earth."
Dean smiled. "Hannah tells me you're an art major. Why's that?"
You shrugged. "It's just always drawn me. I get to be creative and speak through what I make. I can be anything, I can do anything, and I think that's pretty beautiful."
A nod from him. "That is pretty awesome."
You giggled. "You're pretty good at the whole 'date' thing."
His smile widened. "Yeah?"
You nodded. "Yeah."
"Well, good. I'm glad it's not miserable for you," he teased, but there was an underline of truth.
You shook your head. "Not at all."
The conversation flowed easily. It was comfortable and nice, like every word each of you said was meant to pass your lips and reach the other's ears. Dean's smile never faded, and neither did yours. He asked every question you'd never expected him of all people to ask.
You asked the ones you wanted to know the most. Things were easy and simple with him, and you were finding yourself a lot less skeptical than you were when the date started. Somehow, someway, it felt like you and him were compatible.
You tried to stay neutral, you tried not to get your hopes up, but it was hard. He was Dean, and he was staring at you like the world was at your feet. It felt unreal, truly. Like this was all some dream you'd wake up from and it'd be over.
But it wasn't.
The food arrived, and you took your time eating. You'd trained yourself in the art of eating slowly, to lessen the image that people automatically had over you. Dean, however, was not a slow eater. Nor did he care.
Nor did he have to.
You took a bite of your pasta, eyeing Dean as he cut into his steak. His thirty-five dollar steak. You honestly couldn't believe he'd pay that, but you should've known better. "So why Briar U?" he asked, taking a bite of his steak.
You raised an eyebrow, swallowing your bite of pasta. "Hm?"
"I mean, why'd you choose it? Hannah's mentioned just how smart you are."
You blushed slightly, shaking your head. "She's dramatic."
"I doubt that."
You giggled. The honest answer was a heavier one. One you weren't sure he really wanted to hear. Despite that doubt, you decided to tell him anyway. Honesty was something you were fond of. "Out of all the colleges I got accepted to, it was the best one that was furthest away."
Dean paused at that, questions in his eyes that you weren't sure he'd ask. "Furthest away from what?" You swallowed softly, like you were scared to answer, but were going to anyway. Dean noticed. "You don't have to answer that. I'm being nosy."
You shook your head, a soft smile on your face. "It's okay, I don't mind." You shrugged, taking a sip of your pink lemonade. "My family, mostly. They're...something. I dunno. It's best if we're on opposite sides of the country."
Dean nodded slowly, not pushing anymore. Even if it was clear he wanted to. "I assume you chose Briar for the hockey program?"
Dean smiled. "Yeah, couldn't really pass up that."
You giggled. "Guess not, huh?"
Dean was halfway done with his steak by the time you got a quarter of your pasta down, and honestly, you were already kind of full. You ate just fine in front of Hannah or by yourself, but right now? The thought of eating the entire dish made you slightly nauseous.
You weren't sure why, probably some deep-rooted problem you weren't putting effort into figuring out.
Dean eyed you for a second, eyes flicking down to your plate. "We can take that to-go, if you want," he said, his voice smooth and soft.
You nodded slightly. "Yeah, yeah. Sorry."
Dean furrowed his brows. "For what?"
You shrugged, chuckling softly. "Just feels like I'm wasting, even though I know I'm not."
He tilted his head. "Even if you did, I wouldn't care. Don't force yourself."
You looked at him, eyes searching his for a moment. "Yeah," you whispered.
Dean put his cutlery down, calling a waitress over for two to-go containers. "You don't have to—"
"No, it's okay. I'm already kind of full and I did promise Logan some steak anyway," he said, a smile on his face like this was no trouble at all.
You smiled back softly, even if you didn't really believe him. The gesture was sweet.
Once your food was in to-go containers and Dean paid for the meal, you were leaving the restaurant. Dean opened your door for you and you got in his car, watching as he rounded it. You let out a small, shaky breath before he got in.
Once he was in and the car was on, he looked at you. "Am I taking you home, or is there anything else you wanna do?" he asked genuinely.
You looked at him. "Honestly? I'd love to keep this going, but I have an assignment to finish unfortunately." You looked at him apologetically, and he nodded.
"No worries, sweetheart. There's always next time." He flashed his award-winning smile at you, and you giggled.
"Oh, so there's going to be a next time?"
"Only if you want there to be, of course."
Dean started down the street. You nodded. "Yeah, I do."
His smile widened, but he didn't say anything. The ride to your house was filled with random music from the radio and the occasional short conversation from the two of you, but it was comforting. Warm and soft like it was right where you were meant to be.
When you pulled up, Dean did what he'd done all night. Got out and opened your door, helping you out of the car and then walking you up to your house. You turned around and looked up at him as you reached your door.
"Thank you for tonight, Dean. Really."
He smiled softly. "Anytime, sweetheart."
You stood on your tip-toes, kissing his cheek softly, before pulling back. Your faces were close now, and you didn't miss the way his eyes glanced at your lips. He didn't make a move, though. "Goodnight," you whispered.
"Goodnight," he whispered back.
You turned around, unlocking your door and walking in, giving him one last wave before closing your door and locking it. You sighed out contently, a small smile on your face that stayed for the rest of the night.
Dean hooking up with Garrett's sister at his and Hannah's wedding. This could be fun
I've been working on this one for almost two weeks. It's finally out!! I can't believe I wrote 8k...
Summary: The wedding bells are finally ringing — Hannah and Garrett are getting MARRIED! For the occasion, everyone reunites at a breathtaking lakeside venue in Massachusetts, just a stone's throw from where their story first began. Friends return, old memories resurface, and for one unforgettable weekend, Briar's favorite alumni are back together. Among the guests is Garrett's younger sister, who spent the last three years living her best life across Europe. She never expected to see Dean again — not after the week you shared together
Warnings: 18+, smut, p + v, secret relationship, drinking,
—
‘’Logan and Grace are going to go in first. Then, Allie and Tucker,’’ the wedding coordinator explained. ‘’Don’t forget, bridesmaids come in from this side and groomsmen the other.’’
They nodded, following the instructions and walking slowly and elegantly.
‘’Best man and maid of honor, you'll be last before the bride— where is the bride?’’
Everyone looked around for Hannah, then turned to Garrett because he of all people should know where his future bride was.
Truth was, he hadn’t seen Hannah in a few hours. Her parents had arrived in the morning along with other members of her family. Then, it was Allie’s turn, and although they had seen each other the night before, they had a lot to talk about.
‘’I’m here,’’ Hannah called with you in tow, making your brother sigh with relief. ‘’The strap of my dress broke so we had to sew it back on.’’
The two of you went to the back of the aisle while Garrett returned to his place at the altar.
The wedding coordinator smiled. ‘’Crisis averted. Shall we continue? Best man and maid of honor, you'll be the last ones down the aisle before the bride. Dean, once Garrett's in position, you'll take yours beside him.’’
Dean gave a curt nod.
He hadn’t changed much since you last saw him. His hair seemed a little longer and his shoulders wider, but he still looked as handsome as you remembered. Especially in gray. It matched his blue eyes well.
Tearing your eyes from him, you busied yourself by smoothing the wrinkles from Hannah's dress, adjusting the water bottle in her hands that served as a bouquet before stepping off to the side. It looked ridiculous, but her flowers won’t get here until tomorrow morning so Allie improvised and gave her a water bottle instead.
You felt a nudge. Dean was waiting and offering you his arm. You apologized quietly and took it.
The second your hand slipped into the crook of his arm, Dean straightened and you began walking side by side down the aisle — not as a couple, not even close —, but there was something undeniably intimate about it.
With calm eyes looking ahead and a soft floral dress ending just above your ankles, you began walking. Every step brought you closer to your brother standing tall at the altar, but all you could focus on was the feel of Dean’s bicep under your hand.
‘’How’s Florence?’’ the latter asked quietly.
‘’Good,’’ you replied carefully. “Quiet. Beautiful. A little too easy to get lost in.”
Dean hummed softly, like he was picturing it. “Sounds like you picked the right place, then.”
You glanced up at him, but his eyes stayed forward, focused on the path ahead. Dean’s arm stayed steady beneath your hand as you walked, like he wasn’t thinking about it at all. Like this was just another role to play.
But you were very aware of it.
The warmth of him. The solid press of muscle under your fingers. The way he matched your pace without effort.
‘’You look good in that dress, by the way.’’
You almost stopped walking right there, taken by surprise by his compliment. It wasn’t just any compliment though. It lingered — heavier than it should have, carrying something unspoken beneath it.
The wedding coordinator watched carefully from the front, then lifted a hand. ‘’Perfect. Stop there!’’
You both came to a halt, still arm in arm.
‘’Dean, you'll step over to Garrett once she reaches her spot. Maid of honor, you'll line up with the two bridesmaids. Your spot is at the front."
You nodded.
‘’Perfect,’’ the coordinator said, making a note on her clipboard. ‘’Now let's practice the bride's entrance.’’
· · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────── · ·
For the rehearsal dinner, the wedding party had gathered around a long table in the property’s large backyard. The sun was about to set over the lake, giving a beautiful golden hour ambiance, which was perfect to take pictures for the wedding album.
Three years had gone by since you all sat down together. Life had pulled everyone in different directions — different cities, different countries. Sunday dinners like this didn’t happen as easily anymore.
But somehow, the chaos was exactly the same.
‘’Because G has banned me and Pricilla from his house. You know I would never miss your birthday, Hannah,’’ Tucker defended.
You glanced at him, a soft smile on your lips. ‘’Priscilla? You got a girl, Tuck?’’
Logan laughed, shaking his head between bites. ‘’Priscilla is Tucker’s golden lab.’’
You blinked. How did you not know Tucker got a dog?
You knew he had moved back to Texas and opened a gym, but somehow a whole dog had completely slipped under your radar.
‘’That dog got mud all over my couch the last time you came over,’’ Garrett added.
‘’And the carpets…and the entrance wall,’’ said Hannah.
‘’And Priscilla is very sorry about the mess,’’ Tucker apologized, completely unbothered. ‘’She’s better behaved now.’’
Garrett rolled his eyes.
‘’Can I see her?’’ you asked.
Tucker pulled up an album from his phone and handed it over. ‘’This was when Dean visited last month. He took her on a run every morning. She loved him. Refused to leave the guest room for hours after he left.’’
You raised an eyebrow as you looked over the screen. ‘’You? Dean Di Laurentis? You went to Texas?’’
That was unexpected. Dean had always been a city person. The kind who preferred penthouses to ranches and clubs to open fields. You had difficulty imagining him in cowboy boots and a plaid shirt.
You swiped to the next photo: Priscilla in a truck bed, a purple bandana around her neck, someone’s hand scratching her belly. You recognized Dean’s signet ring instantly. Swiping again, a short video of Dean in athletic shorts, shirtless and sweaty, likely coming back from a run. Tuck called for his dog, but the latter stayed by Dean’s feet.
‘’She’s very cute,’’ you said, handing the phone back.
You couldn’t risk staring at Dean’s naked chest too long.
Tucker slipped it into his pocket with a satisfied grin. ‘’She knows it, too.’’
‘’She also knows she can get away with murder,’’ Dean pointed out. ‘’Last Christmas, she stole an entire loaf of garlic bread off the counter.’’
‘’It was artisanal,’’ Tucker defended. ‘’My girl has expensive taste.’’
Garrett scoffed. ‘’She ate the plastic bag too.’’
Laughter rolled through the table, and something in your chest tightened.
When you left for Europe, you had assumed keeping up with your friends through social media, texts and phone calls would be enough to stay in the loop. Apparently, it wasn't. There was so much you had missed…
‘’Enough about that dog,’’ Allie decided, setting her empty glass of wine down. ‘’Now that Hannah and Garrett are tying the knot…who is next? I saw this gorgeous dress on 5th Avenue and I need an occasion to buy it.’’
Hannah laughed, shaking her head at her best friend.
Garrett’s eyes turned to Logan. ‘’My bet’s on Logan. No pressure though,’’ he added.
Allie made a disapproving sound. ‘’Your money’s already lost Graham because Logan doesn’t want to get married. Grace told me.’’
Grace narrowed her eyes at Allie and Logan was quick to defend himself. ‘’That’s not what I said.’’
‘’I said I didn’t see the point of spending so much money on a wedding. I’ve seen the prices and it’s insane shit. Right now, our priority is to get a house,’’ he explained, covering Grace’s hand with his.
Beside him, Grace nodded.
‘’We all know Dean’s never settling down, so that leaves you,’’ Allie continued, shifting her eyes to Tucker and then to you. ‘’And you.’’
‘’Tucker caught Dean’s college habit, so marriage is probably not on his mind,’’ Logan teased, only to receive a piece of bread thrown at him.
‘’And my sister is not seeing anyone,’’ Garrett said, his eyes falling on you. ‘’She would have told me, right?’’
Before you could say anything, Allie did.
‘’You don’t know that,’’ Allie said smoothly. ‘’She might have a mysterious Italian man she didn’t tell us about.’’
The table went a little quieter.
There had been an Italian man in your life, but that boat sank into the Mediterranean sea before it even left the port. His name was Edoardo. He was tall, handsome and worked as a chef at a high-end restaurant. You kept him from your friends due to that relationship not being serious enough to share.
Dean’s gaze found yours then, steady and unreadable, like he was waiting.
‘’I don’t.’’
· · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────── · ·
After one last glass of wine, you wished everyone good night, then went to your room. Being the sister of the groom had its perks — you had been granted a room to yourself. Unlike Tucker and Dean who were forced to room together. It'll be like away games at Briar, Garrett told them with a clap on their shoulder and an amused smile.
Unzipping your dress and removing the makeup from your face felt freeing. Although she was relatively comfortable, you had been wearing that dress since noon. You couldn’t wait to fall on the plush bed and close your eyes.
Except your eyes wouldn’t close.
The ceiling fan turned slowly above you. Outside, faint frog sounds mixed with crickets as the moon glowed over the lake. It should be relaxing, but instead your mind wouldn’t quiet.
It kept replaying moments you didn’t want to replay too closely.
Dean’s arm under your hand.
His voice beside you in the aisle.
His eyes on you when Allie asked if you were seeing someone.
He hadn’t looked at you like that since…Paris.
You had posted on your social media about setting foot in Paris and, a few days later, Dean sent you a DM about an hypothetical trip to Paris. He needed a place to take his mind off work because working at his grandfather’s law firm was sucking the life out of him.
Seeing him haul his suitcase up to your small apartment the following made you mentally kick your feet and giggle. He was really there. For you.
That night, you went to the bar under your apartment and talked over a glass of wine. It was funny how quickly life had changed from beers at Malone’s to wine in Paris. You felt so…adult.
‘’I didn’t know you were a win connaisseur, Di Laurentis.’’
Dean let out a quiet laugh, swirling the deep red wine in his glass before taking another sip. ‘’I’m not. I just appreciate a good french red.’’
You smiled over the rim of your own glass. ‘’Paris does have great wines.’’
‘’What else is great about Paris?’’ Dean asked, raising an eyebrow and leaning closer over the table.
You wanted to grab the front of his shirt and kiss him. But you didn’t.
Not long after, the combination of jetlag and a long flight hit Dean and you came back to your place.
‘’I forgot to tell you, there’s only one bed,’’ you explained, slightly embarrassed, motioning to the Murphy bed near the window.
Dean glanced at the bed, noting your light pink sheets that matched the ones at your old dorm — some things didn’t change. ‘’What?! I thought this was the Ritz.’’
You threw a pillow at him and he laughed.
The next day, instead of taking him to all the tourist traps, you decided to show him your Paris. The neighborhood café you always go to for breakfast, your favorite bakery, little rituals you loved, and hidden corners tourists rarely see. Dean’s french was terrible, so you had to translate for him…and you may or may not intentionally left out the compliments locals gave him.
It wasn’t until that evening that he made a move to kiss you. Not a sweet, romantic kiss like the romcoms. It was all tongue and pure desire, making up for all the time he had wanted to kiss you again but refrained from. You heard a passerby whistle teasingly but ignored him, gripping the front of Dean’s button up shirt to press him against you.
That week in Paris was your best kept secret.
· · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────── · ·
It was nearly 1am when you heard a knock on your door.
Peeling the comforter off you, you left your bed. You assumed it was Garrett getting cold feet and needing to talk, but when you cracked the door open, your heart stumbled.
Dean.
He had changed out of his dress clothes into a pair of athletic shorts, his blond hair looking like he had been tossing and turning for the past hour.
‘’Sorry,’’ he said quietly. ‘’I thought this was Garrett’s room… Tucker’s snoring is a violation of the Geneva Convention. I was hoping to crash with him.’’
You raised an eyebrow. ‘’Garrett's room is on the floor above. He has the master bedroom.’’
‘’Right. I should I guessed that.’’
Dean scratched the back of his neck, his usual confidence dimmed by sleepiness and the late hour. The dimmed hallway light casted soft shadows across his unfairly handsome face.
‘’Do you want to come in? Can let the best man show up with bags under his eyes. It’ll ruin the wedding picture.’’
Inviting Dean was at the rock bottom of the list of good ideas. Actually, it probably belonged somewhere below drinking champagne on an empty stomach and letting Logan pick the wedding playlist.
Because this was Dean.
Dean, who found you alone and crying on your birthday during your second year at Briar and took you to the closest bakery to buy your favorite cake. Because no one should be alone and crying on their birthday…especially without a cake. He even made it a tradition to send a chocolate and raspberry cake to your door on your birthday. Dean who punched Hunter Davenport after he cheated on you. Dean who kissed you the night the Hawks won the Frozen Four and called you his good luck charm. Dean who came to Paris just to spend time with you.
And now he was standing in your doorway in the middle of the night, shirtless and looking far too good for you to keep your hands — and lips — to yourself.
· · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────── · ·
‘’You dropped out of law school?!’’ you repeated, staring at him in disbelief.
‘’In my second year. And I left the family’s firm,’’ Dean added, sinking farther into the plush pillows, one arm hooked behind his head.
Your jaw nearly hit the floor. ‘’What?!’’
You had always found it ironic that the guy who got into the most trouble was the one who wanted to become a lawyer — like his grandfather. But the more you got to know Dean, the more you realized there was far more to him than his Six Flags reputation. Beneath the effortless charm was someone who was genuinely intelligent. He stayed on top of his classes, picked things up faster than most people, and had a sharp mind that made law seem like the perfect fit.
Dean gave a small shrug. ‘’I realized it wasn't for me. It was...too much.’’ His gaze drifted toward the ceiling before finding yours again. ‘’After I quit, I went down to Tucker's place in Texas for a few weeks. I needed to get away, clear my head, and figure out what I actually wanted to do with my life.’’
‘’Did you find it?’’
He hummed. ‘’I coach a junior girls team. I may have missed my opportunity to play in the NHL, but hockey is still part of me.’’
A smile spread across your face. ‘’That’s great, Dean.’’
He let out a quiet laugh, though it sounded almost embarrassed. ‘’Yeah?’’
‘’Yeah.’’
You pulled the plush blanket over your legs as a cool breeze slipped through the cracked window. As you shifted against the headboard, Dean's eyes flickered down your cami two-piece pajama for the briefest second, following the movement before catching himself and looking back up. He could probably see your nipples against the fabric, but it’s not like he hadn’t already seen them.
‘’I’m sure you make an amazing coach.’’
A crooked smile tugged at his lips. ‘’Those girls are something else,’’ he continued. ‘’They're between eleven and thirteen, so half the practices are spent teaching them hockey, and the other half is convincing them that falling isn't the end of the world.’’ He chuckled. ‘’But when one of them finally nails a drill they've been struggling with, it's a better feeling than getting an A on any exam I ever took.’’
You couldn't help but smile wider. ‘’You like seeing them succeed.’’
He nodded. ‘’I do.’’ A thoughtful silence settled over him. ‘’I spent so long chasing what everyone else thought I should want that I never stopped to ask myself what actually made me happy.’’
His eyes met yours, steady enough to make your stomach tighten.
“Turns out, it wasn't arguing in a courtroom. It was being at a rink.’’
You held his gaze a second longer than necessary, his as beautiful as you remembered. In the soft moonlight spilling through the large window, you had a perfect view of the ripples of muscles of his chest and abs. He may not play hockey anymore, but his body still carried the unmistakable strength of an athlete.
Dean caught your wandering eyes, and one corner of his mouth lifted. ‘’What about you? Paris looked good on you. Why move to Florence?’’
‘’A job opportunity. You know the winery we visited together?’’
His expression softened slightly, the memory clearly clicking into place. ‘’The one where you tried to convince me you could tell the difference between wines?’’
‘’I could,’’ you defended, grabbing a pillow and tossing it at him.
Dean laughed, catching it against his chest with an easy grin. ‘’You absolutely could not.’’
You laughed quietly before continuing. ‘’A position opened up in their marketing department. Their headquarters are in Paris, but the job is remote. I can work from wherever I want as long as I’m in the office once a month. Paris was amazing, but I wanted something different. Somewhere quieter.’’
Dean looked impressed — and proud. ‘’That’s great, baby.’’
The word slipped out so naturally neither of you registered it at first. Then both of you froze.
You searched his face before allowing the smallest smile on your lips. ‘’You used to call me that.’’
Dean let out a quiet breath. ‘’Old habits are hard to unlearn.’’ He tried to make it sound like a joke, but the longing in his eyes gave him away.
· · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────── · ·
A soft but insistent knock on your door slowly pulled you from sleep. Not again…
You chose to ignore it, far too comfortable under the sheets, and pressed your face deeper into your pillow. Whoever needed you could wait another ten minutes, right?
Then you felt the warmth of someone beside you, and the events of last night came rushing back. You couldn't remember exactly when the talking stopped or who fell asleep first. You must have moved during the night absentmindedly because Dean’s arm was under the bottom of your top, resting over your soft skin and you were curled up against him. The touch was intimate, but not undesired.
Peering one eye open, you saw that Dean was still asleep. His blond hair was messy from the night, his face relaxed in a way you rarely got to see. Without the usual smirk or playful confidence, he looked almost peaceful.
You brushed a hand through his hair, wishing you could stop time and stay here longer.
Unfortunately, a second knock hit your door.
‘’Hey, you awake?’’ Grace's voice came from the other side. ‘’It’s past eight and Ava is here for hair. Madeline should be here in fifteen minutes for makeup. Unless you want to look like jetlag is affecting you, I suggest you come down. Oh, and there’s breakfast too!’’
Right. The wedding.
· · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────── · ·
The large living area, which had been turned into a bridal glam suite, was already alive by the time you walked in. You hadn’t bothered dressing, not wanting to get unwanted clothing marks when you’ll change into your dress later.
The smell of fresh coffee and pastries filled the room, mixing with the sound of laughter and the occasional panic that came with a wedding morning.
It was organized chaos.
Hannah sat on a chair in her silk robe, coffee in one hand and a croissant in the other, laughing as Allie tried to convince her that she absolutely needed to get her hair into an updo because it’ll look better with her veil…and will make her chest stand out.
‘’I don’t like having pins poking at my scalp,’’ Hannah argued, tearing a piece from her croissant. ‘’And my chest will stand out whatever I do. My dress is a sweetheart neckline.’’
‘’I’m with Allie on that, but not for the same reason,’’ Grace replied, sitting across from her while Ava was beginning to curl her hair. ‘’It’s gonna be hot today and having your hair down is only going to make you uncomfortable.’’
Hannah’s mom agreed with Grace, but reminded Hannah that it was her wedding. She could wear her hair however she liked.
