Liaa

03’ Gemini

[jalenspuckbunny]

john tucker vs. the never smudging eyeliner his girlfriend wears ꒰১♡໒꒱

❥ PAIRING : john tucker x fem!reader

❥ BLURB : you’ve mentioned to tucker once that your eyeliner has never smudged, and because tucker loves a challenge, he tried hard to make it smudge.

❥ CONTAINS : 18+, smut, dacryphilia, fingering, soft!dom tucker, overstimulation, mentions of cunt, and praising. let me know if i missed any!

❥ AUTHORS NOTE : hii! at first this fic was gonna be a hurt/no comfort fic and then i realized i was over complicating it like no other so i turned it into this!! also this is my first time like actually fully writing smut and i realized i absolutely suck at it but it’s okay! based on this request, and my requests are currently open, so send in requests <3

you always wore eyeliner, you have since you were in high school and there’s been few days after that you haven’t worn it. you even lucked out by finding one that doesn’t smudge which is a blessing and a curse sometimes.

when you and tucker first started dating, he asked about your eyeliner and you mentioned to tucker that it doesn’t smudge and of course he didn’t really believe you. so, he took it as a challenge to get it to smudge: playing really sad movies, making extremely spicy foods, having you chop onions and the list goes on.

which now brings you to now, you’re sitting on tucker’s bed, naked as he sits behind you with his legs locked around yours, holding you in a firm position. his strong hands that you’ve probably spent entirely too much time looking at, trails down your chest, circling your nipple as you let out a soft whine.

“tell me what you want, baby,” he says against the skin of your neck as he continues to touch and tweak your nipple. “please tuck, i need you to touch me,” you beg as you lay your head on his shoulder.

complying with your request, his free hand trails down your body and towards your wet cunt. he spreads your wetness around before taking his thumb and softly rubs your clit. moans escape your lips as he teases a finger in towards your hole.

“please,” you whine, rolling your hips trying to gain more friction. he chuckles against your ear, slipping a finger inside of you, slowly thrusting it in and out of you. your moans gradually become louder as he speeds up with his finger before sliding in a second finger.

“look at you, so pretty and wet for me,” tucker says as he looks at you through the mirror in front of his bed. you moan again in response, grinding down against his hand.

“such a needy girl yeah? want another finger, angel?” he taunts, you nod as he slips a third finger into you.

between the hand that’s still taunting your nipple, the three fingers inside of you plus the thumb circling your clit, the erotic sight in the mirror, and tucker praising you in soft murmurs, tears prick your eyes smudging your eyeliner down your cheeks.

tucker smirks, “look at you, crying from my fingers looking absolutely gorgeous,” you clench around his fingers as you feel yourself coming closer and closer to your orgasm.

“i’m gonna cum,” you moan out as you cum all over tucker’s fingers.

tucker continues to move his hand in and out of you as you squirm against his chest, “too much t, please,” you plead.

he finally slips his fingers out of you with a smile. “well, i accomplished my goal, don’t you think?” he asks as he moves his other hand from your breast to your chin, forcing you to look at you tear and eyeliner stained cheeks.

you take in your appearance and unfortunately he is very much correct.

john tucker successfully your so called never smudging eyeliner.

[theeastcoastreader]

The Bet | Dean Di Laurentis x Reader (Sneak Peek of Part 1)

Summary: Dean wants unlimited access to Beau’s Cape Cod residence for the summer following graduation. And Beau wants Dean to attempt monogamy for the last two months of their final semester. Dean agrees knowing Beau gets to pick the woman, but he didn’t realize Beau had already made his choice before they even shook hands.

"Is it necessary to sit next to me every week, Di Laurentis," you grumble hearing the creak of the chair beside you as you continue to look through your bag for a pen. A soft tap sounds next to your head and you look over to see a pen being placed on your desk.

A small grin grows on your face as you lean forward to look past Dean to the man next to him.

"Thank you, Beau," you say. He gives you a wink with an "of course." Your eyes drift over to Dean's face as you sit back in your seat. He runs his fingers through his hair while giving you a slow once over.

"It's too early for this," you tell him. He lets out a quiet laugh as he opens his laptop.

"I literally haven't even talked yet," he says.

"And yet, somehow you have found a way to already make an 8am lecture worse."

To be fair, Dean is right. Technically, he hasn't done anything to tick you off today, yet. One would think, however, that the blonde would see you choosing a random seat in the half-filled lecture hall every week as a sign. Especially when all of your classmates have stuck to the same seats the last two and a half months, no doubt watching your game of musical chairs. Today, you chose one of the back corners having hoped that he wouldn't see you.