You made yourself a plate with blueberry scones and some strawberries, trying to not think about the man who was in your bed.
‘’So, are you feeling nervous?’’ you asked the bride-to-be. ‘’I can’t wait to have you as my official sister in law.’’
A sigh left the brunette’s lips. ‘’A little,’’ she admitted, trying to not think about everything that could go wrong. ‘’But who isn’t on their wedding day, right?’’
You rounded the table and sat beside Hannah, offering her a small smile. ‘’Well, if there’s one thing you can stop worrying about, it’s Garrett leaving you at the altar.’’
Hannah looked over at you, her eyes softening.
‘’My brother has been head over heels in love with you since college. I’ve never seen him smile the way he does when he’s with you, or talk about anyone the way he talks about you. You’re it for him.’’ You paused, glancing down at your hands before continuing. ‘’Garrett and I didn’t grow up with the best example of what love was supposed to look like. He was so scared of being like him… But he found an amazing girl who helped him realize that he wasn’t our dad’s copy. He was nothing like him.’’
Hannah’s eyes grew glassy, and she reached for your hand. ‘’I promised myself I wasn’t going to cry so early.’’ She tried to blink the tears away, but her mom handed her a tissue.
· · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────── · ·
The ceremony was beautiful.
The afternoon sun cast a golden glow over the lake, its calm surface shimmering behind the flower-lined aisle. A gentle breeze carried the scent of wildflowers through the gardens, stirring Hannah's veil just enough to make it dance as she walked toward Garrett.
There wasn't a dry eye among the guests.
Especially after the vows. You had expected something heartfelt from Hannah. As a musician and songwriter, she had a way of putting even the biggest emotions into words. But Garrett? No one had expected him to put together something as touching. There hadn't been any grand declarations or poetic metaphors — just honest promises, quiet memories, and a love so undeniable even Cupid’s nemesis would’ve been rooting for them.
By the time the officiant pronounced them husband and wife, the entire lawn erupted into applause.
Garrett didn't hesitate. He cupped Hannah's face and kissed her as though he'd been waiting years for that moment — which, in a way, he had.
Across from you, you caught Dean looking at you. He didn't look away when your eyes met, holding your gaze.
You hadn’t talked once today. There hadn’t been any time to. From the moment you climbed out of bed this morning, the day had been a whirlwind of hair and makeup, dress repairs, photos, last-minute details, and the ceremony itself.
For a brief moment, the cheers around you faded into the background.
He looked devastating in his blue suit, the tailored jacket hugging his broad shoulders and tapering perfectly at his waist. The crisp white shirt beneath it made his sun-kissed skin stand out, while the afternoon light caught the golden strands of his hair. Clean-shaven and effortlessly put together, he looked like he had stepped straight out of a perfume ad — so unfairly handsome it was almost distracting.
Dean’s gaze flickered back to the newlyweds before returning to you, and the smallest smile tugged at the corner of his lips. You couldn't tell what he was thinking, but something in the way he looked at you made your heart skip.
Behind you, Allie was studying the exchange without saying anything.
· · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────── · ·
Long oak tables overlooked the lake, dressed with a dusty blue table runner that matched the cushion on the chairs. Low arrangements of pale blue delphiniums, white ranunculus, baby's breath served as centerpieces, accompanied by flickering candles. The woodland elegance matched Hannah and Garrett perfectly.
On the very left, a small stage was built with a piano keyboard set in the middle, letting the guest assume Hannah would be performing later. According to Allie, she had written a song for Garrett. A song she never planned on releasing nor singing elsewhere. A song just for their big day.
‘’A picture with the bride!’’
Jules called as they were holding a camera, making sure you, Allie and Grace were all in the picture too.
You had already taken loads of pictures, but these were only for the memories you would look back on years from now. Silly selfies, people dancing and laughing, and inappropriate gestures from the groomsmen.
After the picture was taken, one of Hannah’s aunts stole her away and Grace went to Logan’s rescue, catching a woman well into her forties flirting with him. An amused laugh spilled on your lips at the sight.
‘’What’s going on between you and Dean?’’
You snapped your attention back to her. ‘’What are you talking about?’’
Allie gave you a look. ‘’I saw him looking at you.’’
‘’You’re imagining things. When was the last time you had your eyesight checked?’’
‘’Don’t play that card with me,’’ she warned, not letting go of the subject.
You sighed. ‘’I’m not playing any cards, Allie. There’s Dean and I.’’
Speaking of Dean, he was standing by the bar, getting drinks with Tucker and a Bruins player. Tucker was talking about hockey stats, completely invested in whatever point he was trying to make, but Dean’s attention had shifted to you. His eyes moved over you slowly, taking in the blue dress you were wearing and the way the silky fabric fell perfectly against your body.
He watched Allie leave, then turned back to the bartender and ordered another glass of champagne.
‘’Thought you might need a refill,’’ he said, his voice low enough that only you could hear as he appeared at your side.
You smiled as you accepted the glass. ‘’Trying to get me drunk, Di Laurentis?’’
Dean's lips twitched. ‘’If I was, I would have brought you something stronger.’’
A laugh escaped you. ‘’Thanks.’’
As you took the flute, his fingertips lingered against yours for the briefest second before his other hand found the small of your back. The touch was innocent enough that no one around you would think twice about it, but you felt every second of it. You leaned slightly into him, taking a sip of champagne while his thumb brushed your skin lightly.
‘’Having fun?’’ he asked.
You looked around, seeing Hannah and Garrett smiling patiently through yet another round of family photos.
‘’It's weird,’’ you admitted. ‘’My brother is married.’’
Dean followed your gaze. ‘’I know.’’
‘’It feels like yesterday we were all at Briar, and now…’’ You laughed softly. ‘’Give them a couple of years and they'll probably be chasing toddlers around.’’
‘’Garrett's going to be an overprotective dad.’’
‘’Oh, absolutely.’’
‘’Hannah's going to pretend she's the reasonable one.’’
‘’But she'll secretly be worse.’’
Dean chuckled. ‘’One hundred percent.’’
For a moment, the two of you simply watched them, the conversation settling into a comfortable silence.
‘’So, when are you going back to Florence?’’ Dean asked.
Before he could answer, the band eased into a slow song. Around you, conversations quieted as couples drifted toward the dance floor.
‘’Dance with me.’’
You blinked. ‘’Dean…’’
He set his champagne flute on the nearest table before holding out his hand. ‘’Come on. It’ll be like on Canal Saint-Martin.’’
The memory hit you instantly — the warm summer night along Canal Saint-Martin, some musicians strumming their instruments beneath the glow of a lamppost while a small crowd lingered along the water's edge. Without a second thought, Dean had held out his hand, a crooked smile tugging at his lips, and pulled you into the music. He surprised you by not stepping on your feet — not even once. You swayed to the music, his hand settling at your waist before he effortlessly twirled you beneath the glow of the moon.
No one had ever danced with you like that. No one had ever looked at you the way he had that night.
You looked at his outstretched hand for another second before slipping your fingers into his.
· · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────── · ·
You couldn’t remember who made the first move. Who reached for whom. All you knew was that Dean's lips were on yours and your hands all over each other’s body.
Every few steps, one of you would reluctantly pull back just enough to keep climbing the stairs before crashing together again and kissing against the wall, unable to wait until you reached somewhere you could finally be alone.
This kiss was the first since Paris.
That last night, you both agreed to never speak of Paris. Because you would never work as a couple. Dean was in New York, working at his family’s firm and would be attending law school in the fall while you were on the other side of the ocean. The distance between you was simply too much.
Yet here you were.
Dean’s hand cupped your jaw as he kissed you again, his tongue sliding in and caressing yours. Your fingers tangled in the lapels of his suit, wrinkling the expensive fabric as he backed you up another step.
A laugh escaped you when your heel caught on the edge of the stair.
‘’Careful,’’ Dean murmured against your mouth, one arm instinctively circling your waist before you could lose your balance. ‘’I don’t want you to get a concussion before I get my piece of cake. I’ve been wanting to do kiss you all day.’’ He pressed his right below your ear. ‘’To touch you all day,’’ he continued, kissing down your neck. ‘’To fuck you all day.’’ He pulled the thin strap of your dress down your shoulder and kissed your exposed skin.
You leaned your head back, pliant under his lips, and pushed your hands into his hair. Dean’s breath hitched when you pulled at it, loving the way you knew exactly how to unravel him.
He kissed down your collarbone, slow and deliberate, savoring every inch of skin he hadn’t touched in what felt like a lifetime ago.
Once you made it into one of the rooms, you pulled Dean’s jacket off and began working on his belt while he lifted the bottom of your dress up, high enough to slip a hand under and press his hand over your panties.
‘’Dean,’’ you mewled, bucking against him.
He smirked against your lips, keeping going as he felt a wetness soak through the fabric. ‘’Like that, babydoll?’’
Tease was Dean’s second name. This man absolutely loved to play with your body and vice versa. He could spend over an hour just doing that. But your body was literally aching for him right now.
‘’Dean,’’ you repeated, breaking the kiss. ‘’If you don’t fuck me right now, I’ll kick you out of this damn room and do it myself.’’
He didn't need to be told twice.
Pants down to his thighs, the blond slipped a condom on before pushing inside you, the sensation making you gasp sharply and claw at the vanity table under you. You had almost forgotten why everyone at Briar went to him for a good time. Your body arched at the delicious stretch, your walls clenching around his cock.
‘’Ah, fuck,’’ you moaned, feeling him fill you.
Dean thrusted into you with long, deep strokes, his hands on your hips keeping him anchored. ''Baby, you feel so good,'' he praised, his pelvis smacking against your ass loudly. ‘’Missed this so much. Missed you so much.''
You rocked back against him, meeting his thrusts as desire ran through your whole body. There was no better dick than this one. Not that you would ever admit it.
Curses left his lips as he thrusted more erratically, desperate and needy after all this time apart. Your breasts were threatening to spill from your dress, whose skirt was currently bunched up at your waist for accessibility purposes. Taking it off would have been easier, but neither of you bothered fully undressing.
After you both finished, Dean, who was spent and breathless, pressed kisses up your spine, a smirk curling on his lips. He wasn’t ready to let go of you — and neither were you.
· · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────── · ·
You and Dean slipped back into the celebration, each stealing a glass of champagne from a passing server. The music was still playing, laughter drifted across the lawn, and, thankfully, no one seemed to have noticed you had disappeared.
Dean took a sip of champagne, but you stopped him.
‘’Wait,’’ you said, reaching up and brushed your thumb across the corner of his mouth, wiping away the faint smear of your lipstick.
‘’Where were you?’’ came Grace’s voice from behind you, making you both turn a little too quickly. ‘’You missed the bouquet toss.’’
You nearly choked on your champagne.
For a second, your mind went completely blank. Between the lingering taste of Dean’s lips, the orgasm he just pulled out of you and the pleasant haze you were basking in, coming up with a believable excuse felt impossible.
Dean didn't miss a beat.
"She lost an earring," he said smoothly. ‘’I was helping her look for it. It belonged to her mom’s, so it’s a very sentimental piece.’’
Grace's face immediately fell. ‘’Oh no! Did you find it yet?’’
You nodded, forcing a small smile. ‘’It was in the grass, over there,’’ you said, pointing to the right.
Relief softened her features. ‘’Good!’’
Guilt twisted in your stomach as she smiled, completely convinced. But before you could dwell on the lie, Grace linked her arm through yours and dragged you away from Dean.
· · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────── · ·
Hannah disappeared for a few minutes before returning in a different dress — a simple white satin gown that flowed around her as she crossed the lawn toward the small stage. A hush gradually settled over the reception. Conversations faded, glasses were set down, and every guest turned toward her.
She smiled as she settled onto the piano bench, smoothing the skirt over her legs before resting her hands lightly on the keys. Behind her, hundreds of fairy lights twinkled against the trees, reflecting softly across the dark lake. The warm glow bathed the stage in gold, making it feel almost magical.
Garrett stood at the front of the crowd, unable to take his eyes off his wife.
Hannah leaned toward the microphone with a nervous laugh. ‘’Garrett and I had an unusual debut, you could say. I was going to tutor him in Ethics and, in exchange, he would help me get this one guy’s attention. He came up with this whole plan where we would pretend to date...except we forgot about the pretending part.’’
Laughter rippled through the guests, Garrett shaking his head with an affectionate smile.
Hannah's sparkling eyes found him before she continued.
‘’Music has always been my form of expression — my refuge. With a guitar in my hand and a sheet or paper, I was practically the next Taylor Swift,'' she continued, glancing at Allie. ''But there came a moment in my life where I was convinced I had lost my creativity and ability to write lyrics.''
She looked down, making your heart ache. The past may be behind her, but would never stop hurting. You had never met someone as strong as Hannah.
‘’Garrett encouraged me to write songs again.’’ Her smile returned. ‘’He would listen to my old videos and tell me how he loved that song. How he loved my voice. His confidence in me gave me the courage to write again and to perform my original work.''
You’ll never forget the day of her showcase. How everyone had rushed to the auditorium to see her perform and support her. She and Garrett were broken up at that time, but he had stood in the front row — for her.
‘’The day I accepted to tutor him was the best decision I made because, unknowingly, I needed him just as much. He didn't just make me fall in love — he made me believe in my music again. And without him, I wouldn't be recording in a music studio. So, for our special day, I decided to write and dedicate this song for you, my husband.’’
Hannah pressed the first keys and you got lulled into her melody, the soft notes drifting across the lakeside like a secret meant only for the two of them.
For a moment, nobody moved.
The entire world seemed to narrow down to Hannah sitting beneath the glow of the fairy lights and Garrett standing a few feet away, looking at her like she had hung every star in the sky herself.
Her voice joined the piano, gentle at first, carrying every emotion she had poured into the song. It wasn’t a performance. Not really. It was a love letter set to music.
You watched Garrett’s expression change as he listened. The playful smile he had worn moments ago slowly disappeared, replaced by something softer. Something vulnerable.
Your eyes drifted through the crowd, looking for Dean.
He stood on the other side of the stage with Tucker, his attention on you — again. Except this time, there was no smirk. No teasing grin. No playful look in his eyes. He was just looking at you. Really looking at you. And somehow, that felt more dangerous.
You expected him to look away the second he realized you had caught him, to put that familiar wall back up and pretend he hadn’t been watching. But he didn’t.
Dean held your gaze across the crowd, the music filling the space between you.
Then Hannah’s voice rose, pulling your attention back to her.
· · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────── · ·
As fun as weddings were, nothing compared to the moment you finally take off your shoes. Pretty shoes were demons in a heel form! With a relieved sigh, you slipped the straps from your ankles and kicked the heels away before wiggling your sore toes against the cool bathroom floor.
You removed your jewelry and caught your reflection in the mirror. Your hair was beginning to fall from its carefully pinned curls, and your makeup was begging to be removed.
Just as you were about to change out of your dress, you heard your door open and close. The sound of the water faucet running covered it, causing you a near heart attack when you saw Dean’s reflection in the mirror.
‘’You want to kill me, Di Laurentis?’’
His tie had disappeared somewhere throughout the evening and the top three buttons of his dress shirt were undone. His sleeves were rolled to his forearms, and he looked just as tired — and tipsy — as you felt.
‘’You’re too beautiful to kill,’’ Dean replied with an easy smile, leaning against the bathroom doorframe.
You turned off the faucet and snorted. ‘’That’s your opening line? You’d make a shit slasher killer.’’
‘’Who said I wanted to be a slasher killer? Can’t hide that handsome face under a mask.’’
You shook your head. ‘’What are you doing in my room?’’
He pushed himself off the doorframe and took a few slow steps into the bathroom. ‘’I wasn't lying, by the way."
You paused, your hand resting on the edge of the sink. ‘’About what?’’
He met your eyes in the mirror. ‘’About you looking beautiful.’’
‘’Can you unzip my dress?’’
Dean reached for the delicate zipper, his knuckles brushing the bare skin of your back as he slowly eased it down. The soft rasp of the zipper seemed impossibly loud in the quiet bathroom.
When he finished, his hands lingered at your waist as he caught your eyes in the mirror, then pressed a soft kiss on your shoulder. ‘’Anything else?’’
You pulled the thin straps from your shoulders, letting the dress slip down your body until it pooled around your ankles, leaving you in nothing but your underwear. Dean's gaze lingered on your reflection in the mirror, sweeping over your bare skin before finding your eyes again. You should have felt shy beneath his attention, but you had been naked together long enough to not care anymore.
A light groan left Dean’s throat. ‘’Now you’re going to kill me.’’
A cocky grin threatened to spread on your face. You would never get over the power you had over this man. This man who normally oozed confidence like cologne, could melt into something softer just from seeing your naked body. No one else ever acted that way with you.
‘’Am I?’’
One of his hands slowly moved up to your chest, cupping and squeezing your breast in his large hand. ‘’Yeah. I’m fucking dead, babydoll.’’
· · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────── · ·
Morning came far too soon.
You woke up to sunlight spilling through the curtains, soft and golden, the kind that made it impossible to pretend you were still asleep. Past you was an idiot for not shutting the blinds last night.
Rolling over, you came face to face with Dean’s blue eyes.
‘’Morning,’’ he mumbled, his voice rough with sleep.
Somehow, even after an entire night of celebrating, he looked unfairly good.
A small smile pulled at your lips before you could stop it. ‘’Morning.’’
He watched you for a moment, then a familiar crooked grin appeared.
‘’What?’’ you asked.
‘’Nothing.’’
‘’You're staring.’’
‘’Can't I appreciate the view?’’
You rolled your eyes, but you couldn't hide your smile.
Before Dean could come up with another smug remark, the door swung open and Allie rushed inside, her hair a mess and missing one slippers on.
‘’Bathroom emergency!’’ she announced breathlessly. ‘’My room doesn’t have a bathroom and someone is already using the main one and I really, really need to…pee.’’ She came to an abrupt stop, her eyes darting from you and then to Dean, and the fact that his bare ass was in full sight. ‘’Oh my god.’’
Allie’s jaw dropped. For a solid three seconds, she didn’t move — or breathe — and just stood there like someone had pressed pause on the entire universe. Then her brain caught up. Dean Di Laurentis was in your bed and completely naked.
‘’Oh my god!'' she shrieked again, louder this time.
Dean barely flinched, while you wanted to disappear through the mattress. Not because you were embarrassed of being seen with him. It just wasn’t how you wanted to reveal your ‘relationship’.
And you wanted to have a talk with Dean before telling anyone. What did last night mean? Was it simply two people getting caught up in a wedding, too much champagne, and old feelings...or was it the beginning of something real? You needed to know where Dean's head was. Where his heart was.
‘’I’ll be back,’’ Allie declared, her bladder forcing her to rush to the bathroom.
‘’Cover yourself,’’ you hissed at Dean, pulling up the sheets to hide his lower half.
He grinned like the devil. ‘’That’s not what you were saying last night.’’
· · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────── · ·
You had forgotten how American brunch was different from in Europe. You had grown accustomed to fresh bread, cheese, prosciutto, and an espresso that disappeared in three sips. Here, brunch was an event — towering stacks of pancakes, bacon, sausage, eggs, hashbrowns, endless refills of coffee, and enough food to keep you full until dinner.
It was also the perfect cure for hangovers.
They also had bottomless mimosas. This was the best part of American brunch.
At one of the tables, Tucker, Logan and three Bruins players were stuffing their faces with eggs, bacon and hashbrowns while feeling the weight of an elephant sitting on their head. Some things never changed.
A few tables over, Allie and Grace were sitting together, visibly regretting last night’s last glass of champagne.
With a plate of pancakes and a mimosa in hand, you walked over to them. ‘’How’s the head, Gracie?’’
‘’I hate champagne,’’ she replied, glaring at your mimosa.
‘’She and Logan stole a bottle of champagne last night,’’ Allie explained, stabbing a hashbrown. ‘’It didn’t agree with the cocktails and she got sick.’’
‘’Oh no,’’ you said, feeling bad for Grace.
‘’That’s Logan’s fault,’’ the latter grumbled. ‘’He kept getting me refills—’’
‘’Heard that!’’ Logan called from his seat. ‘’I plead not guilty.’’
You laughed, then began eating your pancakes.
‘’So,’’ Allie began. ‘’Did you sleep well? Aunt Shauna said she heard some strange noises all night. Her room right next to yours.’’
Lifting your head from your plate, you glared at her. She may have kept her mouth shut about this morning, but you knew Allie Hayes too well to know she would do anything to pull the juicy gossip out of you.
You opened your mouth to spill out some lie, but Dean appeared at your table. He had showered and changed out of his wedding clothes.
‘’Sorry to interrupt, ladies, but Garrett is looking for you.’’
You raised an eyebrow. Was Garrett actually looking for you? Unlikely. He and Hannah were busy thanking Hannah’s family for their gifts and for coming to the wedding. They were from the midwest, so some of them were going to hit the road soon.
‘’I'll be back,’’ you told the girls.
‘’Take your time,’’ Allie sang, her grin widening.
You shot her a warning look that only made her smile harder.
Dean waited until you had fallen into step beside him before leading you away from the dining room and out onto the wraparound porch overlooking the lake. The chatter from brunch faded behind you, replaced by the gentle lapping of water against the dock and the few singing birds.
‘’We need to talk.’’
You nodded. ‘’I know.’’
‘’I assumed we would talk in the morning, but hurricane Allie blew in and…’’ Dean trailed, taking a seat on the bannister so he was closer in height to you. ‘’This weekend, it wasn’t just a wedding fling. Not for me. I’ve been thinking about you a lot since I quit the firm. About us.’’
He let the words settle between you before continuing.
‘’Not just the physical part. Although the sex is fucking great.’’
You let out a small laugh. He wasn’t wrong.
‘’What I’m saying is, I want to try us. For real.’’
‘’We still live on different continents, Dean,’’ you reminded him.
‘’I know. But we were at different stages of our life back then. I think we can work.’’ Dean searched your face, as if trying to gauge whether you were on the same page or not. ‘’I coach from September to May. I have the whole summer to myself. And you said it yourself, your job is remote. You can spend a few weeks in New York, work from there. We can make it work.’’
You stared at him.
Because that was the thing about Dean. When he really wanted something, he didn't just talk about it. He figured out how to get it. But right now, he was making it sound almost too easy.
‘’I know there'll be days where the time difference sucks. Days where one of us is tired or busy or wishes the other person was just there.’’ He paused, reaching for your hands and pulling you in. ‘’But I want this. I want us, baby.’’
Your heart tightened.
‘’Dean…’’
‘’You want it too. I know it.’’ He leaned his forehead against yours. ‘’I feel it.’’
Of course you wanted it. Wanted him. But you were scared of hurting. Because love was painful.
‘’I don't want this to be something we try for a few months and then give up when it gets hard,’’ you admitted. ‘’I don’t want to get hurt, Dean.’’
His expression turned serious again. ‘’Neither do I.’’
He leaned to kiss you, slow and deep, and you melted against his tongue.
Behind you, the door opened and Garrett stepped out. ‘’What the fuck?!’’
summary: Every psychic and every tarot deck tells the same story: love isn't meant for you. Every reading ends the same way—until one skeptical customer pulls three cards that were never meant to belong to him. Suddenly, the future you've spent years trying to outrun refuses to leave you alone.
word count: 11.3 k
warnings: sort of enemies to friends to lovers, meet ugly, tarot, soulmates, slow burn, mutual pining, hurt/comfort, fluff, happy ending.
a/n: based on The Prophecy by Taylor Swift, been 7 weeks stuck in my drafts, I hope you like the outcome as much as I liked writing it for you! Beta read by @kileyking & @buckysdecaflove ❤︎ | dividers by @strangergraphics
read on AO3
Your family doesn't mean to hurt you. They just do.