"You know you'd miss me," he whispers as your professor pulls up the powerpoint to the week's lesson.

"Mhm, would I now? Beau, did he get checked into a wall during last night’s game? He's more delusional than usual." Dean scoffs as Beau snorts trying to cover his laugh.

“No, but I promise I’ll pay one of the hockey guys to if you come to the party tonight.”

“I have a shift tonight, but I’ll text you if I’m able to get off early enough.” You tell him as you begin writing what’s on the current slide.

“What? You’ll give him your number, but I have to DM you on Instagram?” Dean whines. A guy two rows in front of you turns to glare at the three of you. You give him a tight-lipped grin and elbow Dean.

“Believe it or not, Beau and I are friends. We’ve been friends for three years. You were quite literally there when we became friends. And I muted you on Instagram.”

Dean’s jaw drops before he tries to recover and act like he’s not affected by this information.

“Well, if you do show up tonight, we could always take a trip down memory lane…” You stop writing and turn your head to stare at him, sure that you heard him wrong.

He chuckles awkwardly.

“Six Flags, right?”

You give him a quick once over, his cheeks turning a light pink.

“Don’t steal my line. I’ve heard you’ve been using it on your puck bunnies.”

“Why, jealous?” He asks with a smirk now.

“More like mad because my material is being stolen. I can’t have people thinking I’m associated with you.” His smirk falls away.

“Who else have you used that line on?” He angrily whispers at you.

“You want a list or?”

“Brutal,” you hear Beau mumble.

“Beau,” you say looking Dean in the eyes.

“What?” Beau asks looking above Dean’s shoulder at you.

“Nothing, I’m just giving Dean the list,” you say not breaking eye contact with Dean, his narrowing before he whips his head around to look at Beau. Beau raises his hands in defense.

Author’s Note: Beau’s here for a good time and a long time. He’s a certified passenger princess in this series. This is just the opening scene, but I’m hoping the full chapter will be up by the end of Sunday!

Tag List: @downbadwellread @thecraziestcrayon @theadharablack @archxve

[garrettgrahamswhore]

🏒 𝐁𝐎𝐘𝐅𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐍𝐃 𝐌𝐀𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐀𝐋 [𝟏]

𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆 — dean di laurentis x fem!reader

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘 — dean di laurentis needs a fake girlfriend for his family’s charity weekend. unfortunately, the girl he asks is the one person who can’t stand him. even more unfortunately, she might be the only one who can make it believable.

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 — 18+ mdni, fake dating, enemies-to-lovers banter, only one bed trope, forced proximity, tension, flirting, dean being dean, suggestive moments, almost kiss, no smut in this part.

𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓 — 7,019.

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫's 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞 — part one of boyfriend material is finally here. i’m so excited for this mini-series. tell me what you thought about part 1 <3

𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 ⟶ you can find my taglist here!

𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 ⟶ you can find my masterlist here!

━━━━━━━━ 🏒 ━━━━━━━━

The first thing you realized was that Dean Di Laurentis wasn’t good at begging without making it dramatic.

The second thing you learned was that Dean absolutely hated being bad at anything.

“No,” you answered.

Dean blinked at you from across the kitchen table as your answer had personally offended him. “You didn’t even let me finish.”

“You said, ‘I need a huge favor,’ and then looked at me like you were about to ruin my entire week,” you told him, taking a sip of your coffee. “That was enough.”

Hannah pressed her lips together beside you like she was trying very hard not to laugh.

Allie didn’t bother trying.

She leaned back in her chair, already grinning into her mug. “This is my favorite conversation.”

Dean gave her a look. “No one asked you.”

“You showed up in our dorm at nine in the morning.”

“It’s almost ten.”

“On a Saturday,” Allie added. “That’s basically dawn.”

Dean ignored her and turned back to you, his hands braced on the table. His hair was messy, his hoodie was wrinkled, and he had the faintly panicked look of someone who’d made several bad decisions and was only now realizing consequences existed.

It wasn’t an unfamiliar expression on him.

“Just hear me out,” he tried.

“Absolutely not.”

“[Y/N], come on.”

“Dean, no.”

“I’m serious this time.”

“That’s when you’re usually most dangerous.”

Hannah finally gave up, laughing softly into her hand.

Dean pointed at her. “Don’t encourage this.”

“She doesn’t need encouragement,” Hannah said. “She’s doing great on her own.”