It's the same every reunion, somebody's hand landing warm on your shoulder. When are you going to bring someone for us to meet? Are you ever gonna get married? That boat's sailed, hon. You missed your shot.
And their newest addition, just now: So, when's your turn? We really thought you'd be the next one walking down the aisle.
You're in your thirties now. Two cats, an apartment that's exactly how you want it, and you learned a long time ago to deflect, to laugh, to change the subject before anyone got too invested in your answer.
But those words stung.
Because god knows you've tried dating. You wanted the thing everyone kept asking you about, but you couldn't seem to hold onto it. Somewhere along the way you accepted that maybe you weren't meant to, just like the cards said once.
When the answer your cards gave you wasn't good enough, you tried something else: the oracle, rune-casting, pendulum, palmistry. You even ran the extra mile and paid someone to read your matrix destiny, but the answer remained the same: Not for you.
Apparently, the person meant for you was born over a hundred years ago, it wasn't meant to be in this life. Or at least, that's what the woman interpreted for you, it wasn't your line of work, but that night you pulled the cards alone and they confirmed it.
Your mom leans over, snapping you out of your thoughts. "They want you to say something."
You already knew this, you prepared days ago sitting in your apartment with your cats. You wrote and rewrote on your phone, trying to keep your words light and genuine.
"I've known Sarah since we were kids," you say. "She was always the one who knew exactly what she wanted. Not confused like the rest of us, not second-guessing. She just knew."
You can see her smiling, David's hand rest on her shoulder. You take a breath, your eyes are swelling with tears, but that's fine. That's normal at weddings.
"Sarah, David… you deserve each other, and you deserve the whole beautiful future you're about to have together. I hope you know how lucky you are, how blessed you are." Your voice wavers just slightly on that word. "Not everyone gets this, not everyone finds someone who loves them the way you love each other."
You're looking at Sarah and you mean every single word, even though it's cutting into you.
You raise your glass, trying to keep your hand steady despite the awful feeling sitting on your stomach. "To Sarah and David, and the future you deserve."
Later, when you're home at the outskirts of the city, with your cats curled on either side of you, you let yourself cry. Not angry tears, just the deep kind that come from watching someone else get the thing you've accepted you never will.
You think about the cards, about the woman who read your destiny and the words that have chased you since you were seventeen: The person meant for you was born out of time.
And your cousin's husband was born exactly at the right moment, in the right place, in the right life.
You're happy for her, you really are.
You're just so tired of helping everyone else find the life the cards promised would never belong to you.
The fair comes to the edge of your small town every spring, and you've been here for three years now. Your shop is small—just enough room for a folding table, two chairs, and the cards that you've been reading since you've been a teenager and decided to expand the gift you've inherited from your great grandmother.
The bell above the shop door chimes on a slow afternoon, and you look up from the velvet cloth you're arranging to find a couple standing in the doorway. The woman sees your altar in the corner, the crystals and the candles and her face lights up.
"Oh, this is perfect," she says, turning to him. "See? I told you we'd find someone authentic."
The man—dark hair, broad-shouldered, pierced-blue eyes and a very defined jawline— gives you a polite, slightly uncomfortable smile.
"Hey," he says. "She's been talking about you for weeks."
"Come in," you say, standing. You wipe your hands on your skirt. "Welcome to The Velvet Oracle, do you have an appointment?"
"I called yesterday," the woman says, stepping forward, hand extended. "I'm Hazel, this is Bucky. I want a couple's reading, we've been dating for four months and I just thought, you know, let's see what the future holds for us."
You gesture to the chairs across from you. "Sit, let's see what the cards have to say."
Hazel settles in, leans forward eagerly. Bucky sits back with his arms crossed. You don't let yourself look at him too long, because every time you do it you feel your stomach dropping, like when you miss a step in the dark.
You shuffle the deck, the familiar worn edges of the cards grounding you against your palms.
"Alright," you start. "For a couple's reading, I usually pull a few cards for each person individually, and then we'll look at the relationship as a whole. Sound good?"
Hazel nods enthusiastically, but Bucky's expression is somewhere between polite discomfort and outright skepticism.
"I gotta be honest," he says, glancing around the tent at the crystals and candles, "this isn't really my thing."
"I know, baby, but it'll be fun." Hazel tugs at his sleeve until he relents, uncrossing his arms. "Just let her do the reading, okay? For me."
He doesn't look convinced, but he nods and his expression softens for her. You don't know why, but that somehow makes you wanna cry.
You focus on Hazel, spreading the deck in a smooth arc across the velvet. "Go ahead and pull three cards when you're ready."
She leans forward, her fingers hovering dramatically before selecting. The first card makes you nod slowly—the Ace of Pentacles. A seed planted in rich soil. The second is the Empress, all abundance and growth. The third one is the World.
"Completion, fulfillment, a cycle coming to a close in the best possible way."
Hazel beams. "That's good, right?"
"Very good," you gesture at the Ace of Pentacles. "Pentacles are earth energy—practical, grounded, built to last. This is a new beginning with a solid foundation. The Empress suggests growth and nurturing, maybe even family, and the World is a major arcana card of fulfillment. Whatever you're building toward, the universe is supporting it."
"I'm a Taurus!" Hazel claps her hand together. "That's an earth sign. This is so accurate, oh my god! Earth energy for an earth sign, that has to mean something."
"It suggests alignment," you say carefully, because you've learned not to over-promise."The path you're on has stability written into it."
Hazel turns to Bucky with bright eyes. "See? I told you she was the real deal."
Bucky shifts in his chair, unmoved. "Great, so what about the rest of it?"
"Your turn," you say, trying to keep your voice light. "Three cards, same as before."
He looks at the deck like it might bite him. "I don't really believe in this stuff."
"It's just cards," you say. "They only have the power you give them."
Something shifts in his expression—not quite interest, but maybe a grudging willingness. Hazel nudges him with her elbow. "Just do it, Bucky. For me."
He sighs, leans forward and taps three cards with a soldier's precision. One, two, three. No hesitation, like he wants it over with.
You turn the first card: The Lovers.
Your breath catches. You force yourself to keep your expression neutral, but your fingers have gone cold against the velvet.
"The Lovers," you say, and your voice comes out steady, despite the static in your ears. "This card is about significant choices. A crossroad in a relationship or a deep connection that requires a decision."
Hazel practically squeals with excitement. "That's us! A deep connection!"
Bucky doesn't react. His eyes are on the card, but his face gives nothing away.
You turn the second card. The High Priestess.
The card you've pulled for yourself more times than you can count since you were seventeen. Intuition. The veil between worlds. The woman in the card stares at you from the table, and for a disorienting second you swear the woman on the card has your eyes.
"The High Priestess represents hidden knowledge," you manage. "Things beneath the surface, secrets, intuition… the parts of ourselves we don't fully understand yet."
"What does that have to do with Bucky?" Hazel asks, frowning slightly.
"I'm not sure yet," you lie, because you're suddenly horribly sure of exactly what's happening, and you want to sweep the cards off the table and pretend you never touched them.
You flip the third card with a trembling hand. The Ace of Cups.
The card of new love, emotional awakening. The beginning of something that fills the heart. It's the same card that you've always pulled up reversed for yourself every single time you ask the universe if there's anyone out there for you.
Now here it is, on his spread… along with your arcana.
"A new emotional beginning," you say after a moment of silence. "The Ace of Cups is the start of something in matters of the heart. It's a very powerful, personal card."
Hazel turns to Bucky, her earlier enthusiasm dimming. "Is that about us? Wait— water and earth complement each other, right? Bucky's a Pisces, that's a water sign, I'm earth. That's good isn't it? They balance."
"Water and earth can be very nurturing together," you say, because it's true, even if the cards aren't saying that. "But these cards feel more like a personal message for Bucky, something individual, not necessarily about the relationship."
You don't remember what you say after that. Something about water signs and intuition, something about the cards reflecting individual journeys within partnerships. You're very good at small talk, at telling people something they might want to hear while the cards tell you something else entirely.
Hazel pays you in cash, and she leaves with her hand tucked into Bucky's elbow, already chattering about dinner reservations. He lingers in the doorway for half a second, looking back at you with an expression you can't read. Then the bell chimes, and they're gone.
You sit in silence for a long time, staring at the three cards, still laid out on the velvet. You gather them up with shaking hands and slip them back into the deck, but you can feel them there, warm against the others, like embers buried in ash.
That night, you pull your own cards for the first time in months. You stopped asking about love a year ago, because the answer never changed—the reversed Ace of Cups, Ten of Swords, the Tower. But tonight, you need to know if you imagined it, if the shop was too warm, if you simply wanted something so badly your mind bent the cards to fit.
You shuffle the deck until your fingers ache and cut the deck three times before pulling: The Lovers. The High Priestess. The Ace of Cups.
Exactly the same spread from earlier.
You throw the deck across your kitchen table and watch the cards scatter like birds. You don't read them, you don't need to.
The dreams start three nights later.
You're in the shop, but once you pay enough attention you realize it's not your shop—it's larger, older, with windows that look out onto a street you've never seen, snow falling in thick, silent curtains. Bucky is there, sitting across from you, but he's different. Younger, somehow, though you can't explain how you know that. He's smiling at you, and he reaches across the table to take your hand.
You wake up gasping, your sheets are twisted around your legs, your heart hammering against your ribs.
The second time you dream of him, you're dancing. You're not able to see if it's anywhere specific. It's a dark room, there is music playing from somewhere distant, his hand on your waist, his cheek pressed against your temple. He smells like cedar and leather. You can feel the calluses on his fingers through the fabric of your dress. When you wake up, you can still feel them.
You start drinking chamomile tea before bed. You burn sage. You place an amethyst under your pillow and a black tourmaline at your door, but nothing works. The dreams continue, threading themselves through your sleep like a second life you're living in parallel, and in every single one, he seems like the answer to a question you've been asking for a very long time.
You don't tell anyone. Who would believe you? What would you even tell them? I had a tarot reading go wrong and now I'm psychically stalking my client's boyfriend in my dreams. You'd sound insane. Worse, you'd sound desperate.
You don't hear from Hazel or him again. You tell yourself it's a good thing. You tell yourself the dreams will fade, that the thread between you dissolves with distance and time… except they don't fade, they get worse.
In your dreams you're now in Brooklyn, walking down streets lined with brownstones, and he's beside you, close enough that your shoulders brush. He's telling you about his day, about his past, and you listen until his words start to fade. When you wake up, you can smell his cologne in the air.
You start taking walks in the afternoon, though you don't know why. You pull your cards again, desperate for something—anything—to change.
The Tower. The Star. The World.
Disaster, then hope, then completion. The cycle you've been trapped in for years, except this time the Tower doesn't feel like another heartbreak waiting to happen. It feels like change—the kind you can't stop even if you wanted to.
You don't sleep that night. You sit on your kitchen floor with your cats weaving between your legs, and you rearrange the cards in every configuration you know: Celtic cross, three card spread, relationship spread, past-present-future. Every single time, the same arc emerges: something is ending, something is beginning. And whatever comes next will leave you irrevocably changed.
Your aunt Margaret—Maggie, as you've called her since you were little—tells the family that she has broken her hip on the cellar stairs, that the surgery went fine, but she doesn't want a nurse or a help aide. She wants someone from the family who can come stay with her or she'll manage alone.
The call gets passed down through the entire family, but nobody offers to go take care of her. Your cousins have husbands, kids, mortgages, school pickups… Meanwhile, you have two cats and a tarot shop you can shutter for a season, and nobody says it out loud, but everybody means it: you're the one with nothing to leave behind.
You arrive on a Tuesday with your two cat carriers, three suitcases and the deck wrapped in a scarf at the bottom of your tote. Maggie is waiting in the front room of the brownstone, sat in a wingback chair with a cane across her knees.
"There she is, I knew you would come," she says. "Come kiss me."
You oblige before setting the carriers on the floor and opening them to let your cats wander around and recognize the place you'd be staying for a few weeks.
"I got two rules," Maggie starts, taking off her reading glasses. "The thermostat stays where I put it, and no cards in my house."
"Maggie—"
"I know what you carry around, I have enough ghosts in this old apartment, so there's no way I'm letting you welcome more through…that."
"They're just cards."
"Then it won't kill you to leave them in the bag," she settles back into the chair and picks her crossword up off the side table, and that is the end of it. "The kettle's on, you can take the room at the top of the stairs."
You know arguing with her would be useless, so you go and install yourself in that cramped old room and decide you'll read when she's asleep.
It becomes a ritual within the first week: you wait for the apartment to go quiet, wait for her snoring to even out and you sit at the kitchen table with the deck and a single candle as if you were a teenager sneaking cigarettes. Your cats take turns supervising from the counter, but you keep one ear on the ceiling the whole time, just in case.
Every single time, the same cards you pull at your shop with Bucky keep coming.
The Lovers. The High Priestess. The Ace of Cups.
The dreams don't fade with the distance from home, they sharpen. Now the businesses have names, because you've walked past it every time you go run errands for your aunt Maggie. The stoop where he sat beside you, close enough that your shoulders touched, you know it. You've seen the exact iron railing, three blocks east. In one dream he laughs at something, and you wake up missing something you haven't even seen in real life.
You try to build a reasonable conclusion: You've been here previously, you know this neighborhood. You just did one reading to a ridiculous handsome man eight months ago and your lonely, overworked brain latched on, and now it's trying to dress a crush in destiny because it's something you've been trying to change your whole life. That's all this is. A simple crush and a reader's block. It happens sometimes to some people, right?
At least that's what Reddit said last time you checked.
You've almost convinced yourself by the third Saturday in October, which is when you see him at the green market, standing at a fruit stall with a paper bag in one gloved hand. You stop so fast a woman with a stroller clips your heel.
Eight months and four hundred miles, and he's right here, wearing a canvas jacket with his hair shorter than you remember, frowning at the fruit, and your first coherent thought is run, but your feet are refusing to move.
He must've felt your eyes on him, because he looks up.
"You," he says it flat.
"Hi," your voice comes out steadier than you expect, and you silently thank god, the universe and every existent deity. "Bucky, right?"
He crosses the few feet between you, and up close you notice a tension in him that you don't remember from the shop. "What are you doing here?"
"Buying some groceries." You lift the bag as evidence. "I'm here taking care of my aunt and—"
"Right, so now your aunt happens to live here. Funny."
"You can come with me and check if you don't believe me," the bite gets into your voice before you can stop it. "Is there a problem?"
He laughs once, but there's no humor in it. "Is there a problem, you ask? Why don't you pull your cards and figure it out?"
"Okay—"
"Hazel broke up with me," he watches your face while he says it. "Three weeks after that reading, you want to know why?"
The market noise keeps going around you, crates and gulls and a vendor calling out prices, but everything is reducing to background noise while you feel the cold coming up from through your boots.
"She couldn't let it go," he continues. "You said something about a new beginning, some big personal message and she turned it over until there was nothing left. Every conversation we had circled back to it, who is she? When did it start? The cards don't lie. Four months, gone, because you laid out three stupid pieces of laminated paper and made it sound like some stupid prophecy."
"That isn't what I said— "
"Well, it's what she heard."
"I told her those cards were about you, individually. I was careful—"
"You were vague," he says, "which is the whole trick, isn't it? Say something soft enough to fit any shape, take the cash, let people destroy themselves filling in the blanks… there's a word for that." He shifts the bag of groceries to his other hand. "You're a fraud. The polite version is intuitive, a fraud with esoteric words."
You should let it go. He's a stranger, he's grieving a relationship, the market is crowded and you have other things to do, but you don't let it go.
"I didn't make those cards come up." You step in instead of back, and something flickers across his face—surprise, maybe, that you didn't fold. "I shuffled, you pulled three cards, it was your own hands, no hesitation. I read what was on the table and I softened it more than I should have, for her sake. What she did with it afterward isn't mine to carry, and neither is what you do with it."
A muscle moves in his jaw. For a second neither of you says anything, and you notice—stupidly, uselessly—that his eyes are exactly the color they are in your dreams.
"For what it's worth, I'm sorry about Hazel."
"Yeah, you sure do." He steps around you. "Enjoy Brooklyn and stay the hell away from me."
You stand there with your own groceries until your hands stop shaking.
That night you don't pull cards. You lie awake instead, replaying it, building better arguments hours too late, and when you finally sleep, he's there—sitting across a kitchen table that doesn't exist, pushing a cup of coffee toward you, smiling at you the way he has never smiled once in real life.
You wake up furious at your own mind.
The radiator in the front room dies the last week of October, the same week the temperature does.
You find Maggie in her wingback with a blanket over her knees and the phone already against her ear. "It's the front one again," she's saying. "It clanks like the devil and gives nothing… No, don't be silly, after lunch is fine. You'll eat here anyway." She hangs up before whoever it is can argue.
"I could've called someone," you say. "There's a service the pharmacy recommends—"
"A service?" She huffs a laugh, like you've said something completely irrational. "I have James, he does the whole block—the Russo's gutters, Mrs. Ferreira's stairs… he won't take a dime, but I tuck it in his jacket when he isn't looking."
"James," you repeat.
"You'll like him," she says, returning to her crossword. "He's a serious boy, it's good with hands, single…"
The doorbell rings at one. You open the door and there he is, on your aunt's stoop, a tool bag over his shoulder, and you watch the exact moment his face goes through the market all over again.
"You gotta be shitting me," he mutters.
"Yeah, well, I'm not excited either, but I told you I was taking care of my aunt."
From the front room, your aunt's voice: "James! Don't let the heat out, it's the one radiator still working in here!"
You look at each other and there's a long moment where you genuinely cannot tell whether he's going to turn around and walk back down the steps, and then he exhales through his nose and crosses the threshold, being painfully obvious at avoiding brushing your shoulder in the narrow hall.
What follows is the strangest two hours of your autumn. Because the man at the market and the shop doesn't appear. With your aunt, he's somebody else entirely—patient, dry, gentle in an odd way for the way he's treated you. He kneels on the floor and bleeds the radiator and lets her direct him with her cane without complaining. Asks about her hip, and actually listens to the answer.
You stay in the kitchen, mostly. You make the coffee she orders you to make and when you bring it in, Nova—the bolder of your two cats—has installed herself on the tool bag, paws tucked underneath him, supervising, and for your surprise, Bucky is working around her rather than moving her.
He glances up when you set the cup down near him, just out of his way.
"Thanks," it's dry, but it's not nothing.
"You take your coffee black, right?" you say, and then bite your own tongue off, because you don't know that. You've been dreaming of that.
He pauses with the wrench mid-turn. "Lucky guess."
"Well, you look like a man who likes to keep it simple." You say it lightly and walk away before your face can do anything stupid, and behind you, Maggie says something about you reading people, and then you hear the small clank of metal as something in his hands slips.
He doesn't stay to eat, despite your aunt's best efforts. At the door, shrugging the tool bag back up, he stops with his hand on the frame. He doesn't quite look at you.
"Her hip," he murmurs. "If she needs anything lifted, or any errands to run, whatever… Maggie has my number."
"Okay."
"For her," he clarifies.
"I understood you the first time," you say sweetly and shut the door on whatever his face does next.
In the front room, Maggie has watched this entire exchange over her glasses.
"You didn't tell me you know James."
"Barely."
"Mm." She picks up her pen. "It seemed like more than barely to me. But if that's how you treat men no wonder why you're still single."
You gasped audibly and she winked an eye at you before going back to her crossword.
You start running into him in an almost daily basis. The neighborhood is small—twenty thousand people and somehow the same six faces every single day— and now that you know he's in it, he's everywhere. Outside the hardware store with a length of pipe over his shoulder. At the pharmacy counter, when you go pick up Maggie's medications and he's talking to an Asian man. Across the green market, where you both pretend with great commitment that the other one is invisible.
But there's no real conversation until now.
You've misjudged the sky and the distance, so you're hauling two grocery bags and a sack of cat litter up Pierrepont when the cold drizzle turns serious. You stop under sycamore to redistribute everything you're carrying, water running off the end of your nose, and a shadow falls over you. You lift your gaze and he's there, hood up, his hand already out reaching for you.
"What? Your cards didn't tell you there would be a storm?"
"Ha-ha. Very funny."
"Give me the litter."
"I've got it."
"You're going to put your shoulder out being stubborn. I said give me the damn litter."
You could protest, but you know it's pointless to fight with him, so you give him the litter and walk the last two blocks side by side without speaking, rain hissing on the pavement, his boots and your boots out of step.
He sets the sack on the second stair of your aunt's gate, but he doesn't leave immediately.
"At the market," he murmurs, to the gate rather than to you. "When I— when I said those things to you… I was out of line."
"You were rude."
"I was out of line," he repeats.
"You called me a fraud, and you said my intuition was exactly that, a fraud with esoteric words."
"Well, if you were so intuitive, wouldn't you have known about the rain?" It takes you a second to hear it, the dry shift under the flat delivery, and you laugh before you decide to. He looks surprised, like he wasn't expecting the sound either.
"Go home, Bucky," you say. "You'll catch a cold."
"Is that a prediction?"
You rolled your eyes. "There's no need for that, it's logical."
"Tell Maggie I left the wrench in the bin by the door… for the sink." He's already turning. "Don't let her do the sink herself, she'll try."
"I know my aunt."
"Then you know she'll try." And he's gone into the rain, shoulders up, and you stand at the gate watching him go for longer than you should.
That night you dream of him again, except the dream is just this: the two of you under a sycamore, rain coming down, but this time he's laughing—really laughing, head tipped, the whole architecture of his face rearranged by it— at something you can't hear yourself say.
You wake before dawn with your heart going hard and the echo of his laugh still in your ears.
It's a crush, you remind yourself staring at the ceiling.
Then why does your heart feel so heavy?
By November, your aunt has invented a maintenance schedule that no brownstone in history has ever required. The storm windows, the cellar light, a cabinet hinge you're fairly sure she loosened herself, because you watched her test it with her cane the day before she called him.
"You're matchmaking," you accuse, setting her tea down.
"I'm maintaining my property." She doesn't look up from the crossword. "Seven across, six letters. Foreseen by the stars."
"Fated."
"That's five."
"Destined is eight. Fated is five." You count it on your fingers. "What's six?"
Maggie hums thoughtfully and writes something down where you can't see it.
Bucky comes back on Thursday to check the storm windows. It's the fourth time, not that you're counting, and something has shifted in the dynamic between you—the hostility has burned down to a kind of wariness, and that wariness keep springing leaks.
He lets you hold the frame steady while he drives the screws, close enough that you can smell the cedar on his jacket. He answers your aunt's interrogation about his week in actual sentences. When Nova bolts for the open window, Bucky catches her one-handed without looking, absorbs the betrayed yowl and deposits her on the sofa with a flat "No". You expect retaliation, but Nova—who has never once obeyed you—stays.
"Traitor," you tell the cat.
"She respects the chain of command."
Maggie goes up for her nap at three with a theatrical yawning that should embarrass her. Bucky's packing up the drill in the kitchen and you're making coffee because it's cold and the radio on the counter—her ancient radio, permanently tuned to an AM station that plays classics—is murmuring under everything.
And you go still.
It takes you a moment to realize, and another to find why: he's humming. Barely, under his breath, and the song sounds pretty familiar.
The mug slips, you catch it against the counter, there's coffee slopping over your knuckles, and the burn makes you realize that song was playing in the dream where he danced with you in a dark room. You've never heard it awake in your life until right now. You don't know its name either, you only knew the next three notes after he hummed them.
"You okay?" He's looking at you now.
"It's nothing," you run your hand under the tap. "Just… wanted to heat my hands a little bit."
It's just an old song, it's an old radio station. Men hum old songs; it's logical. You repeat it in your head twice but your hands don't believe any of it. And god forbid you, you neither.
When you turn around, he's leaning against the counter, watching you with an expression you can't quite read.
"I've been meaning to ask you," he starts. "About the cards. Why do you do it? And I don't want the speech, I want the real answer."
You dry your hands slowly, deciding how much truth he's earned.
"My great grandmother read cards," you start, leaning against the counter across from him. "She read for people in her village back in the old country. My mom said she could look at someone and see the shape of their life, like… like they were made of glass. She tried to teach my mother, but the gift skipped her and landed on me instead."
You take a pause, watching the radio, the floor, anything but him.
"I was seven the first time I saw something I couldn't explain. I touched my grandmother's deck and I knew things about her neighbor who was sitting at the kitchen table. That she'd lost a baby the year before, that her husband was sleeping with her sister, that she was going to leave him by spring." You swallow. "I said all of it out loud, like an idiot child, because I didn't know you weren't supposed to just say those things."
Bucky's quiet. You can feel him listening, like he's cataloguing every word.
"My mother was horrified. My grandmother on the other hand wasn't. She said the cards chose me, and that I should learn to read them properly so I'd stop blurting out unfiltered truth at dinner parties." A small, humorless laugh leaves you. "So I learned. By the time I was a teenager, I was pulling cards for friends, for strangers, for anyone who asked. And most of the time, it's just… pattern recognition and intuition working together. The cards are a tool, not a magic trick, but sometimes—"
"Sometimes what?"
"Sometimes they show you something that doesn't fit any pattern you know. And you have to decide whether to believe what you're seeing or pretend you didn't see it."
The radio changes songs.
"Is that what happened with my reading?" he asks quietly.
No, you think. It's worse than that.
"I read what was on the table," you say instead, because it's the truth, even if it's not all of it. "I didn't make it up, Bucky. I've never fabricated a reading in my life. The cards that came up for you were clear… unusually clear. And I softened them because Hazel was sitting right there and I didn't want to hurt her, but I didn't lie."
He studies you for a long moment, and you can see the war happening behind his eyes—the part of him that wants to believe you fighting the part that needs to think you're a con artist, because the alternative is harder.
"Okay," he says finally.
"O—Okay?"
"I'm not saying I believe in it. I'm saying I believe you believe it, and that's… different."
It's the most generous thing he's said to you since the market, and it lands somewhere under your ribs.
It's a Tuesday in late November, and Maggie has sent him to fix a leak under the kitchen sink that you both suspect she caused by hitting the pipe with her cane. He's on his back under the counter and you're handling him tools, trying not to notice the way his shirt rides up when he reaches for the wrench.
When he slides out, wiping his hands on a rag, he looks at you for a while.
"There's a place two blocks over. They make decent coffee, if you're done pretending you don't need a break."
"That's the worst invitation I've ever heard. You're just observing that I look tired."
"You do look tired."
"Wow, thank you. A true gentleman."
His mouth twitches. "Do you want coffee or not?"
You want to say no, because saying yes feels too much like stepping off a cliff, but the word comes out before you can stop it. "Fine, but only because you're paying."
Maggie, from the front room calls out: "Take your time! I'm perfectly fine!"
You both know she's been listening to every word.
The walk to the café is silent.
The place looks cozy—it's small, warm and smells like cinnamon and cardamom. He orders black coffee and you order a latte and a slice of walnut cake. You sit t a table by the window where the afternoon light comes in, and for a few minutes neither of you says anything.
It should be awkward, being here without Maggie or your cats between you, but it isn't.
"Would you mind if I ask you something?"
"You're going to ask whether I say yes or not."
"Smart man." You turn the cup slowly. "Why do you do this? The handyman thing… Maggie says you work for the whole block. But you don't charge, you won't take money—"
"I take money, I just don't like to ask for it, besides, Maggie always invites me to eat."
"She tucks money in your jacket while you're not seeing."
"She's not as subtle as she thinks." He takes a sip of his coffee and ten looks at you. "I like fixing things, always have. When something's broken, there's a right way to fix it, and when it's done, it's done, it's done. You can see the result, it's not…"
"Ambiguous?"
"Yeah, exactly. It's not ambiguous."
You understand suddenly why he hated the reading and everything related to it. You gave him a puzzle with no solution, a fix with no steps… you made him sit with something unfixable.
The conversation moves easier after that. He tells you about the neighborhood, about Mrs. Ferreira, about Yori—the Asian man you saw the other day who feeds pigeons from his window, about the old man on the fourth who swears at everyone in Italian. You tell him about your shop, about your cats—Nova and Salem, about the time you accidentally read cards for a man who turned out to be an undercover cop investigating a psychic scam two towns over, and how you spent forty-five minutes proving your cards weren't marked.
You see him laughing, not the polite sound from always, but a real one. You drink your coffee and eat your cake and try to not think about the dreams.
It becomes a thing. He finishes a repair at Maggie's or passes by to eat and you end up at the café, or walking the two blocks to the park where the benches face the water, or simply sitting on her stoop in the last cold light of the afternoon while you both drink coffee.
You learn things about him in pieces. He's from Brooklyn—born and raised, he says, but the tone on his voice tells you it's partly a lie. He has a best friend named Sam who's a pain in the ass. He doesn't talk about his family, but you don't push. He served in the military, a long time ago.
He learns things about you too, like the fact you talk with your hands when you're passionate about something, or that you hum when you're thinking and that hum is always off-key. He learns about your habit of reading strangers on the street and narrating your observations under your breath.
The first week of December arrives with an ugly wind that rattles Maggie's windows and makes your cats burrow under the blankets. Maggie has graduated from the cane to limping short distances without it, which means she's mobile enough to meddle full-time.
Bucky comes by Wednesday to check a draft Maggie swears she can feel coming from the baseboards. You both know there's no draft, but he comes by anyway.
You open the door and he's standing on the stoop with his hands in his jacket pockets, his tool bag over one shoulder, and there's snow in his hair—not much, just dust, but it's there, melting against the dark of it—and your heart does something complicated because of how good he looks.
"Maggie's napping," you say.
His hand comes out of his pocket. He's holding a folded napkin, and he holds it out to you like it's a wrench.
"I made reservations," he murmurs. "At Valentino's, this Friday, seven o'clock."
You stare at the napkin. "Did you just… write it on a napkin?"
"I didn't have a paper." He shifts his weight. "Sam says you're supposed to give the person a specific time and place, so… there it is."
"You asked your friend how to ask someone on a date?"
"Well, he tells me a lot of things, more of it is useless." He's looking at the doorframe while he speaks, then he glances at you. "This part seemed right."
You unfold the napkin. His handwriting is surprisingly neat—small, precise letters. Friday, 7 pm- Valentino's on Henry St. —B
"Is this because Maggie put you up to it?" you ask, because if this is charity or pity or Maggie's matchmaking you'd rather know now and bleed later.
"No. She might take credit for it, but no. I was going to ask you at the café last week, but then you started reading people and I lost my nerve."
Bucky lost his nerve.
"So, Friday… at seven."
"Is that a yes?"
"That's a yes."
He nods once, and you can see his shoulders drop half an inch. You want to laugh, or cry, or both, so you just fold the napkin carefully and put it in your pocket.
"Are you going to come in and check the nonexistent draft, or…?"
"Might as well, just to keep the appearances."
He brushes past you in the doorway, and unlike the first time, he doesn't avoid your shoulder.
When Friday night comes, you don't understand why you're so damn nervous, but here you are, changing your outfit twice before settling with a blue dress and a pair of boots that Maggie claims make your legs look like they go on forever. You're halfway down the stairs when the doorbell rings.
He cleans up well. That's the first thought you have when you open the door. He's wearing a dark jacket over a sweater, and his hair is pulled back in a way that shows the sharp lines of his face, and he smells so good you have to resist the urge to lean closer and breathe him in again.
"You look nice," he says when you open the door.
"You too." You grab your coat from the hook. "Don't wait up, Maggie."
"Go. Don't come back before ten, I have a television program."
"We're going to dinner, Maggie, not—"
"Door will be locked before ten o'clock," she insists, and shuts the door on your face before you can answer, letting you at the bottom of the stairs.
You turn to face Bucky and the way he looks at you makes you forget every argument you've ever had with yourself about why this is a bad idea.
"Ready?" he asks.
"It depends. Are you going to accuse me of fraud tonight?"
"Not tonight."
"Then I'm ready."
Valentino's is tucked between a laundromat and a bookshop. The hostess greets Bucky by name and leads you to a corner booth where the candlelight flickers against the red-checkered tablecloth.
"Fancy," you tease.
"I said it wasn't fancy."
"Exactly," you unfold your napkin and look around—warm brick walls, fairy lights strung along the ceiling, and and old man at the bar arguing with the bartender about baseball. "I like it."
He orders wine for the table without asking, but it's the good kind, the kind that tastes likes blackberries, and when he catches you watching him over the rim of your glass, he doesn't look away.
You're talking about the shop—what you'll do when you go back, whether you'll reopen at all—when he leans back in his chair and takes a deep breath. "I want to ask you something, but I don't want to fight."
"That's a promising start."
"Why do you believe in it? The cards, destiny, all of it. You're smart. You read people like they're open books. How do you also believe that pieces of cardboard can tell the future?"
It's not hostile. It's genuine curiosity, and that's worse, because you owe him a real answer. You down the rest of your wine for a bit of liquid courage.
"When I was seventeen," you start, and your voice is careful, like you're walking on ice, " my great grandmother died. She'd been sick for a while, and when I went to see her in the hospital she… she told me she'd been reading my cards since I was born. That she'd asked about my future every year on my birthday, the way she did for everyone in the family. And every year, the same cards came up."
The restaurant noise fills the silence—the clink of glasses, a murmur of conversation from the next table—but you're hyper aware of him.
"She said love wasn't meant for me." You trace the rim of your glass with your finger. "I didn't believe her, I was seventeen, I thought she was a dramatic old woman who loved tragedy, or that maybe she was way too high on her meds. So I started reading for myself, I pulled my own cards every week, every month, every time I met someone I thought could be something. And every single time, the same answer. Reversed Ace of Cups. Ten of Swords. The Tower. Not for you, not in this life."
You laugh, but it comes out humorless.
"I even paid a woman to read my destiny matrix, I tried runes, I tried everything because I wanted so badly for the answer to be different; but it never was. I tried dating, I did. I wanted so bad to be loved. Apparently, the person meant for me was born over a hundred years ago, and I was born now, so the timing was wrong, and that's it."
Bucky is very still across the table. He hasn't moved, hasn't reached for his glass, hasn't done anything except listen with an intensity that makes your skin prickle. The silence between you stretches. He's looking at you with an expression you can't decode.
"Bucky?"
He exhales slowly, and his jaw works twice. Then he leans forward, resting both forearms on the table. "You don't have any idea of who I am?"
"Should I?" you ask, confused.
He stares at you for a long moment like he's looking for some sign that you're joking. "You really don't."
"Bucky, you're freaking me out a little. Are you in the mob? A famous musician? Because I have to be honest, I don't really follow the news, and history was never my strong subject. I know the major stuff, but—"
He reaches into his back pocket and pulls out his wallet, sliding something across the table toward you.
It's his driver's license. You pick it up, squinting at the tiny photo—he looks exactly the same, of course he does, that hot bastard—and then your eyes drop to the birth date.
March 10, 1917.
You read it three times, but the numbers don't change. You look up at him, and he's watching at you with an expression you can't read.
"I was born in 1917," he says quietly. "Here in Brooklyn. I went to war in '43 and… I didn't come back the way I left. They did things to me, changed me. I don't age the way normal people do, and there's a lot of years in between that I'd rather not talk about in a restaurant."
Your hands are shaking. You set the license down on the table between you like it might burn you.
"The matrix destiny," you whisper. "It said a hundred years ago. You were born a hundred years ago."
"Yeah." He leans forward. "And here's the thing. I don't believe in fate. I don't believe in stars writing our stories for us, because if I did—" His voice breaks, just slightly, and he catches it. "If I did, then I'd have to believe that what happened to me was determined. That the things that I did, the things that were done to me, they were written in stone before I was even born. And that's too cruel, that's a crueler god than I'm willing to worship."
He's breathing harder now, and you realize with a start that he's scared. Bucky Barnes, who caught your cat mid-air and argued with you in the rain, is scared of what you might say next.
"But you," he continues, softer now. "You showed up in my neighborhood reading cards and talking about things you shouldn't know. And I kept seeing you everywhere, and I kept telling myself it was a coincidence, that Brooklyn is small and you were just… there. But there's something here. I feel it every time I'm in the same room as you, and I don't know if that's fate or if it's just—" He stops, running a hand over his face. "I don't know what it is. But I know I haven't wanted to spend time with someone like this in a long time. And if that means the stars finally decided to do something kind for once, then maybe… maybe I'm not as angry at them as I thought."
You don't know what to say. The pasta arrives and sits cooling between you, forgotten. You think about every card you've ever pulled, every spread that ended in the same lonely answer, every time you accepted that love wasn't meant for you. And now, he's sitting across from you, born in 1917, a hundred-year-old soul in a young man's body, and the math is so simple it makes you want to laugh and cry at the same time.
"You're quiet," he says.
"I'm not quiet," you manage, but your voice sounds like it's coming from very far away. "I'm just… I don't know what to say. You don't— you don't just drop 'I was born in 1917' into a conversation and expect someone to have a response ready."
The corner of his mouth twitches. "Fair."
"You fought in World War II."
"Yeah."
"And you're telling me you don't believe in fate, but you just handed me proof that the answer I've been getting my whole life wasn't wrong."
"I'm telling you that I don't care what the cards said," he reaches across the table, his hand hovering over yours for a moment before he covers your fingers with his palm. His skin is warm, calloused, and you feel it everywhere. "I care that you're here, right now. And I'm here. That's enough for me."
You look down at your hand under his, at the candlelight pooling in the hollow of his palm, and you think about the High Priestess card, the one you've pulled for yourself a hundred times. Hidden knowledge, the veil between worlds, secrets.
Maybe the secret was that you weren't waiting for a ghost after all.
You eat eventually, though you barely taste it. He tells you about Sam, about the boat they worked on together, about the neighborhood changing and staying the same all at once. You tell him about your cats, about the way Maggie pretends to be asleep every time he comes over so you'll have to answer the door alone.
But mostly, you sit in the candlelight and let yourself have this. Whatever this is.
He insists on walking you home. It's not far—five blocks, maybe six—and the December air is sharp enough to make you tuck your hands into your coat pockets. He walks on the outside of the sidewalk, closest to the street, the way men used to do when he was young, and something about that makes your chest ache.
"You okay?" he asks as you turn onto Maggie's block.
"Yeah." But you're not, not really. You're overwhelmed, full of things you don't know how to say. You want to tell him that you've dreamed about him, that you've known the shape of his laugh before you ever heard it, that you pulled his cards in your kitchen and you threw the deck across the room because it was too much to believe. You want to ask him if he feels it too, this gravity, this sense of falling into something you never expected to find.
But you don't say any of that. You just walk beside him in the dark, and when you reach Maggie's stoop, you turn to face him.
The streetlamp behind him casts a halo around his shoulders. You think about all the years he's lived, all the winters he's seen, and you can't believe any of them led him here. To you. To this moment in your aunt's cracked concrete steps.
"I had a good time," he says.
"Me too."
He steps closer. You can smell the wine on his breath, the cedar of his jacket, the cold night air clinging to his air. He's close enough that you have to tilt your head back to look at him, and his eyes are darker in the shadows.
"I don't think I need to." Your voice is barely above a whisper. "I think I already know how this goes."
"Yeah?" His hand finds your waist, tentative, asking permission. "How's it go?"
And then he kisses you.
It's soft at first, careful, like he's giving you time to pull away. But you don't pull away. You reach up and curl your fingers into the front of his jacket, and he makes a sound against your mouth before deepening the kiss. His hand slides to the small of your back, pulling you closer, and you can feel the warmth of him through every layer between you that suddenly feels like too many.
He tastes like red wine, and his jaw is rough under your palm, and when you break apart you're both breathing hard, foreheads pressed together.
"Okay," you whisper. "Okay."
"Okay," he repeats, and he sounds almost drunk with it. He kisses you again, lighter this time, on the corner of your mouth, your cheek, your temple. His lips brush your ear as he murmurs, "I don't care about fate. But if you want to tell me what the stars said, I'll listen."
You laugh, a little watery, and push at his chest. "Go home, Bucky. It's cold."
"I know." But he doesn't move. He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers lingering against your jaw. "I'll see you tomorrow?"
"Tomorrow."
He finally steps back, down one step, then two. He's smiling, the kind that reaches his eyes and rearranges his whole face into something boyish and new. "Night, then."
"Night."
You watch him walk down the block, his hands in his pockets, his shoulders relaxed in a way you haven't seen before. You watch until he turns the corner and disappears, and you stand there for a long moment with your fingers pressed to your mouth, trying to remember how to breathe.
The front door opens behind you.
"You're welcome," Maggie says.
You jump so hard you nearly fall off the stoop. "Jesus, Maggie!"
She's standing in the doorway in her robe and slippers, her crossword in one hand and a cup of tea in the other. She looks entirely too pleased with herself.
"You were watching!" You accuse.
"I was observing, there's a difference." She steps back to let you in. "I told you he was a good boy, serious, good with his hands." She winks. "And now you know for sure."
"Maggie!"
"Don't 'Maggie' me. I didn't raise you to be ungrateful." She shuffles toward the stairs. "You can thank me properly at breakfast. And don't think I didn't notice you sneaking cards at my kitchen table for three months straight. I may be old, but I'm not blind."
You stand in the hallway, coat still on, cheeks burning, and listen to her cackle all the way up the stairs.
Your cats appear from the front room, twining around your ankles, and you bend down to scoop Nova up, burying your face in her fur. She purrs, loud and indignant, and you laugh against her soft orange head.
"Okay," you whisper to him, to the empty hallway, to no one in particular. "Okay."
You don't know what happens next. You don't know how any of this works, a tarot reader and a century-old soldier, two people the universe apparently decided to throw together just to see what would happen.
But as you climb the stairs to your cramped little room, you think about the spread you pulled the night before you left for Brooklyn. The Tower. The Star. The World.
Disaster, then hope, then completion.
Maybe The Tower wasn't heartbreak after all. Maybe it was just the world rearranging itself to make room for something you never dared to ask for.
You fall asleep that night without pulling any cards, without any dreams at all, and when you wake up in the morning, the first thing you hear is Bucky's voice downstairs, asking Maggie if she takes one sugar or two, and the sound it's better than any spread you've ever read.
June.
The summer breeze at Coney Island smells like salt and fried dough, and you were wearing the jacket Bucky lent you because you misjudged the wind off the water. It's still too big, the sleeves past your knuckles, and he keeps reaching over to roll them back up for you, his thumb brushing your wrist every time.
You can't remember whose idea it was to come here. Maybe yours, maybe his. Maybe it doesn't matter, because Bucky's hand is wrapped around yours. You've been official since January, though the line between before and after has blurred into something that feels like it started long before either of you were brave enough to name it.
The boardwalk is crowded with families and couples and teenagers laughing too loud, but Bucky moves through them like he was made for this—for cotton candy and carnival lights, for the easy joy of a Brooklyn summer night. He fits here, you realize. He fits now. A hundred-year-old soul learning how to be young again.
"Step right up! Test your luck!" A barker's voice cuts through the noise, and you follow it to a row of old arcade machines tucked beneath a stripped awning. Skee-ball, claw machines, a racing game with a faded steering wheel—and then you see it.
A fortune teller machine.
It sits in the corner like something out of another era, which, you suppose, it is. Madam Zola's Mystical Fortune Cards, the peeling gold paint reads. Insert coin. Receive Your Destiny. The mechanical woman inside has painted glass eyes and a silk scarf draped over her plastic hair, and her hand rests on a deck of cards that probably haven't been mystical a day in their life.
Bucky follows your gaze and laughs. "You're kidding me."
"I'm absolutely not kidding you." You're already digging in your pocket for a quarter. "Madam Zola and I are colleagues, I need to know if she's legitimate."
"She's made of plywood."
"So judgmental." You find two quarters and press one into his palm, your fingers lingering against his. "For you, professional courtesy."
He looks down at the quarter, then back at you, and something softens in his expression. "Alright," he says. "But if this thing tells me I'm gonna die alone, I'm blaming you."
"Fair."
You drop your quarter in first. The machine whirs to life with a dramatic creak. Madam Zola's hand moves across the cards in jerky, mechanical motions, and after a moment, a small white card drops into the brass tray below.
You pick it up. It's not a real tarot card—just cardstock, cheap, the edges already soft from humidity—but the image printed on it makes your breath catch. Two hands clasped, reaching across a starfield. Beneath it, in gold script: The Lovers.
And underneath that, smaller: You've found the one. Don't waste time doubting it.
You stare at it. Bucky leans over your shoulder to read it, and you feel him go still.
"Huh."
"Your turn!"
"I don't need a card to tell me—"
"Your turn, Barnes."
He huffs, but he drops in the quarter you gave him. The machine grinds and another card falls. He picks it up. You don't see it at first, but you see his face—the way his jaw loosens, the way his eyes soften at the corners.
It's the same image, but the text beneath reads: What was written in the stars has come to pass. Trust the path, trust your heart.
The noise of the fair fades to a distant hum. You look up at him, and he's already looking at you.
"Bucky—"
"I don't care if it's rigged. I don't care if every card in that thing says the same thing. You're—" He stops, swallowing thickly. "You're it for me. You know that, right?"
Your heart is doing that complicated thing again, the thing it does every time he looks at you like you're the only person in the world.
"I know," you whisper. "Me too."
He kisses you then, right there in front of Madam Zola and half of Brooklyn, his hand cradling your jaw like you're something precious. When you pull apart, you're both breathless, and someone's wolf-whistled from the skee-ball line, but none of you seem to care at all.
"Come on," he says, lacing his fingers through yours. "I saw a ring toss on the way in, I need to win you something."
It takes him four tries and an embarrassing amount of money, and by the end he's swearing at the rigged bottles while you laugh so hard you have to lean against the counter for support. But on the fifth throw, the last ring catches, and the barker hands over the prize with a grudging nod.
It's a ridiculous bear, oversized and caramel-colored, wearing a tiny red bow tie. Bucky presents it to you as if he was handing you over the Holy Grail.
"For you. I was gonna go for the giant panda, but this one looked like it needed you more."
You crush it against your chest, burying your face in its soft synthetic fur. "I love him. I'm naming him James."
"You're not naming him after me."
"I'm absolutely naming him after you. Look at him, he has your expression."
Bucky stares at the bear's blank button eyes and then at you, and then he laughs, tilting his head back and you want to take a picture of him like this—careless, happy.
"Let's go to the photobooth," you demand, grabbing his hand. "Before the light changes."
"Bossy."
"You love when I'm bossy."
He doesn't agree, but he doesn't deny it either.
The photobooth is tucked behind the funhouse, a vintage four-strip model with a faded red curtain and a sign that flashes OUT OF ORDER every third flicker. But when you slide your money in, it whirs to life, and the first bulb flashes before you're ready.
"Wait—" you laugh, still adjusting the bear on your lap.