You gave him a sweet smile.

Dean’s eyes narrowed. “You’re enjoying this.”

“Deeply.”

“You don’t even know what I’m about to ask.”

“I know it involves you, your family, and the phrase ‘huge favor,’ so that tells me everything I need to know.”

Dean exhaled and dragged a hand through his hair. “Okay, fine. I may have accidentally told my parents I’m seeing someone.”

Allie went quiet, Hannah looked up, and you lowered your coffee like the conversation had suddenly earned your full attention.

Dean looked between the three of you, suddenly defensive. “It made sense at the time.”

You stared at him. “No, it didn’t.”

“You don’t have the context.”

“Was the context that you lied?”

“It’s more complicated than that.”

Allie leaned forward like she’d been waiting for this. “Oh, this is good.”

Dean let out a groan. “It’s not good.”

“It’s incredible,” she corrected. “Keep going.”

Dean shot her a glare before turning back to you. “They’ve been on my ass lately about taking things seriously.”

You hummed thoughtfully. “Wonder why.”

His gaze cut to yours. “You’re not helping.”

“I’m still listening.”

“You’re judging me with your whole face.”

“I’m capable of both.”

Hannah touched your arm like she was asking you, very nicely, to let him finish.

You leaned back with a dramatic sigh. “Fine. Go on.”

Dean looked like he was starting to regret coming here, which was satisfying.

“My family’s hosting this charity weekend,” he started. “Country club, hotel, dinner, auction, donor thing, the whole nightmare.”

“That sounds expensive and exhausting,” Allie said.

“It is.” Dean pointed at her as Allie had just proven his point. “Exactly.”

You raised an eyebrow at him. “I’m still waiting for the part where this becomes my problem.”

“I’m getting there, okay?”

“I’m getting older,” you added, watching Dean clench his jaw.

Hannah tried to hide another smile.

“My mom asked if I was bringing anyone,” Dean admitted. “And I said yes.”

You waited for him to keep going, and when Dean didn’t, you narrowed your eyes.

“Dean,” you warned, watching him look away. “Dean.”

“I panicked,” he admitted.

“You panicked,” you repeated, because somehow that explained nothing.

“She got weirdly intense.”

“She asked whether you had a date.”

“She asked it like it meant something.”

“Oh my god, Dean.”

“And then my dad made this comment about wanting to meet whoever finally got me to settle down, and I didn’t correct him fast enough, so now my parents think I have a serious girlfriend.”

The room went quiet for about two seconds before Allie burst out laughing.

Dean pointed at her again, which only made her laugh harder. “This isn’t funny.”

“It’s kind of funny,” Hannah admitted.

“It’s actually very funny,” you told him.

Dean looked at you like you’d personally wounded him. “I’m in crisis.”

“You’re dealing with consequences.”

“I need your help.”

“You need a reality check.”

“I need a girlfriend.”

“I need a girlfriend,” Dean blurted, and you nearly choked on your coffee.

Allie made a delighted little sound, and Hannah looked at him like he’d lost his mind.

Dean held up both hands before you could react. “Fake girlfriend.”

“No,” you told him, setting your mug down hard.

“You haven’t even heard the full plan yet.”

“There’s no plan in the world that ends with me pretending to date you.”

“That’s actually hurtful.”

“That feels fair.”

Dean leaned across the table and lowered his voice, as if that would make him more convincing. “It’s one weekend.”

“No.”

“It’s three days.”

“Still no.”

“Two nights, technically.”

“Not a chance.”

“I’ll owe you big.”

“You already owe me after you told Logan I liked his haircut and he thanked me for twenty minutes.”

Dean winced at that. “That was an accident.”

“You said, and I quote, ‘[Y/N] thinks you look hot.’”

“I was just trying to distract him.”

“Distract him from what, exactly?”

Dean paused before admitting, “I don’t remember.”

“That’s what I thought.”

He sighed your name, long and pleading.

You hated that your name always sounded softer when he said it like that, and you hated it even more because part of you noticed anyway. After all, that was the thing, you didn’t hate Dean the way you pretended to.

Hating Dean Di Laurentis would’ve been a lot easier if he weren’t so hard to like.

He was arrogant, irritating, shamelessly dramatic, and way too pleased with himself, the kind of guy who flirted like it was a reflex and teased you because he knew exactly how to get under your skin. He stole fries from your plate whenever you sat with Hannah and Allie at Malone’s, called you “sunshine” when you glared at him, and “sweetheart” when he was clearly trying to get something thrown at his head.