Too late. The first picture capture you mid-laugh, Bucky leaning in with his mouth open, probably saying something sarcastic.
"Okay, okay, be serious," you say, turning toward him.
"Serious," he repeats, but his eyes are dancing.
The second flash catches you pressing a kiss to his cheek, his hand coming up to rest on your waist. The third finds him turning his head at the last second so your lips meet his instead, his fingers threading into your hair. The fourth flash finds you both laughing into each other's mouths, your foreheads touching, the bear crushed between you. You don't remember who kissed who, but you don't care.
When the strip slides out of the machine, you hold it up to the light, watching the images develop in slow motion. Four tiny windows into a perfect moment. You look at them, and you think about al the cards you've ever pulled, all the lonely spreads and reversed cups, all the years you believed love wasn't meant for you.
And here you are. Here he is. A love out of time.
"I'm putting these on the fridge," you say. "When we get back to the apartment."
"Our apartment," he corrects and your heart flips.
You're moving in together next month. You found a place in Brooklyn with a windowsill wide enough for two cats and a fire escape that gets morning sun. He's already planning on building a spare room for your appointments, and built a shelf for your cards. You told him he didn't have to, that you'd find another place to do your readings and keep the cards in the closet if he wanted, and he looked at you like you'd suggested drowning a kitten.
"It's your gift," he said. "Why would I want you to hide it?"
Later, when the moon is high and the fair lights are starting to dim, you sit together on the boardwalk with your shoes off, toes buried in cool sand, sharing a funnel cake.
"We should get home," you say, but you don't move. "Salem and Nova are probably destroying something."
"They're fine, Nova's probably sleeping on my tool bag, and Salem's judging her from the windowsill."
"How do you know that?"
"Because that's what they do every time I'm there." He licks powdered sugar off his thumb. "Those cats have a very established routine. Nova loves me, Salem tolerates me… it's a good system."
You smile, leaning your head on his shoulder. "Salem tolerates everyone, that's just his personality. Nova loves anyone who gives her attention. They're not a good benchmark."
"Okay." He pauses. "Then you love me. And you're a much better benchmark."
You go still. The word hangs in the air between you, but he doesn't take it back. He just turns his head and looks at you, waiting, his eyes reflecting the last of the carnival lights.
"I do," you whisper. "I love you."
His smile is small and yet so full of hope it makes your chest ache. "I love you too. I think I started loving you the day you shut the door on my face."
"You have terrible taste."
"Must be the century I was born in, we liked 'em feisty."
You laugh, pushing at his chest, and he catches your hand and presses a kiss to your knuckles. You sit like that for a long time, watching the tide come in, his thumb tracing slow circles in your palm. Eventually, he reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out the fortune card from Madam Zola's machine.
"Do you think it's true?" he asks quietly. "The whole destiny thing. Do you really believe we were supposed to find each other?"
You look at the card, then at him—the man who was born over a hundred years ago, who fought a war and survived things you can't imagine, that sometimes admit not knowing how to do any of this, but that tries anyway for you.
"I believe," you start, "that the cards pointed me in a direction. They told me to wait, to not settle for something that wasn't right." You turn his hand over, tracing the lines of his palm—his life line, long and unbroken; the heart line, deep and sure. "But I don't think they made this happen, Bucky. I think we did. I think you showed up at my shop and you were rude and impossible and I couldn't stop thinking about you anyway. I think we let Maggie manipulate us into falling in love. The cards didn't do that, we did."
"Okay," he says. "I like that better anyway."
"Me too."
He folds the car again and tucks it back into his pocket, over his heart. "I'm keeping this, though. As evidence."
"Evidence of what?"
"That sometimes the universe gets it right."
You don't pull cards that night, haven't done it for a while, because you don't need to. You fall asleep with Bucky's heartbeat against your back, Salem purring at your feet, Nova curled on the pillow between you like a furry chaperone, and you dream of nothing at all—just the deep, peaceful dark of a life that's finally exactly where it's meant to be.
pairing: dean di laurentis x fem!reader (logan's little sister)
word count: 1.2k
summary: dean di laurentis was never a guy that you considered. not when he was best friends with your older brother, and a known sex-crazed playboy. yet, when forced to share the house with him alone one weekend, it's hard to deny the chemistry. even harder to deny the way he just keeps flirting with you. is it possible to cross that boundary? to embrace the tension despite every voice inside of you (and the boys group chat) telling you not to?
author note: this is loosely inspired by the beginning of the score <3 but also kinda deviates from it in some ways!! this is also my first dean fic so!!
the house is quiet when you step past the threshold, the door closing behind you with a thud. "dean?," you call out, cautiously stepping in the living room as you look for him. it wouldn't be the first time that dean was caught trying to hook up with some girl in the living room, and you have always learned that it's better to prepare yourself in the case that it happens again. "dean? i know john told you i was coming over," you continue, another step in to the living room finding that it was thankfully empty.
this wasn't how you planned to spend your weekend. honestly, you were looking forward to a quiet weekend in your dorm to catch up on the episodes you missed of love island. however, when the dorm was evacuated due to a gas leak, you found that you had no other choice but to call your brother.
he offered his house the instant that he heard the stress in your voice. though, john logan was always like that. always the protective older brother with the answers when you needed them.
the one thing you hadn't expected was that he would be out of town. it was some double date trip that he and his girlfriend, grace, were going on with garrett and his girlfriend, hannah. a trip that would, unfortunately, take the whole weekend.
which, in all reality, was fine. you didn't mind tucker and dean. you had known them both since before you started at briar, given that your familial home wasn't all that far away. some weekends you would drive up for hockey games or to visit your brother, and you got to know the team thanks to that.
admittedly, you always thought tucker was kinda cute. not in the way that you liked him, but more in a school girl crush sort of way. so the idea of spending the weekend with him wasn't all that bad.
except, according to john, he wouldn't be there. a fact that he told you via text while you were busy packing up some clothes into a duffle bag. instead it would just be you and dean.
the idea of it also wasn't all that bad. well, except for the fact that dean was rarely ever on his best behavior. if you were being honest, there was a part of you that believed he didn't have a best behavior. that he simply was always that sex addicted, party guy that you saw. which was, again, fine. that is as long as he chose to have sex in his bedroom instead of the living room (for once.)
"dean," you call out again, this time with a little bit more urgency. it wasn't that you wanted to talk to him, but rather that you felt it important that he knew you were there. what if john didn't text him? what if he did, but dean didn't check his phone.
"babygirl, i heard you the first time," he drawls then, appearing at the top of the stairs. his body leans against the banister wearing nothing more than a pair of basketball shorts. there is this lazy, charming smile that crosses his lips as he looks down at you, and you can't help the way that your eyes linger for a moment too long on his chest before raising up to meet his gaze.
then, under the pressure of his smile, your eyes abandon looking at him all together. rather they move down to the floor of the moment, but you can still feel the heat of his gaze upon as if he didn't get the memo that eye contact was no longer needed. "john did text you, right?"
then there is a laugh that escapes him, and your eyes flicker up to him immediately. "yeah, he texted me," then he is pulling out his phone, "he texted me four times, garrett texted me twice, and the boys chat has been going off every 5-10 seconds with one of them reminding me that i can't touch you."
there is a warmth that travels up to your cheeks, tinting them a deep red. dean finds amusement in this, of course he does. you had seen him play this game before, always finding some sort of pride in making a girl blush. "right," you say then, "that seems like overkill." then you are taking a step closer to the stairs, "especially since you probably don't even want to."
in his eyes there is this glint of something that you can't quite place. a challenge, maybe? it's not a look that you are used to getting from dean, or really anyone at all. his body shifts so he can face you as you walk up the stairs, and his head tilts slightly to the side as he asks, "who said that?"
you pause on the third step from the top, looking at him as you roll your eyes, "i said that, dean." then your eyes squint a bit as a snarky tone takes over your voice, "it's called being realistic."
as you continue up the last three stairs, he moves to stand in your way. as your body runs into his hard, and shirtless chest, another hit of warmth travels up to your cheeks. it takes a moment for you to gather yourself enough to look up at him. once you do, your eyes meet his and that glint of something is still there.
if this was anyone else, you would think it's weird. however, dean flirts within any girl that he can. there were times where he flirted with you, but you assumed it was just to piss of your brother. which, for the record, it had.
"is it realistic?," he asks teasingly, "babygirl, remember who you're talking to."
there is a laugh that escapes you then with an eyeroll to match. "that's right," you say then, laughter still dancing on your lips, "you'll fuck any and every girl that breathes in your direction."
this time it was his turn to laugh, "not any and every girl," he corrects. there is something so charming about the way he talks. as if his voice was laced with a venom intended to attract everyone he spoke to. it's easy to let that effortless, flirty tone heat something inside of you. "but you? i'd consider it."
then you hear a chime from his phone and a life lifts up to your lips as you push past him, "i think that's the group chat, dean," you say as you make your way down the hallways, "reminding you that you shouldn't consider it." then as you stop at john's door, you turn to him, "which doesn't matter, because i'm not interested."
except, that warmth in the pit of your stomach begs to differ. especially as it rises up through your chest and causes your heart to skip a beat in your chest. you are reminded then of the feeling of his bare chest as it slammed against you at the top of the stairs, and the way that each word he spoke was dripping in some sex crazed tension.
“all my friends in love and i'm the one they call for a third wheeling.”
summary - you and john tucker hate each other. this was a problem considering you’re basically in the same friend group. you didn’t really know where this animosity came from, it’s just always been there. your relationship almost feels like a big fight where none of you know why or how it started, but you’re both too stubborn to let it go. It’s like the mere thought of him makes you irritated. you hate being around him and try avoiding him at all costs. It’s pretty much impossible though when your best friends are dating his best friends. because of this, you have to be around him quite a lot. you hate seeing him and he hates seeing you. or, that’s what you thought…. ˖Ი𐑼⋆
contents- black!fem!reader (but anyone can read ofc!), cursing, use of y/n, suggestiveness, crack, fluff, slight angst.
pairing – garrett graham x kitty!reader
summary – kitty’s seasonal allergies are ruining everything, including her ability to be mean to garrett.
warnings – allergies, runny nose, congestion, watery eyes, cold medicine mention, comfort, fluff.
notes from me – this is set before casual, right? just for context!! but some kitty!reader fluff was requested so here u go babes!! xx
word count – 0.6k
navigation – masterlist |
The apartment has been invaded by pollen, apparently. Thoroughly enough that her eyes have been itching since breakfast and the inside of her nose has spent the last three hours alternating between completely blocked and committed to ruining her life.
She’s curled sideways on the couch with a blanket over her legs, surrounded by the crumpled white evidence of a deeply undignified afternoon. Tissues on the coffee table. Tissues on the floor. One clenched damply in her hand because every time she puts it down, her nose starts running again out of spite.
The antihistamine box sits beside a mug of tea that went cold before she managed three sips, and the skin beneath her nose feels rubbed raw.
Garrett’s stretched along the couch behind her, shirtless because he claims her apartment is too warm and because, more realistically, Garrett Graham has never encountered an indoor temperature that could convince him to keep clothes on.
Grey sweats sit low on his hips, one bare foot hanging off the armrest, the unfinished television stand still lying in pieces across the rug because he abandoned it the second she sneezed six times in a row and nearly headbutted the instruction manual.
His thumbs work slowly into the muscle beside her neck, broad hands kneading over her shoulders with surprising care. Usually she’d accuse him of trying to distract her from the fact that he has installed one cabinet door upside down. Today, she only lets her head fall forward and makes a thick, miserable little sound through her nose.
Garrett’s hands pause. “You good, baby?”
She sniffs, which accomplishes absolutely nothing, then leans back until her spine settles against his chest. His skin is warm through her thin shirt, and he immediately makes room for her, one arm sliding around her middle while the other resumes rubbing the tight place where her shoulder meets her neck.
“Feel like shit,” she mumbles.
“I can tell.”
She turns her head enough to look at him, eyes watery and narrowed. “That was mean.”
“It wasn’t.” His mouth twitches. “You look cute.”
She tries to scoff, but it catches somewhere behind the congestion and becomes a small cough instead. Garrett reaches for the water bottle on the table and puts it into her hand without comment, then catches the tissue slipping from her fingers and drops it into the rubbish bag he’s hooked over the side of the couch.
The efficiency of it is annoyingly tender. She drinks, hands the bottle back and lets herself sag into him again, cheek pressed to the warm centre of his chest. His fingers move into her hair, scratching gently at her scalp, careful around the strands tangled from lying down all afternoon.
“Don’t tell anyone about this,” she murmurs.
“About your allergies?”
“About me being pathetic.”
Garrett looks down at her, amusement soft around the edges. “Baby, you threatened to stab Dean with a fork last week because he ate one of your fries.”
“He knew what he was doing.”
“I’m just saying. Your reputation can survive a runny nose.”
She pinches weakly at his side. He catches her hand, kisses her knuckles and tucks it beneath his palm against her stomach.
“Go to sleep,” he says, mouth brushing the top of her head. “I’ll finish the TV stand.”
Her eyes drift shut. “The door’s upside down.”
“I know.”
A laugh moves through her, small and stuffy and warm against his chest. Garrett’s arm tightens around her, and this time, when his thumb strokes slowly over her ribs, she doesn’t find anything mean to say at all.
to be notified when i post new fics, follow @kooksandpearls-library and turn on notifications! i no longer use a taglist for garrett fics.
⋆˚࿔ summary: A grounded flight unexpectedly brings you back to your ex-boyfriend’s home.
⋆˚࿔ tags: smut (oral, f receiving) exes to lovers!!, yearning, fluff, making up, light angst. one shot
⋆˚࿔ w/c: 3.3k
Hey
Bold of me to assume that you still have my number but....
Are you currently in Kansas right now?
Clark: 1 missed call
The car ride is silent. Well, not completely. Your mind is anything but quiet; thoughts racing like a chipmunk on speed. Clark’s got the radio on at a sensible level, the drawl of the singer somewhat audible over the rickety sound of the wheels of the tow truck. Or maybe it’s the engine? You’re not a mechanic. The grey vehicle is currently humming down a wide, seemingly endless stretch of road as nothing but barrels of hay and the occasional cow pass you by.
If the sound from the truck wasn’t enough, then the wind tunnel you’ve somehow concocted is — air flowing across your face as you lay your head against the edge of the headrest, staring out of the window as nothing passes you by. It’s humorous, really — under 72 hours ago you were on a plane, yet only now you were only feeling motion sickness.
Your hand squeezes your temple in frustration. You hope Clark doesn’t notice, though he probably does. He seems to notice everything.
Of all the ways to run into your ex after a year long breakup, this was probably the worst. It was supposed to happen like some 80s teen movie — skin glowing in the sunlight as you walked down a shopping district without a care in the world. Or maybe at a bar; inebriated and sultry whilst swaying your hips to music. Something incidental.
Instead, you were in the same clothes from two days ago, and no amount of your carry-on perfume could hide the scent of burnt rubber and baby food on your clothes.
Rather humbling, actually.
“Sorry about the sound,” Clark slowly began as he cleared his throat. His eyes were focused on the road ahead but he was noticeably squinting. You knew it certainly wasn’t due to poor eyesight. “One of the next tasks on my To Do List is check to get the engine checked.”
“You don’t say…” you mumbled into the window. God, you sure had a problem — mouthing off to your current knight in shining armour who'd just saved you from a seedy motel and another two days of overpriced terminal food. With a heavy exhale, you rolled your shoulders, turning sideways to mull over the man in the drivers seat. So cool, so calm…completely at home on the open road as he drove effortlessly with one hand.
One very muscular hand.
Perhaps more defined than they’d been a year ago.
“Thanks for coming to get me,” you sighed, breaking the ice. You gnawed on your bottom lip. “I know you’re with your family and all...”
“It’s not a problem,” he replied quickly, this time lending you a glance. “They understood as soon as I told them.”
How was he so casual about this? This was the first time you’d seen each-other — spoken— in a year, and now you were on your way to play house at his home, right under the roof belonging to two of your (previous) biggest supporters. Clark Kent didn’t have a vindictive bone in his body; so it wasn’t as if you’d be walking into any scrutiny from his parents, but you were the slightest curious as to what he’d told them.
“…Do they know that it’s me, or am I an unnamed friend?”
“They know it’s you.”
Plainly put. No agendas to his words, just the facts. But there was an undeniable weight to them, even if it was possibly and most likely self inflicted. The Kent’s were just good people who hadn’t a negative thing to say about anybody, but they seemed to have an intuitive way of knowing things.
They’d probably be able to sniff out the apprehension in your bones upon your arrival. As where Clark stood in all this? You weren’t sure. He was just being his usual, good natured self, but that was often the tricky thing about good people — sometimes, they’re never really honest about what they’re thinking.
“Right…” you whispered, wanting the cushions to swallow you up entirely. “Good to know.”
Clark looked over at you again, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed. His gaze was seconds longer than before, gentle blue eyes roaming over you, racing with a particular emotion that you couldn’t quite place.
“You took a pretty big swing checking to see if I was here…” he chuckled half-heartedly. On the surface the question seemed rhetorical, but judging by the way he was side eyeing you, he genuinely wanted to know how. You wanted to laugh it off as you being psychic, or just an act of fate — but your answer turned out to be somewhere in between…surprisingly telling.
“Well, it was,” you began with a shrug, “but I remembered that you always go home at the start of tornado season to make sure everything’s okay with the house and stuff…You’re not really one to break tradition.”
He blinked in response, pink bottom lip pouting as he nodded silently in acknowledgment. The car was slowing down now; and sure enough you were coming into view of the painfully familiar red slated roof and bricked exterior, a calf floundering about its day in the field as the truck pulled up alongside it, screeching to a halt once it reached the end of the driveway.
Clark didn’t seem to mind as you lingered in the passenger seat for a moment, quick to hop out his side of the vehicle and grab your suitcase from the back. With the house only a couple of steps away, you trailed behind him, admiring the freshly cut bushes out front, and the tiny calf that seemed intent on chewing at a wildflower. If Clark wasn’t so intent on carrying your bags, you were certain he would’ve intervene. He was knowledgeable like that. He cared like that.
Once you were greeted with the familiar mesh screening on the front door, it was like stepping into a time machine. Ma and Pa were by the doorway, huddled together as they laid eyes on you.
“Hi Mr and Mrs Kent,” you mumbled sheepishly, wrapping your arms around yourself, though it was far from cold. “I’m sorry to barge in like this…”
“Not to worry, sweetheart,” Jon said, the corners of his ageing eyes crinkling in familiarity. “Clark said the been at a bus stop for hours. We're just glad you’re alright.”
Martha stepped forward.
“— I can heat you some leftovers? I made chilli.”
“Chilli sounds great, Mrs Kent,” you smiled weakly, suddenly overwhelmed by the aggressive, but completely genuine hospitality. “I’d really love to take a shower first…”
Everything was coming back to you; the intermittent creak of the floorboards whenever six foot something Clark tried to shuffle around like he were a mouse, the hum of the fridge that definitely hadn’t been changed since he was a teenager, the lingering scent of cinnamon and cloves in seemingly every inch of the house from Ma’s inherent goodness...all back to welcome you as if you’d never left. Like a warm hug, but also a stab in the back.
How could you have left?
The question plagued your mind, unrelenting as water droplets rained down on your face, steam unclogging the dry air and plane fumes from your nose, your pores, your hair – every inch it festered. You’d only been without a shower for a few days – people had survived much worse – then why did it feel as if you were trying to scrub away the past year of your life? It hadn’t been miserable. It had been pleasant. A year in a different city across the country, trying new foods and meeting new people and spending months agonising over your thesis; hypothesising, interviewing, researching – book after book after book just to compress it all into a tiny PDF and press ‘upload’.
A year of knowledge and expansion, yet a year without Clark.
The Kents had given you the privilege of eating in front of the television, legs crossed as you squeezed onto the end of the couch, hunched over a hot bowl of chilli whilst reruns of The Price is Right flickered before you. Clark had seemingly disappeared; rather impossible for such a large man in a tiny house, at least until you retired to his bedroom for the evening and noticed that the sheets had been freshly ironed, neatly tucked into the corners of the mattress.
You’d been in here before, yet it felt new – and suddenly you were noticing things you hadn’t before. His uneven bangs in a family photo. A small scratch mark on the side of his dresser. The snow globe you'd bought him from Canada before finding out he could travel anywhere he wanted. Still there, just like everything else.
There was a knock on the door. Swiping a hand over your mouth you were quick to compose yourself before answering.
Hesitantly, Clark poked his head in.
“…Hey.”
“Is it awkward knocking on your own door?”
“A little,” he acquiesced. “I brought cocoa.”
Your nod was an invitation for him to enter, shoulders hunched in a failed attempt to make himself smaller.
Top button undone, he was wearing a navy blue Henley that was at least a size too small, whilst looser chequered pants sat around his waist. Paired with his tousled hair, it made you nostalgic for a time you hadn’t even been with him for; though you were very much thrust back into the present as he sat upon the edge of the bed, mattress dipping under his weight. Humorously, the scent of baby powder wafted above the chocolate.
“Thanks,” you smiled weakly, “I’m sorry you’ve got the couch.”
Clark shrugged.
“It’s not the worst place to sleep. You haven’t slept in days, I imagine.”
“I got forty minutes of shut eye on the Greyhound before it broke down. Even then I was paranoid somebody would steal my bag.”
“You guarded it well.”
“I’m a fighter,” you beamed, curling your fingers around the mug before you nodded in the direction of the headboard. “…Did you plump my pillows?”
He didn’t reply, but his cheeks turned pink as he delved into his cup.
“How’s the grant going?”
“Don’t change the subject.”
Clark pouted and slumped his shoulders.
“Fine. I did, but only because nobody likes a lumpy pillow,” he replied, matter of factly. He shifted on the bed, moving only the slightest inch closer to you and cocked his head. “I’m serious. I want to know all about it.”
And so you told him all about your time in Star City; the late nights, the café with the astroturf that was extremely pooch-positive, the apartment accommodation that would’ve been perfect if not for the eyesore of a Luthorcorp startup.
You told him about your friend Dinah; who loved trash TV but was actually only in the city because of a situationship with some guy, about a curious professor you’d met in the library who carried around a hard drive the size of the Ark of the Covenant – the finite details on everything, except for your research. The very thing you’d broken up with him for.
“I wish Lois could hear this,” he chuckled, placing his empty cup on the nightstand. “She says there’s nothing in Star City except tech bros and dry air.”
“Technically she isn’t wrong.”
“She’s biased. She hates anything to do with California.”
“Except San Fransisco, right?” you retorted, a small smile coming to your cheeks at the memory. Clark had brought you to the staff Christmas party, initial awkward greetings shifting into a lengthy, wistful discussion on bucket lists and hopes for the year ahead. Lois wanted to travel, Jimmy wanted to finally be able to catch a foul ball at a Meteor’s game without some asshole pushing him, and, when the spotlight had landed on Clark, he’d glanced down at you, only able to say, ‘I’m pretty happy right now.’
That was why it’d been so difficult to tell him that you needed to focus on your studies. Opportunities like those didn’t come often.
“And how’s the research?” Clark said, pulling you from your thoughts. “How many words have you written? Jimmy and I added up how many we write in a year, it’s got to be more than that, right?”
Pausing, you gnawed on your lip for a few moments.
“It’s going great. Too great. I submitted my final paper early, actually…”
Clark blinked, and if there were any feelings of betrayal in his mind they didn’t show. Instead, he smiled, one that reached his eyes and cheeks and made the tips of his ears turn red.
“That’s amazing! When does it get published?”
“I don’t know, in a month or two? I have so much free time now," you sighed, playing with your fingers. “It’s weird. I’m waiting until the end of the agreement on the apartment is done. I was only flying back to surprise my parents, and then…” you trailed off, gesturing to the room around you, to which Clark raised his brows.
You probably would never tell him you chose to fly back on a random day in May because you'd hated to have accidentally run into him in the streets of the city.
“…I’ll be back in Metropolis someday, I suppose.”
The words struck the air like ammunition. Even if Clark was bulletproof, he felt their weight, their bluntness all the same. Puffing his cheeks, he hung his head and swiped a tongue over his lips. He was toying with a dark blue throw, fiddling; something he only did when he was five minutes out on a deadline and couldn’t find the right synonym. Urgency. A now or never situation.
“Would you —“ he began, clearing his throat, “could we…do this all over again?”
Slowly, you set your cup down. The drink had long gone cold.
Dating. Relationships. The immovable elephant in the room. The conversation you’d been dreading ever since your hands had reluctantly typed out your plea for him to save you.
It was all too tempting, the hours or so you’d been in the Kent home reminding you of what you’d missed; his hospitality, his scent, his beautiful blue eyes, always soft and never piercing – but it was also so soon. In truth, you’d never really thought about what would've happened after you’d completed your paper, one expecting that you'd become a professor, perhaps dedicate your life to some great mission, but that option didn’t feel right. Not like you. Naively, you supposed you thought you’d return to Metropolis and somehow never cross paths with Clark again – but that was a fallacy, because in truth you never really moved on from him.
The café in Star City with the astroturf? You’d always imagined being there with him and Krypto, giggling as you’d watch him try his best to keep the dog from levitating.
The professor with the hard drive? Well, outside of age it always reminded you of Clark and his satchel, that was somehow always half open, closure flapping in the air as he’d rushed out to work, never forgetting to give you a kiss.
That was the beauty of Clark, and in tandem, the beauty of life. There was whimsy even in the menial.
“Clark…”
“I-I just have to ask. We never really decided before, and I couldn’t stop thinking about if I’d ever see you again…” he spoke sincerely, voice wavering as he pushed a loose curl back from his forehead. “I understand if you don’t—“
You cut him off with a kiss; light, tender and fleeting, but enough to raise the hairs on every inch of your skin. Enough to remind you of what you’d left behind.
“I hope that was okay.”
“Golly…” he stammered. “It’s more than okay, honey.”
You barely had a moment to share a smile before you kissed him once more. Clark slid his large hand down your back and placed it firmly around your waist, followed by the feeling of being pressed down; slowly, resisting the urge to use all of his weight on you as you were lowered onto the mattress. As you sank into the pillows he momentarily pulled away, adrenaline coursing through your bodies as you admired the sight of eachother.
“We can stop if you think I’m moving too fast,” he said earnestly. “I know it’s only been a few hours —“
“Clark,” you cut him off. “I don’t want to stop.”
He chuckled, exhaling softly from his nose. Lips colliding, he deepened the kiss with tongue, your grip around his curls tighter, forceful; clinging onto him as if he were your lifeline. Clark peppered kisses along your cheek, your ear, right down the nape of your neck in his journey towards your chest, the button of your shirt threatening to pop open.
“I’ve missed kissing you…” he murmured breathily as his teeth grazed your skin. Greedily, he didn’t allow you to respond, swallowing your voice with his own mouth, hips slowly bucking against your thigh. Instinctively, you spread them, allowing for his erection to press against your sensitive mound. His hands found the waistband of your pyjama shorts and slid them down with ease. Comically, Clark placed them to the side rather neatly.
“You can’t be serious.”
“You’ll need them to go to sleep.”
Playfully, rolled your eyes, skin tingling as his soft palms caressed your ankles. They moved up towards your calf and thighs, rubbing soothing circles, all for your blood to rush straight to your thighs and towards your core; hot, wanting. With a gentle hand on your knees he parted your thighs and began to trace the outline of your folds. You let out a sudden moan, the sound prompting Clark, who’s voice was muffled from below.
“I’ve missed touching you…” he crooned, hooking his fingers around either end of your panties before sliding them down, discarding them at the bottom of the bed. His fingers found your folds once more, teasing as his thumb pressed on your sensitive hood.
“Most importantly, I miss tasting you.”
He delved between your thighs, his licks deliberately drawn out as his fingers slowly pumped in and out of you. The stretch, though not the one of his girth, was encompassing all the same, familiar – taking you back to tangled sheets and the feeling of ascent, literally.
Clark hadn’t forgotten the map of your body. He knew to keep a steady hand on your thigh because of how much they would tremble. He knew the deepest crevices that made you squirm; how you liked it when he placed kisses to your hood and flicked his tongue against your clit. It was second nature to him, even when your back arched with pleasure, he knew to press against your lower stomach, holding you down – not out of force, but in the chase relieve you.
“Fuck, Clark—“ you whined, eyes squeezed shut as his nose nudged against your hood. You could only grip your fingers tighter around his hair, wanton as you began to buck your hips against his face.
“You want me to keep going, honey?” he questioned, momentarily breaking for air. His face was flushed and lips glistened with your arousal. He knew you were close. He just wanted to hear it.
“P-Please…” you crooned, legs beginning to buckle around his shoulders. Your heels were digging into his back, thighs trembling as you clenched them around his head. He was devouring you completely, your distinct taste a familiar sensation on his lips as you came around his mouth. For a man as gentle and unassuming as Clark, the sounds he made were obscene, thirsty; but wholly satisfying.
You cupped his cheeks as he slowly rose from his position, smearing your thumb along his clammy skin.
With your limbs melting into the mattress, fatigue rushed across your body – the one thing keeping you from sinking completely being Clark’s weight against yours- back where you longed for eachother to be.
All graphics unless stated are from @saradika-graphics 💜
All fics on this list are recommendations of what to read next. None of these are written by me. These are just simply some of my favorite fics. All credit goes to the amazingly talented writers who have created these masterpieces.
Summary: One party. One unexpected connection. One morning where you leave before he wakes up, convinced you're saving yourself the heartbreak.
Except dean was hoping you'd stay.
note: super angsty dean short fic <B. I love a man who has to suffer lol, finished fic releasing one part each night!
Link to Other Parts || masterlist
PART l
You had been at the party for exactly forty-three minutes when you decided you had officially stayed long enough to leave without seeming rude.
Not that anyone would notice.
The thought came quietly, without bitterness. You had become good at slipping in and out of places without drawing attention. Lecture halls, dining rooms, dorm gatherings. You occupied space carefully, always conscious of where you stood and whether you were blocking someone’s way.
The hockey house was packed.
Music shook the walls, loud enough to pulse beneath your shoes, and every room seemed to hold twice as many people as it reasonably should. Someone had opened the windows despite the cold, but the air still smelled like beer, perfume, and too many bodies pressed close together.
Your roommate had promised she would stay with you.
She had said it three times while doing her makeup.
“We’ll go together, stay for an hour, and leave together.”
Twenty minutes after arriving, she had disappeared upstairs with a boy whose name you did not know.
You had received a text shortly afterward.
Don’t wait up! Love you!!!
You doubted she did.
Not in a cruel way. She simply did not know you well enough to love you. You had been assigned to live together at the beginning of the semester, and although she was friendly, there was a difference between being friendly and being friends.
You had learned that difference slowly.
You stood near the edge of the kitchen, holding a plastic cup filled with something fruity and overly sweet. You had taken two cautious sips before deciding you did not like it, but keeping it in your hand gave you something to do.
Around you, people shouted over the music.
A group of girls near the refrigerator laughed loudly at something one of them said. Two boys were arguing about a game you had not watched. Someone stumbled into you, sloshing beer over the back of your hand, and barely paused long enough to mutter an apology.
You wiped your fingers against the side of your jeans.
Forty-four minutes.
You could leave now.
You had already opened your phone to request a ride when someone spoke beside you.
“You look like you’re planning a prison break.”
You glanced up.
And then farther up.
Dean Di Laurentis stood beside you with one shoulder resting against the kitchen counter, a lazy smile curving across his face.
You knew who he was.
Everyone at Briar knew who Dean was.
Even if you had somehow missed the hockey games, the campus newspaper articles, and the stories repeated in whispered tones at parties, it would have been difficult not to notice him.
He was tall, blond, and unfairly handsome in the polished sort of way that made him look as though he had stepped out of an advertisement. His pale sweater fit him perfectly, pushed up at the forearms, and there was a confidence in the way he carried himself that suggested he had never once entered a room and wondered whether he belonged there.
You immediately became aware of everything you were doing.
The way your hair had started to frizz near your temples.
The awkward bend of your elbow.
The fact that you had been staring at your phone like it contained emergency evacuation instructions.
“I wasn’t planning a prison break,” you said.
Dean glanced at your phone.
“You were looking at ride prices with the concentration of someone defusing a bomb.”
You locked the screen.
“I was thinking about leaving.”
“Already?”
“I’ve been here almost an hour.”
He looked around the crowded kitchen as if taking inventory.
“Honestly, that might be enough.”
You stared at him.
That was not the response you had expected.
Dean lifted his own cup toward the room.
“Someone broke a lamp twenty minutes ago, Garrett is threatening to ban half the freshman class from the house, and I’m pretty sure there’s a guy crying in the laundry room.”
“Why is he crying?”
“No idea. I didn’t ask. He looked like he needed privacy.”
A surprised laugh escaped you.
Dean’s smile widened.
It was not the practised grin you had seen him give girls across campus. It looked warmer up close. Less calculated.
“There it is,” he said.
You frowned. “What?”
“I was starting to think you couldn’t smile.”
Your face heated.
“I smile.”
“I believe you now.”
You looked down at your cup, suddenly wishing you had left two minutes earlier.
He must have noticed the shift because his expression softened.
“That came out wrong,” he said. “I only meant you looked miserable.”
“That isn’t much better.”
“You’re right.” He placed a hand over his chest. “I’m doing terribly.”
You laughed again, quieter this time.
Dean leaned closer, though not enough to crowd you.
“Can I start over?”
“You can try.”
He straightened and extended his hand with exaggerated formality.
“Hi. I’m Dean.”
You looked at his hand.
“I know.”
“That sounded ominous.”
“Everyone knows who you are.”
“Good things, I assume.”
You raised your eyebrows.
He sighed.
“Devastating.”
You hesitated before slipping your hand into his.
You told him your name.
His fingers closed around yours briefly, warm and gentle.
“It’s nice to meet you,” he said.
Something about the way he said it made the words feel sincere.
You pulled your hand away before you could think too much about it.
Dean gestured toward your cup.
“What are you drinking?”
“I don’t know.”
“That’s concerning.”
“My roommate handed it to me.”
“Where’s your roommate?”
“Upstairs.”
He followed your gaze toward the ceiling, understanding arriving quickly.
“And she left you down here alone?”
“She didn’t force me to stay.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
You shifted your weight.
“She wanted to have fun.”
“And you don’t?”
“I do.”
Dean looked around again.
“Just not like this?”
You nodded.
He studied you for a second, not in a way that made you feel inspected, but as if he were genuinely considering what you had said.
“What do you do for fun?”
The question caught you off guard.
“What?”
“You said you like having fun. What does that look like?”
You almost asked whether he was making fun of you, but his face held only curiosity.
“I read.”
“Scandalous.”
“I go to the movies.”
“Alone?”
“Usually.”
He frowned slightly, and you immediately regretted saying it.
Not because there was anything wrong with going to the movies alone. You told yourself that often enough. But people tended to react in one of two ways: pity or disbelief.
Dean surprised you again.
“What was the last thing you saw?”
You told him.
He had seen it too.
Within a few minutes, the party receded around you.
He had strong opinions about the ending. You disagreed with nearly all of them. He accused you of defending a character who had made objectively terrible choices, and you argued that he was ignoring the entire point of the story.
“You’re wrong,” he said.
“I’m not.”
“You are, but it’s cute that you’re committed.”
You narrowed your eyes. “Do you always become condescending when someone disagrees with you?”
“Only when I’m right.”
“You must be condescending a lot, then.”
He grinned.
“There she is again.”
You tried not to smile.
You failed.
Dean took your untouched drink and exchanged it for a sealed bottle of water from the refrigerator. He did not make a comment about it or ask whether you had had too much. He simply handed you the bottle and continued talking.
You noticed things about him gradually.
He listened.
Actually listened.
When you mentioned transferring to Briar, he asked why. When you said your previous school had not been a good fit, he did not push for details. When you told him your major, he asked what you wanted to do with it rather than making the same tired joke everyone else made.
You learned that he was studying history.
You had not expected that.
“You sound surprised,” he said.
“I am.”
“You thought I was majoring in hockey?”
“I thought you were majoring in parties.”
“That’s my minor.”
You rolled your eyes.
He laughed.
People interrupted him constantly.
A girl touched his arm and asked him to dance. One of his teammates shouted something from the living room. A boy you vaguely recognized wanted to know where the extra cups were.
Dean responded to each of them, but he always turned back to you.
As if the conversation had not ended.
As if you had not become invisible the moment someone more interesting appeared.
It was such a small thing.
It should not have mattered as much as it did.
After nearly an hour, the kitchen became too crowded to breathe comfortably.
Dean noticed before you said anything.
“Want to go somewhere quieter?”
The question sent a small pulse of alarm through you.
He seemed to read it immediately.
“The porch,” he clarified. “Not a bedroom.”
Mortification flooded your face.
“I didn’t think—”
“You did.”
“I didn’t.”
“You absolutely did.”
You looked away.
Dean smiled, but there was no cruelty in it.
“We can stay here.”
The kitchen erupted into shouting as someone attempted to climb onto the counter.
You winced.
“The porch is fine.”
He led you through the crowd without touching you until someone stumbled into your path. Then his hand settled lightly at the small of your back.
It was barely there.
Still, you felt it through the fabric of your sweater.
Outside, the air was sharp and cold.
You inhaled deeply.
The porch wrapped around the side of the house, dimly lit and mostly empty. Music still filtered through the walls, but it was muted now. The night felt calmer beyond the glow of the windows.
Dean dropped onto the top step and looked up at you.
“You can sit. I don’t bite.”
“I’ve heard otherwise.”
He stared at you for one stunned second before laughing.
The sound was bright and genuine.
You smiled despite yourself and sat beside him, leaving a careful amount of space between you.
For a moment, neither of you spoke.
You watched your breath fog in front of you.
Dean leaned back on his hands.
“So why did you really come tonight?”
“My roommate asked me.”
“That’s the only reason?”
You considered lying.
Instead, you shrugged.
“I thought maybe I should try harder.”
“At parties?”
“At meeting people.”
His expression changed.
Only slightly, but enough for you to notice.
“You don’t know many people here?”
“I know people.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
You picked at the corner of the water bottle label.
“I transferred at the beginning of the semester. Everyone already had their groups. It’s hard to join when people have known each other for years.”
Dean was quiet.
You worried you had made the conversation uncomfortable.
You usually did that eventually. People liked quiet girls until the quietness revealed itself to be something heavier. Loneliness made others uneasy when spoken aloud.
You rushed to soften it.
“It’s fine. I like being alone.”
“Sometimes,” he said.
You glanced at him.
Dean’s gaze rested on the dark yard ahead of you.
“Sometimes you like being alone,” he continued. “Other times, you’re alone because no one thought to invite you.”
Your throat tightened unexpectedly.
You looked down.
“That sounded depressing,” he said. “I’m sorry.”
“No. It’s just…”
“Accurate?”
You nodded.
Neither of you spoke for a while.
Then Dean bumped his shoulder against yours.
“Tonight wasn’t a complete failure.”
“No?”
“You met me.”
You let out a small laugh.
“And you’re very humble.”
“It’s one of my best qualities.”
“I don’t think you know what humble means.”
“I’m a history major, not an English major.”
“That excuse doesn’t work.”
“It was worth trying.”
You smiled at your shoes.
His shoulder remained against yours.
You did not move away.
The conversation shifted again. Somehow, you ended up telling him about getting lost during orientation and walking into the wrong lecture hall. He told you about accidentally calling one of his professors “Dad” during freshman year.
“You did not.”
“I did.”
“In front of everyone?”
“Full lecture hall.”
“What did he say?”
“He said, ‘Your mother and I are disappointed in you.’”
You laughed so hard you had to cover your mouth.
Dean watched you.
The laughter faded when you realized he was staring.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re staring.”
“I know.”
The air between you changed.
Not suddenly.
It had been changing all night, growing warmer beneath the jokes and easy conversation, but now there was nowhere else to look.
Dean’s eyes lowered briefly to your mouth.
Your pulse jumped.
You knew his reputation.
You had heard the stories.
Dean Di Laurentis did not flirt without purpose. He did not sit on cold porch steps discussing movies and embarrassing freshman memories because he wanted friendship.
You should have stood.
You should have thanked him for the conversation and ordered your ride.
Instead, you remained still.
Dean lifted one hand slowly, giving you plenty of time to stop him. His fingers brushed a loose strand of hair away from your cheek.
“You’re nervous,” he said.
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“You keep telling me how I feel.”
“You keep lying.”
You swallowed.
His thumb lingered near your jaw.
“Tell me to stop.”
You should have.
Instead, you whispered, “I don’t want you to.”
Dean’s expression softened.
Then he kissed you.
You had expected confidence.
You had expected him to kiss like someone who knew exactly what he was doing and knew that you knew it too.
You had not expected gentleness.
His mouth moved slowly against yours, warm and careful. He did not pull you closer until you leaned toward him first. Then his hand slid to the back of your neck while the other settled at your waist.
The kiss deepened.
Your fingers curled into the front of his sweater.
Dean smiled against your mouth.
“What?” you murmured.
“Nothing.”
“You’re smiling.”
“I know.”
“That’s distracting.”
“Sorry.”
He kissed you again, and he did not sound sorry at all.
The porch door swung open.
Cold light spilled across the steps.
“Dean, have you seen—”
The boy stopped.
You jumped away so quickly you nearly dropped the water bottle.
Dean turned, visibly annoyed.
“Logan.”
Logan’s gaze moved between the two of you.
A slow grin appeared.
“I didn’t see anything.”
“You’re currently looking directly at us.”
“I’m going blind as we speak.”
“Go away.”
Logan lifted both hands.
“Garrett wants to know where the spare keg is.”
“In the garage.”
“Thanks.”
He disappeared inside, still grinning.
You covered your face with both hands.
Dean laughed.
“This isn’t funny.”
“It’s a little funny.”
“Your friend is going to tell everyone.”
“Logan has walked in on much worse.”
“That does not make me feel better.”
Dean gently pulled your hands away from your face.
“Hey.”
You looked at him reluctantly.
“No one’s going to bother you.”
You believed he meant it.
That frightened you more than if he had been careless.
Because this was supposed to be simple.
He was Dean.
You were a girl he had met at a party.
You knew how this worked.
You knew better than to confuse attention with affection.
Still, when he asked whether you wanted to leave the porch, you did not say no.
His room was quieter than the rest of the house.
You stood just inside the doorway while Dean closed it behind you, leaving the noise on the other side.
For the first time all night, uncertainty crossed his face.
It disappeared quickly, but you saw it.
“We don’t have to do anything,” he said.
“I know.”
“I mean it.”
“I know.”
He stepped closer.
“Do you?”
You nodded.
Dean studied you for a moment.
Then he reached for your hand.
His fingers threaded through yours.
“Tell me what you want.”
No one had ever asked you like that before.
Not as a challenge.
Not impatiently.
As if the answer mattered.
You looked at him, at the boy everyone claimed never cared enough to ask.
“You,” you whispered.
His eyes darkened.
He kissed you again.
The rest of the night became a collection of soft, blurred moments.
Quiet laughter when your knee bumped awkwardly against his.
His forehead resting against yours.
The way he asked if you were all right and waited for an answer.
The unexpected tenderness of his hands.
The room growing still around you.
And eventually, sleep.
You woke before sunrise.
For a few seconds, you did not know where you were.
The room was dark except for the faint gray light filtering through the curtains. A heavy comforter covered you, warmer than the thin blanket in your dorm. Something solid rested against your waist.
Then you remembered.
Dean slept beside you.
He was sprawled on his stomach, one arm curved loosely across the space where your body had been. His blond hair had fallen over his forehead, and without the easy smile or bright confidence, he looked younger.
Softer.
You watched him breathe.
A dangerous warmth opened in your chest.
Last night returned in pieces.
The porch.
His laugh.
The way he had listened to you.
The way he had looked at you as though you were someone worth noticing.
You turned toward him.
For one foolish moment, you imagined staying.
You imagined him waking and smiling when he saw you. Maybe you would talk for a while. Maybe he would remember the things you had told him. Maybe he would ask to see you again.
Then reality settled over you.
You knew who he was.
More importantly, you knew who you were.
Dean Di Laurentis woke beside beautiful, confident girls who understood the rules. Girls who could leave smiling because they had never expected anything more.
You were already making last night mean too much.
You could feel it happening.
The way your heart had tightened when he asked what you did for fun. The way you had stored every small kindness as though it were rare.
For him, it had probably been easy.
Dean was charming because charm came naturally to him. He made people feel special because he knew how.
That did not mean you were special.
The thought hurt, though it should not have.
You had agreed to one night.
He had never promised more.
The kindest thing you could do for both of you was leave before he had to make that clear.
Carefully, you lifted his arm and slid out of bed.
Dean shifted.
You froze.
He murmured something unintelligible and buried his face deeper into the pillow.
Your chest ached.
You found your clothes quietly.
His sweater lay across the desk chair, and for a moment, you remembered him draping it around your shoulders when you had complained about the cold.
You picked it up.
The fabric still smelled faintly like him.
You almost put it on.
The thought was so embarrassing that you folded it instead, smoothing the sleeves before placing it neatly on the chair.
Your phone had several messages.
Two from your roommate.
One asking whether you were safe.
Another, sent an hour later, containing nothing but several question marks and a winking face.
You ignored them.
Before leaving, you looked back at Dean.
You considered writing a note.
Thank you for last night.
Too formal.
I had a nice time.
Too hopeful.
Maybe I’ll see you around.
Too pathetic.
You opened the door without writing anything.
The hallway was empty.
Downstairs, the house looked different in the early morning. Cups covered every surface. Someone was asleep on the couch with one shoe missing. The air smelled stale and sour.
You stepped outside.
The cold hit your face immediately.
By the time your ride arrived, the sky had begun to lighten.
You did not look back.
Dean woke reaching for you.
His hand moved across the sheets, searching for warmth.
He found only an empty space.
His eyes opened.
For a moment, he thought you might be in the bathroom.
He rolled onto his back, blinking at the ceiling while the memories of the night before returned.
You laughing on the porch.
Your fingers curled into his sweater.
The sleepy way you had said his name.
A smile formed before he could stop it.
He had not planned anything beyond the party.
He rarely did.
But he wanted breakfast.
He wanted to know whether you drank coffee.
He wanted to finish the argument about the movie because you were still wrong and he had thought of three more reasons to prove it.
The bathroom door stood open.
Empty.
Dean sat up.
Your clothes were gone.
His sweater had been folded carefully on the chair.
He stared at it.
Something unpleasant shifted in his chest.
“Hello?”
The room remained silent.
He checked his phone.
Nothing.
He had given you his number at some point, hadn’t he?
No.
He frowned.
He had been too busy talking. Too busy kissing you. Too certain there would be time in the morning.
Dean got out of bed and pulled on sweatpants.
He checked the hallway.
Then the kitchen.
Then, absurdly, the porch.
You were gone.
No note.
No number.
Nothing.
He stood in the middle of the kitchen, staring at the door.
This was new.
Girls did not usually leave before he woke up.
Some did, of course. He was not arrogant enough to think it had never happened. But usually there was a text. A number written on a receipt. A teasing message sent later.
You had disappeared as if the night had never happened.
Logan wandered into the kitchen wearing a T-shirt and boxers.
He stopped when he saw Dean.
“You look weird.”
Dean ignored him.
Logan opened the refrigerator.
“Where’s your friend?”
“Gone.”
Logan glanced over his shoulder.
“Already?”
Dean’s jaw tightened.
“Apparently.”
“You get her number?”
“No.”
Logan slowly closed the refrigerator.
“You didn’t get her number?”
“I was going to.”
“When?”
“This morning.”
Logan looked around the empty kitchen.
“Solid plan.”
“Shut up.”
Dean poured himself coffee from the pot someone had left on overnight, took one sip, and immediately poured it into the sink.
Logan leaned against the counter.
“What was her name?”
Dean told him.
“Do you know her last name?”
“No.”
“Major?”
Dean answered.
“Dorm?”
Dean hesitated.
“No.”
Logan stared.
“Wow.”
“Why do you keep saying it like that?”
“Because you usually know everything about a girl within five minutes.”
“That’s not true.”
“It is absolutely true.”
Dean dragged a hand through his hair.
He could still hear your voice.
You had told him you transferred. You had told him what you studied. You had mentioned a lecture building and a professor you liked, but he could not remember the professor’s name.
He should have asked more.
He thought he had.
He thought there would be more time.
Logan’s amusement faded.
“Do you want to see her again?”
Dean looked toward the front door.
“Yes.”
The answer came too quickly.
Logan noticed.
His eyebrows rose.
Dean pointed at him.
“Don’t.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were going to.”
“I was going to ask whether you had finally developed human emotions.”
“Go put on pants.”
Logan grinned.
“This is incredible.”
“There is nothing incredible happening.”
“You like her.”
“I met her last night.”
“And?”
“And nothing.”
“You checked the porch.”
Dean went still.
Logan’s grin widened.
“I saw you through the window.”
“I thought she might be outside.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
“Because you were hoping she hadn’t actually left.”
Dean hated him.
He hated that Logan was right more.
Footsteps sounded on the stairs.
Garrett entered the kitchen, looking exhausted.
“Why are you two arguing before nine in the morning?”
“Dean has a crush,” Logan said.
“I do not.”
Garrett paused.
He looked at Dean.
Then at Logan.
“On who?”
“No one.”
“The girl from last night,” Logan supplied.
Garrett opened a cabinet.
“The quiet one?”
Dean frowned. “You saw her?”
“She was sitting with you on the porch.”
“Do you know her?”
“No.”
Dean’s shoulders fell before he could hide it.
Garrett noticed.
He turned slowly.
“Wait.”
Dean reached for a clean mug.
“Don’t.”
“You actually want to find her?”
“I said don’t.”
Garrett smiled.
It was worse than Logan’s grin because Garrett looked genuinely delighted.
“Dean Di Laurentis has been ghosted.”
“I have not been ghosted.”
“She left without giving you her number.”
“We forgot.”
“You forgot?”
“We were talking.”
Both boys stared at him.
Dean’s irritation sharpened.
“What?”
Logan looked at Garrett.
“He didn’t get her number because they were talking.”
Garrett nodded solemnly.
“This is serious.”
“You’re both idiots.”
Dean abandoned the mug and headed for the stairs.
Behind him, Garrett called, “What does she look like?”
Dean stopped.
He turned despite himself.
Garrett’s expression was still amused, but there was something helpful beneath it.
“If we see her around campus,” he said, “we can tell you.”
Dean described you.
He began with your hair.
Then your eyes.
The sweater you had worn.
The way you tucked your hands into the sleeves when you were nervous.
Logan’s amusement slowly disappeared.
Garrett stared at him.
Dean realized he had said too much.
He cleared his throat.
“She’s short,” he finished. “Quiet.”
Garrett’s mouth twitched.
“Very helpful.”
Dean flipped him off and went upstairs.
His room felt wrong when he returned.
Too quiet.
He picked up the sweater from the chair and unfolded it.
One strand of your hair clung to the fabric.
He brushed it away.
Then he sat on the edge of the bed and reached for his phone.
He searched your first name.
Too many results.
He added Briar.
More results appeared, but none were you.
He tried your major.
Nothing.
Dean dropped the phone beside him.
This was ridiculous.
He barely knew you.
One night did not mean anything.
He had spent countless nights with girls he never saw again. That was the arrangement. No expectations. No disappointment. Everyone left happy.
You had left.
So why did it feel different?
He looked at the empty side of the bed.
Because he had not wanted you to.
The realization sat heavily in his chest.
Dean leaned forward, elbows on his knees.
For the first time in longer than he cared to admit, he had gone to sleep beside someone already looking forward to the morning.
And you had vanished before it arrived.
You avoided the hockey house after that.
It was not difficult.
You had never gone there before, and you had no reason to return. Your roommate asked questions for nearly three days, but you gave vague answers until she lost interest.
You had met someone.
You had left with him.
It was fine.
You were fine.
You repeated that last part often.
In the mornings, while getting dressed for class.
At night, when the dorm became too quiet.
Whenever you saw blond hair across the quad and your heart reacted before your mind could correct it.
You did not regret the night.
That was the problem.
You remembered too much of it too fondly.
You remembered how Dean had made space for you in every conversation. How he had noticed when the kitchen became overwhelming. How carefully he had touched you.
You had expected to feel embarrassed afterward.
Instead, you felt lonely.
Lonelier than before because now you had something to compare it to.
For one night, someone had seen you.
Then you had left before he could look closely enough to change his mind.
It was better that way.
At least, that was what you told yourself.
Dean would move on quickly.
He might not even remember your name.
And eventually, you would stop glancing toward every crowded room, searching for him despite praying he would not be there.
You would return to your quiet routines.
Classes.
The library.
Dinner alone with a book propped open beside your plate.
You would become invisible again.
It had always been safer that way.
What you did not know was that across campus, Dean Di Laurentis had begun looking for you everywhere.
And each day he failed to find you, he became a little less convinced that one night had been enough.
you leave before sunrise because you're convinced dean di laurentis doesn't do second chances, and it's easier to disappear before he has the chance to ask you to.
the only problem? dean wakes up hoping you're still there.
when your paths cross again, dean is determined to prove that you're more than another name or another night, but believing him is harder than either of you expected. especially when you've spent your whole life feeling like the girl people eventually leave behind.
a four part slow burn full of yearning, quiet moments, earned trust, and the kind of love that grows through patience instead of grand gestures. featuring hannah and the briar gang becoming the family you never knew you needed, dean falling first (and hard), and two people learning that love isn't about never being afraid it's about choosing each other anyway.
for my insecure girlies who have been told their insecurities are too much for some people.
Warnings: angst, hurt/comfort, insecurity & low self esteem, loneliness, emotional misunderstandings, dean's past playboy reputation, references to casual hookups, fear of abandonment, anxiety, lots of yearning, found family, emotional conversations, fluff, kisses, and a happy ending.
That’s been playing in your head since you and Dean Di laurentis started hooking up around campus. So what if he was your ex.
"If you keep staring at that ceiling fan, you're going to convince yourself it's actually spinning clockwise," Dean said, his voice sounding thick and relaxed.
The dorm room was small, smelling of laundry detergent and the faint, lingering scent of the expensive cologne Dean always wore, which seemed to cling to the sheets long after he arrived. It was a cramped space, barely large enough to fit a twin XL bed and a desk piled high with textbooks, but for the last hour, it had felt like the only place in the world that mattered. The afternoon sun filtered through the blinds in thin, golden strips, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air above them.
You shifted slightly, the cotton sheets feeling rough against your skin as you rolled onto your side. He was propped up on one elbow, watching you with that particular look,the one that made it feel like he was reading a book you hadn't finished writing yet. His blonde hair was a mess, falling over his forehead in a way that usually annoyed him, but right now he didn't seem to care. He looked entirely too comfortable for a man who was technically an ex-boyfriend.
"It is spinning clockwise," you murmured, finally looking at him. "The motor is just slightly off-center."
Dean let out a soft, huffing laugh, the kind that vibrated in his chest and made the mattress shift beneath you. He didn’t move to get up, and neither did you. Instead, he reached out, his fingers grazing the line of your jaw with a tenderness that felt dangerous given the circumstances. It was too easy to forget that you had spent three weeks in a state of icy silence, pretending that the breakup had been a clean break, only to end up here for the fourth time this week. Whether it was the empty lecture halls of the arts wing or the secluded corners of the library stacks, you had found every available hiding spot on campus to keep this going
The silence stretched, shifting from comfortable to heavy as the reality of the clock ticking toward your next class began to set in. You felt the familiar pull of guilt, a sudden coldness in your stomach that had nothing to do with the draft from the window. You weren’t just breaking the rules of a breakup; you were lying to your friends, maintaining a facade of "healing" while sneaking Dean into your dorm like a secret you were terrified of someone discovering. You wondered if you were just delaying the inevitable, prolonging the agony of a relationship that had already been declared dead.
"You're doing it again," Dean whispered, his eyes scanning your face. He didn't have to ask what *it* was; he knew the exact moment your mind started spiraling.
"Doing what?" you asked, though your voice lacked conviction.
"Thinking," Dean answered simply, his thumb tracing the curve of your lower lip. "You get this tiny little crease right between your eyebrows. It’s the 'I’m overthinking everything’ look."
You sighed, the sound heavy and jagged, and tried to pull away, but the magnetic pull of him was too strong. "It’s just... we said we were done, Dean. We had the conversation. We agreed that we needed space to figure out who we were without each other." You glanced toward the door, half-expecting your roommate to walk in and catch you in the middle of a relapse. "This isn't space. This is just... a loophole."
He shifted, sliding closer until his chest was pressing against your arm, the warmth of his skin radiating through the small gap between you. He didn't look smug or triumphant; instead, he looked grounded, his gaze steady and unwavering. He knew the weight of the guilt you were carrying, the feeling that by continuing this, you were cheating yourself out of the closure you had fought so hard to achieve.
"Who says we have to figure it out right now?" he asked softly, his voice dropping an octave. "Maybe the 'figuring it out' part happens while we're still doing this. Why does it have to be all or nothing? You’re treating this like a crime, but the only person you're hurting is yourself by stressing over it."
"Because it's a lie," you whispered, finally shifting away to sit up. The movement caused the sheet to slip, and you felt a sudden, sharp vulnerability in the cool air. "Every time I tell my friends I'm doing better, or when I pretend I don't look for you on campus or at parties, I'm just lying. It feels like we're playing a game where the only prize is a more complicated crash."
Dean didn't push back immediately. He stayed sprawled across the mattress, his chest rising and falling in a slow, rhythmic cadence. He looked at you—really looked at you—and you could see the conflict mirroring your own. He wasn't the type to admit he was struggling, but the way his hand lingered on the mattress, fingers curling slightly, betrayed him. He wasn't just here for the physical release. He was here because the silence of the last few weeks had been louder than any argument you'd ever had.
"Then stop telling them you're doing better," he suggested, his voice devoid of any edge. He sat up slowly, mirroring your posture, until your knees were brushing against each other. "Stop pretending the world is perfect just because you're following some guidebook on how to handle a breakup. You’re not a failure because you still want me, and you’re not a liar because you can’t imagine a Tuesday without me in it."
He reached out, not for your waist or your lips this time, but simply to take your hand. He laced his fingers through yours, his grip firm and grounding. It was a small gesture, but it shifted the energy in the room, stripping away the frantic heat of the last hour and replacing it with something quieter and more honest. For a moment, the architecture textbooks and the flickering ceiling fan faded into the background, leaving only the sound of your shared breathing.
"I can't just tell them," you murmured, your gaze dropping to where your fingers were entwined. "They've already staged a party for my mental health. Allie has a literal calendar tracking my 'healing milestones. If I tell her I've been sneaking you into my room at two in the afternoon, she'll actually stage a second party ."
Dean’s lips quirked into a half-smile, the kind that usually signaled he was about to say something dangerously persuasive. "Let her. Allie’s a great friend, but she’s not the one who knows how you like your coffee or exactly how much you hate the sound of the radiator in the winter." He squeezed your hand, his thumb rubbing a slow, rhythmic circle against your skin. "The guilt is just noise, and you're listening to it too loud. Just for today, can you actually just be here? Not the version of you that’s 'healing,' just you."
The tension in your shoulders didn't vanish, but it softened, the sharp edges of your anxiety rounding off under his steady gaze. You leaned your forehead against his shoulder, closing your eyes and letting the silence of the room wrap around you. It was a fragile peace, built on a foundation of secrets and stolen hours, but in the immediate wake of him, the logic of the breakup felt like a distant, unimportant conversation. You knew that once you stepped out of this room and back into the currents of campus life, the weight of the lie would return, but Dean had a way of making the present moment feel like the only truth that mattered.
He shifted, pulling you back down against the pillows with a gentle tug, his arm sliding around your waist to pull you flush against him. For a few minutes, neither of you spoke, just listening to the muffled sounds of students chatting in the hallway and the distant chime of the campus clock tower marking the hour. It was a strange existence. Living two parallel lives, one where you were strangers who occasionally nodded to each other in the quad, and another where you knew the exact rhythm of each other's breathing.
"Wait," you whispered, your voice barely audible against the fabric of his shirt. "If we keep doing this, we're never actually going to find that space. We're just... orbiting."
Dean let out a low hum, the sound vibrating through his chest and into your own. He didn't pull away; instead, he tightened his hold, anchoring you to the bed as if the mere act of questioning the situation might make you float away. "Then let us orbit. Why is the destination more important than the ride?" He tilted his head, kissing the crown of your hair with a lingering softness. "You're so focused on where this is supposed to end that you're missing the fact that we're still here. We're still the only two people in this entire university who actually get each other."
The honesty of it stung. You remembered the fight that had led to the breakup—the clash of ambitions, the suffocating pressure of expectations, the way you both tried to out-stubborn each other until there was nothing left but a cold, empty space. It had felt like the right move at the time, a necessary amputation to save the rest of the relationship. But lying here, feeling the heat of him, the 'right move' felt like a mathematical equation that didn't account for the human element.
"I just don't want to wake up in six months and realize I've just been delaying the inevitable," you admitted, finally pulling back just enough to look into his eyes. The gold light from the blinds had shifted, casting a stripe across his cheek, highlighting the intensity in his gaze.
"Then we'll be in the same place we are now, just with more memories of this," Dean replied, his voice steady. He didn't offer a promise of forever or a guaranteed happy ending; Dean wasn't a man for empty platitudes. Instead, he shifted, his hand moving from your waist to cup the back of your neck, pulling you just close enough that your breaths mingled. "But look at us. We're supposed to be 'healing,' yet here we are, unable to keep our hands off each other for more than a week. Maybe the inevitable isn't a crash, but a collision that was always meant to happen."
You let out a shaky breath, the tension finally leaking out of your frame. For a moment, the room felt smaller, the air thicker, as the weight of his sincerity pressed against you. You knew he was playing into your weaknesses, using that effortless magnetism to draw you back into his orbit, but it wasn't a manipulation—not really. It was just the way he worked, cutting through the noise of your anxiety with a kind of blunt honesty that acted as an anchor.
"You're infuriating," you whispered, though you were leaning into him, your hand finding the warm skin of his chest.
"I'm the most infuriating person you've ever met," he agreed, a small, triumphant smirk playing on his lips. "But I'm also the only one who knows you're currently wearing mismatched socks under those sheets."
"I hate that you noticed that," you murmured, though you were smiling now, the guilt retreating into a quiet hum in the back of your mind. You finally shifted, the sudden urgency of your 3:00 PM seminar crashing back into your consciousness. With a groan, you rolled out of the warmth of the sheets and stood up, feeling the sudden chill of the room hit your skin.
Dean didn't move immediately. He stayed sprawled out, watching you with a lazy, satisfied expression as you scrambled to find your clothes. He watched the way you hovered over your wardrobe, frantically searching for the jeans that had somehow migrated to the bottom of the pile. It was a domestic scene, the kind of thing people did when they were actually together. The contrast between this intimacy and the cold distance you maintained in the hallways of the architecture building was jarring.
"You know," Dean said, his voice sounding like velvet and gravel, "the library stacks are getting a bit risky. The librarian in the west wing has started doing more frequent patrols."
You paused, one leg halfway into your denim, and looked back at him. "You’re the one who suggested the library. You said it was 'the perfect blend of risk and reward.'"
"Risk is the only thing that keeps it interesting," Dean replied, finally sitting up and letting the sheets pool around his hips. He watched you with a lazy, predatory sort of affection, his eyes tracking the frantic way you were trying to organize your life back into a coherent shape.
You let out a small, genuine laugh, the sound breaking the last remnants of the heavy atmosphere. You finally managed to button your jeans, though your fingers were still slightly shaking. As you turned to grab your bag, you caught a glimpse of yourself in the full-length mirror leaning against the wall. Your hair was a chaotic nest, your cheeks were flushed a deep rose, and you looked entirely too seen. It was the look of someone who had just spent the last two hours forgetting every single reason why they shouldn't be in love with the man currently admiring them from the bed.
"You're going to be late," Dean noted, though he made no move to help you leave. Instead, he reached over to the nightstand, picking up your phone and tossing it lightly toward you. "Go. Before Allie decides to check in and find out why your 'healing' involves a very specific scent of sandalwood and expensive leather lingering in the air."
You caught the phone, glancing at the time. You were already five minutes behind. "We can't keep doing this, Dean. Seriously."
"Seriously," you repeated, though the conviction in your voice was crumbling under the weight of the way he was looking at you.
Dean didn't answer with words. Instead, he slid out of bed with a fluid, athletic grace, his naked skin glowing in the afternoon light. He didn't stop until he was standing directly in your space, his chest nearly brushing your shoulder. He didn't touch you—not yet—but the heat radiating off him felt like a physical pressure. He leaned in, his lips ghosting over the sensitive shell of your ear, his voice dropping to a low, humming vibration.
"You've said that four times now," he whispered. "And yet, every time I text you a location and a time, you're already there before I even park the car."
You shivered, the cool air of the dorm room forgotten as your heart hammered against your ribs. He was right, and that was the most frustrating part. The logic of the breakup was a sturdy wall, but Dean was the only person who knew exactly where the cracks were. He reached out, his fingers grazing the waistband of your jeans, a slow, deliberate movement that made your breath hitch. He wasn't trying to pull you back into the bed; he was reminding you that no matter how far you ran toward 'healing,' he was the gravity you couldn't escape.
"Go," he murmured, stepping back just enough to give you room to breathe, though the ghost of his touch lingered on your skin. "Before you find a reason to stay and we both end up failing our midterms."
You didn't need a second invitation. You grabbed your bag and slipped out the door, the click of the lock sounding like a gavel bringing a verdict. The hallway was empty, the sterile white lights humming overhead, but as you walked toward the stairs, you felt the sudden, jarring shift in your identity. In this room, you were the girl who knew the exact way Dean liked his coffee and the way he breathed when he was falling asleep. In the hallway, you were the girl who had successfully moved on, the one whose friends praised her for her resilience and her "healthy boundaries."
The walk to the seminar hall was a blur of autumn leaves and students rushing toward their destinations. You felt like a fraud, a secret agent in your own life. Every time you caught a glimpse of a light-haired guy in the distance, your heart leaped, only to settle into a dull ache when the face didn't match. You tried to focus on the lecture on sustainable urban planning, but your mind kept looping back to the way Dean had looked in the golden light of your room, the softness in his eyes that he only ever showed you.
By the time class ended, the sky had shifted to a bruised purple, and the first real chill of the winter was beginning to seep into the campus bricks. You were walking toward the dining hall when your phone buzzed in your pocket. You didn't even have to look at the screen to know who it was.
*Hockey Practice just ended, I’ll be at yours in 15*
MDNIwarnings: explicit sexual content, oral sex (m receiving), guided instruction/teaching, praise kink, dirty talk, caring/concerned boyfriend, light possessiveness, established relationship, mutual consent… ~1050
Oh Garrett Hobart Graham, that man was obsessed with pleasing you. Every time you were together, he made it his mission to pull at least, the minimum of two orgasms from you with his mouth alone. Whether in private..sometimes most times in public.
And tonight was not different at all. After just worshipping you, leaving you boneless and shaking on his bed in the hockey house, he quickly crawled up to kiss you, causing you to stop him with a hand on his chest stopping him from slipping into you.
“G,” you whispered, still catching your breath. “I want to do the same for you. I’ve been thinking about it..I want to return the favor, but I don’t really know how. I’ve never done it before.”
His eyebrows shot up, concern flashing across his handsome face immediately. “You don’t have to, sweetheart. Aye, I love going down on you. Making you come is my favorite thing. I don’t want you doing anything you’re not comfortable with.”
You sat up, cupping his jaw, shaking your head. “I want to..teach me?”
Garrett searched your eyes for a long moment, always so careful, then let out a shaky breath and nodded. “Only if you promise to stop if you don’t like it. I mean at any point. Tell me, okay? I need you to feel good too.”
He leaned back against the headboard, pulling you into his lap first for a sweet, reassuring kiss. His hands stroked your back soothingly; his cock was already hard against your thigh, but he ignored it, focusing entirely on you. “Alright,” he murmured, gently as he helped you settle between his spread thighs. “We’ll go slow...you set the pace, baby. I just want you to enjoy this.”
Garrett wrapped one hand around the base of his thick cock, the other gently threading through your hair. Even now, worry lingered in his eyes. “Start with your hand if you want. Or just kiss it. Whatever feels the most natural..no pressure at all baby.”
You leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to the flushed head. Garrett inhaled sharply, his abs flexing, but he stayed perfectly still not wanting to scare you. “Oh fuck that's good, mhm just like that.”
Feeling more confident, you dragged your tongue along the underside, tracing the thick vein there. He groaned quietly, his free hand coming down to cup your cheek. “Eyes up here if you can, baby. I love seeing you like this.” His voice was a bit rough but tender. “Use your tongue more...yeah, just like that. Get little G wet. You’re doing perfect already.”
You took the head into your mouth, sucking lightly. Garrett’s hips twitched once before he caught himself, murmuring apologies. “Sorry shit, you feel incredible. Relax your jaw, sweetheart. That's it, take a little more when you’re ready for it. Breathe through your nose. If it’s too much, pull back. I mean it...”
You did as he said, sliding down further until he bumped the back of your throat. The slight gag made you pull off, eyes watering a bit, but comfortability came back as his normally rough thumb brushed away the spit on your chin, expression full of concern.
“You okay? Too deep?” He looked genuinely worried, even as his cock throbbed in your hand. “We can stop, baby. Or just use your hand and mouth together. Here...let me show you.”
He guided your hand to wrap around the base, demonstrating a slow, twisting stroke while you took the head back into your mouth. The combination drew a deep, broken moan from him.
“Ooh God, baby…you’re an absolute natural..feels sooo fucking good. You truly have no idea how long I’ve thought about this pretty mouth.” His lewd praises were constant but he kept checking in. “Is this okay for you? Your knees..thighs? Want a pillow?”
You hummed around him in response, the vibration making his thighs tense. Garrett cursed softly, fingers tightening gently in your hair without pushing. “Fuck do that again..”
You finally found a rhythm, bobbing slowly while stroking him, saliva making everything more messy. Garrett’s breathing grew heavier, but he never stopped talking you through it. “Look at me, baby. You’re so beautiful like this. Taking my cock so well....if it gets uncomfortable, tap my thigh twice. Promise me.”
You locked eyes with him, hollowing your cheeks on the upstroke like he’d quietly suggested earlier, not answering him trying to squeeze out an orgasm. His head fell back for a second, but he quickly returned his gaze to you, eyes dark with lust.
“Shit, I’m getting close already,” he warned, voice scratchy. “You don’t have to swallow. You can pull off and I’ll finish on your tits or wherever you want.”
But you wanted this. You doubled down, sucking a little harder, hand moving faster. Garrett’s hand in your hair trembled as he fought to stay gentle.
“Baby—ooh fuck, I’m gonna come...You sure?” At your confirming hum, he let go with a low groan, spilling into your mouth. You swallowed what you could, the rest dripping as you pulled back with a dirty smile.
Garrett hauled you up onto him instantly, wrapping you in his strong arms and kissing you deeply, tasting himself on your tongue without hesitation. He wiped your chin with his thumb, then peppered your face with soft kisses while his hands roamed your body soothing you.
“You did so good,” he whispered, with hints of concern. “Was that okay? Did your jaw hurt? Was I too much?” He pulled back to study your face, brows furrowed. Even after coming, his first priority was you.
You smiled, curling into his chest, come still on your chin. “It was good, G. I liked it..I really enjoyed making you feel that way.”
He let out a relieved breath, hugging you tighter. “Thank fuck. I was worried I’d push you too hard.” His hands cleaning your chin and neck off, laughing to himself. “But I'm gonna be honest, your mouth is..heaven. Still, I love eating you out more. Can I do that again? I need to make you come at least once more, just one more time....or a couple more.”
You laughed softly, but he was already moving, sliding down the bed with that focused, worried-sweet expression. “Only if you’re sure you’re okay,” he added, kissing your inner thigh. “Tell me what feels best tonight..because I'll do it all.”
Garrett spent the next while proving exactly how much he whipped he was for your pleasure. Every few minutes he’d check in with a soft “Still good?” until you were spilling onto his tongue over and over again.
Afterward, he tucked you against his chest, stroking your hair and murmuring, “Thank you for trusting me to teach you. Now just remember, we can practice whenever you want…but only when you want.”
a./n: getting back into the hang of writing so it's a little shorter and too fast pace for my liking, but i hope you guys enjoyed it! AND let me know if you guys want the dean vers!
All graphics unless stated are from @saradika-graphics 💜
All fics on this list are recommendations of what to read next. None of these are written by me. These are just simply some of my favorite fics. All credit goes to the amazingly talented writers who have created these masterpieces.
Dean Di Laurentis is known to not settle down; quite the opposite, in fact. Each frat party had him winking at a puck bunny with a grin, making out with another girl, then grinding on yet another girl, all within 5 minutes. There's nothing else to call him but a 'ladies' man'.
So it's no surprise when he dresses up as Top Gun with Beau for Halloween, with his zipper halfway down, still leaving his toned chest on display for all the girls to stare at shamelessly. He practically set up fort in the kitchen, between letting girls take shots off his stomach and down his fair share of shots himself.
You walked in with Allie, a third wheel, after breaking up with your douche of a boyfriend. Sean wasn't a very good Ben Affleck, but after being sent away, you fit in as a good duo next to Allie's JLo outfit. Allie begged you to match with her, so naturally, you had to stick to the VMA theme. In a green top and blue skirt, you decided to go out as Britney for her iconic Slave 4 U performance. You wanted to be as close to the original as possible, so you bought a cheap yellow snake to keep over your shoulders.
"Let's go dance!" Allie shouted over the loudspeakers, not hesitating to drag you towards the living room, which was a makeshift dance floor. The middle of the living room was empty, with nobody actually bothering to dance and embarrass themselves. Allie, being Allie, didn't care about other people, and naturally, you were sucked into that mentality too.
Lady Gaga played over the partygoers' shouts and cheers, and Allie pulled you in, moving your arms back and forth as she shimmied. You laughed and turned your head side to side, letting yourself get into the music. No sane person doesn't dance to Gaga.
Dean was at the counter, zeroing in on you like a moth to a flame. He could see Allie catch her breath, pointing behind her. "I'm gonna go find Sean!" She shouted over the music. "He needs his cup!" Allie turned and pushed through a lifeguard and a schoolgirl to find her boyfriend. You sighed, finding yourself not only a third wheel, but now just alone, which was what you were avoiding from the get-go. Nonetheless, the only thing worse than dancing alone is standing alone like a loser. You looked around before getting into the music.
Dean smacked Tucker beside him, who was wearing a bumblebee costume. "Who's that?" Dean questioned, turning Tucker's and Beau's attention to you across the room. You put your arms up and moved your hips side to side, the sashes you stuffed into your shorts swaying with every movement.
"Whoa," Beau muttered. "I don't know her personally, but I'm pretty sure that's Britney," Beau said sarcastically.
Dean deadpanned at him. "That's really helpful. Thank you."
Tucker looked at his phone, which was conveniently Bluetoothed to the speakers, and scrolled through his playlist. He smacked Dean in the chest before scrolling some more. "I've got an idea." He said, tapping on his screen, cutting off Gaga's song halfway through.
I'm a Slave 4 U started to play through the speakers, and you paused, having no one to be excited with. If Allie was still beside you, she would be squealing and shaking you. "Oh, my god!" You said to a couple dressed as sexy referees. "This is my song!" You couldn't help but squeal before doing a body roll with your arms up.
Dean grinned with a shake of his head and turned to Tucker, giving his head a dramatic kiss. "Who says you're struggling with your assists, huh?" He questioned before making a beeline for you.
"I can still change the song, dick!" Tucker called out, rolling his eyes. But he wouldn't kill the blonde's vibe.
Dean snuck up behind you as your back was to him, still doing slow body rolls. He pressed himself against your back, his hands going to the top of your hips as he matched your movements.
"But I feel like talking, feel like dancing when I see this guy."
You looked at Dean over your shoulder, fully turning around so you could see him properly. His green eyes stared at you with a grin, and he kept his hands at your sides before he slowly lifted his arms up, and you copied him.
"I'm a slave for you, I cannot hold it, I cannot control it."
Your lips spread into their own form of a smile, having too much fun with this stranger. You had a perfect view of his chest, and he had the same with yours.
"Baby, don't you wanna dance upon me?"
Dean maintained eye contact with you, slowly lowering himself to his knees. Your eyes followed him as he paused just in front of your belt before standing up again.
"Do you like it? Yeah, now watch me."
He put his hands back on your hips and leaned his head forward to press his forehead against yours, his green eyes glowing under the overhead lights.
"I really wanna dance tonight with you. I really wanna do what you want me to."
Dean licked his bottom lip and tilted his chin down, tasting your lip gloss. He licked a small stripe up your bottom lip.
"I'm a slave for you."
You decided to give in to his need for a few seconds, able to take the liquor on his tongue.
"I won't deny it, I'm not trying to hide it, baby."
You pulled your head back, causing Dean to blindly chase your lips before giving up. You held up your plush snake's head and tail with both hands, with a lip bite in his direction.
Dean looked you up and down with a tiny smirk, slightly amused by your game.
"I'm a slave for you. I cannot hold it; I cannot control it."
You gave him a wink and walked around him, giving a small strut with the faux snake out of the living room. Dean stared at your empty spot with his jaw dropped. The 'ladies' man' was turned down for the first time at Briar U.
"I'm a slave for you. I cannot hold it; I cannot control it."
Two girls, one in a clown costume and the other as Red Riding Hood, didn't hesitate to dance up on Dean once he was alone. He didn't pay much attention to the two, though, only watching you walk further into the kitchen before noticing Tucker and Beau staring at him. They both gave him a thumbs up from the counter. Dean pursed his lips and put an arm up, dancing with the girls.
"I won't deny it, I'm not trying to hide it."
He didn't even get your name, yet you're already coiled around his neck like a python ready to strike. The costume did feel fitting, though; he was turning into a slave 4 u.
c/w 𑣲⋆garrett teaches you how to give head, talking you through it, #men who yearn earn, mutual pining, first kiss, praise, spit, deepthroating, “boot riding” adjacent, gagging, jealous!garrett, pet names, (good girl, baby, pretty + no y/n) + garrett is very casual about you per usual ◡̈
“…Please?” The words leave your lips so gentle and sweet.
“You—Are you sure?” He stammers, more focused on how soft your lips are and how pretty you look just like you are now.
“Garrett, c’mon.” You sigh heavily, your focus falling down his body, seeing the difference almost instantly, his heavy cock swelling the fabric underneath his gray sweatpants.
“It’s just—” His words catch in his throat as you tug your sweater over your head, showing off your bra underneath. “Holy shit.” He throws his head back to the ceiling, hands bunching up the fabric of his sweats, holding himself back.
You huff out a sharp breath, feeling your frustration mount. After everything you’ve done for this man this semester, he can help you with this one little thing. You stand up and his expression goes wide in panic, hands flying up to grab your hips.
“Woah—Hey. Hey, now,” he stops you, looking back at you like you weren’t actively reading the situation. “Just. Don’t go. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t say sorry. I’m not going to beg for your help, Garrett.”
“You are not begging me for anything,” he panics, a desperate laugh clinging to his words as his hands go tighter on your hips. “I just—why?” he asks almost bashfully, licking his lips to fight back a smile as his gaze falls to yours.
“Same reason you wanted me to tutor you. I don’t know how to do it. I want to. You’re a guy…”
“I am,” he chuckles, stepping a little closer.
“You can teach me,” your voice softens, the heat of his body radiating onto your bare skin.
“Who?” he asks, his attention falling to your lips. “You learnin’ to give head just ‘cause?”
“I’m going to a party this weekend.”
“…Yeah?” he asks as he shifts his weight, his eyebrows drawing in ever so slightly as his gaze lifts to yours.
“I tutor, you know—”
“Some of the football guys, yeah,” he tracks, answering for you, getting a little impatient about who this is all for.
“Just getting this vibe from Beau. I don’t know. He’s sweet.”
“Beau Maxwell?” Garrett asks, arms pulling away from you to cross over his chest, biceps pulling the arms of his t-shirt taut. “Is he just bein’ nice? Or…”
You scrunch your nose in annoyance, scoffing before you turn around. “Whatever, Garrett.” You chuckle weakly, bending over to grab your skirt and your sweater, but he’s scrambling again.
“Stop. Just, don’t—calm down,” he grabs the clothes off your hands, tossing them back to the floor. He lifts both hands, lashes fluttering as he rakes his fingers through his curls.
“He’s not just being nice. He’s not pitying me—”
“Well, that last part didn’t leave my mouth,” he chuckles tiredly, his hand rubbing the back of his neck as his gaze travels down your body. He hangs his head for a moment, lost in thought.
“And, I know I’m just your Ancient Lit tutor, but don’t tell women to calm down—”
“You’re right. You’re right about everything, actually.”
You blow out a breath, rolling your eyes. “Well, as fun as it’s been standing in front of you for the last fifteen minutes in my bra and panties begging you to teach me—”
“You didn’t beg,” he answers, cutting you off as you spin out, his hand reaching out to grab your hand, fingers tracing down your arm to find yours, urging you closer. “You asked me once. You said please. That’s not begging.”
His thumb rubs along your knuckles, his lips tugging to the side as he thinks a little more.
“Beau’s my friend. That’s why I asked if he was being nice.”
“Okay?”
“He was supposed to be in the class with me across the hall, then I saw you walk into Ancient Lit—”
“Mhmm…”
“And I switched classes,” he continues, the corner of his mouth tipping up like he’s playing it back.
You nod, your eyes following the chain on his chest as it flickers with his quicker breathing before he speaks again.
“Already felt like I was doin’ something wrong asking you for help on day one before we even got our first assignment… Seems like a conflict of interest if I teach you how to do that, feeling like I feel. Do you know what I mean?”
The question breathes past his lips and, just like Garrett, your heart starts to race a little faster. “I think so.”
“Yeah, I like you,” he answers honestly, the words cracking a little at the end with nerves. Your cheeks swell with warmth, the little tingles in your body getting stronger.
“Were you gonna tell me?” you ask.
“Eventually… Just didn’t feel right letting you do that without knowing—” You steal the words off his lips with a kiss and he deepens it instantly, arms wrapping around your body, fingers sliding into your hair. He kisses you so deep your back bows, but he has you, holding you in his big arms, his soft lips pressing against yours.
He kisses you again, softer this time, then one more, smiling into your kiss.
“I can still teach you,” he whispers, taking off his shirt.
“Yeah?” you ask.
“If you want me,” he sighs when your palms rest on his strong chest.
“Beg,” you breathe, and he laughs against your mouth, liking how that word sounds leaving your lips.
“You want me to beg?” he asks, feeling as you hum a mhmm against his mouth. “I want you.” His rough palm falls with those words, slipping under the lace of your thong, squeezing your ass. “You have no idea what I’ve been dreaming about doing to you. This… This is exactly what I need. So, please, baby.”
“Baby?” you hum.
“You’ll call me that one day,” he says confidently, feeling your soft giggle against his lips. “Got a good feeling about us.”
“Teach me,” you smile, and he sighs, the muscles in his shoulders softening.
He looks at you for a second before he says anything, the corner of his mouth tugging up like he still can’t believe you chose him in the first place.
“You gonna let me teach you anything else?” he says quietly against your lips, stealing a kiss.
“Maybe,” you tease, fingers falling down his stomach, tracing over his abs, feeling them flex tighter under your touch. “Second session.”
“Seriously?” he asks breathlessly, following your gaze as your nails trace along the top of his sweats. “Sounds perfect.”
“So, what do I do now?” you whisper, fingers looping under the band of his pants.
“We’re startin’ the lesson from up here?” he asks, chuckling warmly when you mumble yes. “Kisses. Just like you are now. S’perfect.”
“Okay,” you hum.
“Move to my neck, and your hand.” The words leave him slowly as he grabs yours, lifting and placing you on top of that thick bulge between his thighs. “Right here.”
His breathing changes and his voice dips lower as he guides you to rub your hand on top. “Gotta tease me a little. I want this too fuckin’ bad, okay? Make me sweat a little. Don’t let me have it yet.”
You hum out a yes, kissing your way along his sharp jaw as your hand strokes his long, hard cock over the cotton. You can feel him tilt into you a little, pushing himself into your hand.
His face turns into you a little when you get to his ear, hands resting on your body still. “Tighter,” he mutters and you can hear the smile in his voice as your hand squeezes around him.
“Like that?”
“Just like that.”
You kiss under his ear and his head falls to the side, your lips working down the column of his neck, feeling his pulse hammer against your lips.
“Lick,” he murmurs, his hand coming up to cradle the back of your neck to keep you close, your tongue tracing up the trail of kisses you just left. Garrett shudders out a breath, goosebumps fanning across his tan skin.
“Talk to me,” he rasps, turning his face slightly to look you in the eyes, the tension between you thick. “You want it? Let me know.”
“What I want to do to you?”
“You can lie,” he answers softly, tipping your lips toward him when his fingers hook under your chin.
“I don’t wanna lie.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah,” you answer as he draws you in for a kiss.
“Tell me.”
“I want you to teach me—”
“No,” he stops you, his brows furrowing when it sounds like less than he was hoping for—like you’re using him instead of wanting this too.
“Listen,” you breathe.
“Yes, ma’am,” he answers, through a soft smile.
“I want you,” you whisper, tilting closer with each word. “To teach me what you like. So, I can do it again. And, again. I want to get so good at it, that it’s all you can think about.”
“Fuck, baby,” he huffs, gaze lingering as you drop down on your knees in front of him, pressing kisses as you go, his cock painfully hard. “How are you—you sound like you know what you’re doing.”
“In theory,” you answer, wrapping your fingers around the gray material at his hips. “Not in practice.”
“That book you have, huh?” he asks as his fingers find their way into your hair, guiding you to look back at him from where you sit on your knees.
“Mhmm,” you answer, dragging the cozy material down his legs, watching his thigh muscles tense and soften.
“Looked it up. Had to figure out why you were blushin’ like that yesterday before class,” he drawls, cupping your chin in his hand, thumb tracing your bottom lip. “Look so fuckin’ good on your knees, you know that?”
“Thank you,” you whisper, his smile spreading with yours. Your hands work up his thighs, resting on his boxers, tracing along the length of his thick dick, straining the material, his tip leaking through the fabric.
“Suck that. It’ll fuckin’ kill me,” he sighs as your focus stays fixed on the dark spot.
“Over your boxers?” you ask, already leaning in, your gaze flicking up to him. “You don’t want my mouth?” The question leaving your lips a hell of a lot more like taunting than asking, making him chuckle.
“You have no idea,” the words barely leave his lips when your mouth wraps around him, the fabric resting against your tongue. The taste comes second, his tip warm and throbbing—his hold on your hair tightening the wetter it gets.
You can feel the arousal soak the lace between your thighs, a steady pulse thumping, your body aching for contact—especially when that first sound of pleasure falls from his lips.
“Goddamn,” he groans, his jaw locking. You reach up without being told and he sucks a sharp breath through his nose when you cup his heavy balls in your hand. “Mhmm…” the praise breathes through a pleasured hum, nodding as you roll them in your hand, still sucking him through the cotton.
“More?” you ask, your breath hitting the place you mouthed, air filling his lungs at the sensation.
“Shit, pretty—yeah,” he slurs, drinking you in with his heavy stare as your hands follow the band of his boxers, tracing his sharp v-lines. You lean in, pressing a kiss on the soft skin below his bellybutton, just above the elastic.
He tips his chin toward you, shaking his head.
“You’re gonna be so good at this, baby,” his voice softens. “So fuckin’ perfect at everything. Why wouldn’t you be?”
His praise goes straight through you, your body drawing closer, settling a little more. He shifts his stance ever so slightly, his jaw tightening as he feels how wet your pussy is when your weight lands on top of his foot.
Your body moves instinctually, rocking your hips a little, feeling some relief you hadn’t known was building. “Feels good?” he asks, already seeing it in your body language. “Teach you how to ride my thigh. You’ll love it.” His words come out a little distracted as he watches your hands disappear behind your back.
“Next lesson?” you ask through a little smile.
“Don’t know if I can wait,” he confesses. “Take it off,” his voice dips, and you unclasp your bra, letting it fall away. He pushes out a breath, looking down at you, feeling that desperation he told you would come if you teased him—and you are.
You lift your hands, pinching the cotton, pulling down his boxers too. His cock strains—long and weighed down—that heavy walk he carries around campus clearly needed.
Your mouth starts to water, the blushed tip of his dick leaking with wet. “Kiss it off, baby,” he hums and you nod. Your lips press against the warm head of his dick, kissing it off just like he asked. “Just toy with me, yeah?”
Garrett’s words come out a little tighter and breathless. His eyes roll back in his head when your tongue curls around his tip, dipping in the slit, your other hand stroking slowly.
“Tongue out,” he tells you, wrapping his big fist around his dick, slapping the tip against your tongue. “Beautiful,” the word comes out quiet. “Kiss again,” he guides you. You press your lips into a pout, slick from spit, and he rubs his head against them messily.
He hums out a sound of approval, nodding down to his dick. Your hand circles him again, tongue dragging up the side of him as well, following a vein that maps all the way from base to top, your name dripping past his lips as his head hangs between his shoulders, chain swaying off his neck.
“Take as much as you want. You’re doing so fucking good—so, so good,” he sighs. “You can’t fit it all. That’s okay, baby. Just use your hand for the rest. Get me good and wet.”
You spit on his tip and his eye rolls back like there were two options to get him slicked up and you chose the best fucking one. Your hand circles around his thickness, stroking at the base a few times.
“Please,” he exhales, and your lips tilt into a smile before your lips wrap around him fully, taking him deep in your mouth.
You moan around him, discouraged for a moment about how much of him is left and how little you’ve taken in. Your mouth is stuffed, the look on his face letting you know that it’s more than enough for him.
“Holy shit,” he gasps. “Fuck, you feel so good.” When your hand wraps around him again, his eyebrows knitting tight.
You can feel his blood pumping through his cock, his hold on your head careful, like he wants you to guide the pace and not the other way around. For a moment he seemingly forgets about the task at hand as you work him with your mouth and your fist.
“Like—fuck me…” he sighs, losing his train of thought, the muscles in his thighs trembling. “Like this, baby.” He wraps his hand around yours at the thick base of his cock, twisting it slightly instead of jerking it back and forth.
“Yeah. That’s it,” he breathes, smiling as you start to bob around his length, rutting your pussy on top of him with the tempo of your mouth.
“Gonna use you a little,” he pants, resting his hands on your cheeks. “Tap out if it’s too much, alright? Breathe through your nose.”
He gives you a few shallow thrusts, melting like putty in your hand when you gag around him, smiling when you don’t push him away, resting your hands on the back of his thighs instead to keep you right where you’re at.
“Good girl,” he hums, making you choke on his cock again and again. Your vision starts to swim with it, tears pooling along your lashes. Your eyes flutter shut and the wet rolls down your cheeks.
“Goddamn,” he mumbles as he reaches his thumb out, tracing it under your eye, catching some tears as they fall.
“You’re a natural, baby,” he hums, sucking the tears off his thumb, handing back control, looking down at you like he’s proud.
“Let me thank you after this.” The words breathe past his lips as you suck and stroke, jaw aching from the stretch, moaning around his dick, the vibrations making his jaw tighten as he realizes just how much pleasure you’re getting from having his heavy cock in your mouth.
“You’re so fuckin’ wet… Fuck my thigh. Let me clean that up for you—teach you how to ride my face instead.”
His breathing changes and the grip on the back of your head suddenly tightens. The wet sounds fill the room around you, cock slipping through your spit, moans and grunts breaking past his lips getting closer and closer by the second.
“Gonna—I’m gonna cum, baby. You don’t have to swallow it,” he breathes, but you know he wants to finish deep in your throat.
Your hands move a little higher, nails sliding down the back of his ass and thighs and he loses it completely, climaxing with a deep moan, ropes and ropes of cum slipping down the back of your throat.
Your eyes slam shut and you swallow hard, sucking through it until he’s holding you in place, panting in overstimulation, each slide of your tongue making him flinch.
He smiles as he pulls you off him nice and slow, his breath leaving him shakily.
“Fuck, baby,” he hums. “Lemme see.”
You giggle breathily, holding out your clean tongue for him. He shakes his head and smiles, helping you up to your feet. His hand cradles your cheek, the other wrapping around your waist as he reaches for a breath.
“How was that, baby?” you ask.
His forehead tilts to rest against yours, his thumb brushing the apple of your cheek. “Baby?” he breathes, kissing you gently.
You tilt your head, lips drawing to the side. “I have a good feeling about us too?”
“You do?”
“I do.”
He kisses you again, deep and claiming. “That was perfect.”
“Yeah?” you ask sweetly, feeling his hands wrap around your body, dropping low, rough thumbs slipping under your lace thong, pulling it down this time instead, humming against your lips as your breasts press against his bare chest, your panties tumbling down your thighs.
He lifts you effortlessly off your feet into his strong arms, walking with you to his bed, resting you down on top before mounting it fast, caging you under his weight.
You suck in a sharp breath as he rolls you on top of him, your knees sinking into the mattress. His hands drag up your thighs, resting on your ass, pulling you closer to his lips. The warmth of his breath hits your wet pussy and your head falls back.