But he was also usually the first one to notice when Hannah got overwhelmed in crowded rooms, to cover Allie’s drink when someone brushed too close to it, and to walk you home when it got late, like it wasn’t a big deal.

Dean was irritating and had always been in trouble, but he also had a way of looking at people that made him notice more than he should.

You found that deeply inconvenient.

“No,” you repeated, because apparently he needed to hear it twice.

Dean’s shoulders slumped. “You don’t even want to know what’s in it for you?”

“No.”

“I’ll get you tickets to the next game.”

“I already know too many hockey players.”

“I’ll make Garrett stop calling you scary.”

“I actually like it when Garrett calls me scary.”

“I’ll get Logan to stop flirting with your friend.”

“You absolutely can’t.”

Dean considered that for a second, then nodded. “Fair.”

Allie leaned closer to you. “You should ask for money.”

Dean looked genuinely offended. “I’m not paying someone to date me.”

“You’re not,” you told him, “because I’m not dating you.”

“Fake dating,” Dean corrected.

“Somehow, still no.”

He looked at Hannah as if he were getting desperate. “Help me.”

Hannah lifted both hands. “I’m not getting involved.”

“You’re already involved,” Dean told her. “This is your apartment.”

“That’s not how involvement works.”

Dean looked back at you, and for the first time since he’d shown up, the panic slipped into something quieter.

“Please,” he murmured.

The word landed differently this time.

It wasn’t dramatic this time. It wasn’t teasing. It was just Dean, looking at you like he really needed you to say yes.

Your chest tightened before you could stop it.

Damn him for making it harder to say no.

You hated that seeing him genuinely stressed made it harder to stay annoyed. It was much easier to say no when Dean was being insufferable, not when he looked like he actually needed you.

“Why me?” You looked at him, trying not to sound like you were already considering it.

Dean blinked, thrown for half a second, like he hadn’t expected you to ask.

Then he straightened slightly, like the answer was obvious once he said it. “Because they’ll believe you.”

You frowned at him. “Why?”

“Because you don’t act like someone who would put up with me unless you wanted to.”

Allie snorted into her mug, and you shot her a look.

She held up both hands, still grinning. “Sorry. That was good.”

You looked back at Dean, trying not to think too hard about what he’d just said, but he was watching you carefully now, without the smirk or the teasing, and that made it harder not to.

“Also,” he added, a little quieter, “you’re good with people. My mom will like you, my dad will think you’re smart, and you won’t get intimidated by my family or let me say something stupid without kicking me under the table.”

“You say stupid things all the time.”

“Exactly. I need supervision.”

You looked away first, which felt annoyingly close to a loss. That was a mistake, because Allie immediately let out a soft little gasp as she’d just witnessed something historic.

“Oh my god,” Allie gasped. “You’re considering it.”

“I’m not.”

Hannah tilted her head like she was trying to be gentle about it. “You kind of are.”

“I’m not,” you insisted, which didn’t help your case. Dean’s eyes lit up with dangerous hope, and you pointed at him before he could say anything. “Don’t look excited.”

“I’m not,” Dean said, looking extremely excited.

“You are,” you told him.

“I’m cautiously optimistic.”

“You should be afraid.”

“I can multitask,” he said, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

You dragged both hands over your face.

This was ridiculous. It was ridiculous. It was exactly the sort of thing you shouldn’t agree to under any circumstances.

Dean Di Laurentis was a lot of things, but boyfriend material wasn’t one of them.

He was flirt-at-a-party material, bad-decision-after-midnight material, the kind of guy who looked good leaning against counters and bad for your common sense. Charming when he wanted something, dangerous when he smiled, and completely unqualified to be anyone’s serious boyfriend, especially yours. Fake or not.

“No kissing,” you told him, and Dean went still.

Dean’s smile spread slowly. “So you’re considering it.”

“I’m setting a condition.”

“That sounds a lot like considering.”

“I can still say no, Dean.”

“You won’t.”

“I absolutely can, actually.”

“But you won’t.”

You leaned forward, eyes narrowed. “Do you want my help, or do you want to die?”

Dean, for once, made the smart choice and closed his mouth.

You pointed at him. “No kissing unless necessary.”

“Define necessary.”

“You know exactly what necessary means.”

“I do, but I’m getting the feeling your definition is stricter than mine.”

“My definition includes your mouth staying away from mine most of the weekend.”

Dean’s eyes flicked briefly to your mouth, so briefly that you almost convinced yourself you’d imagined it.

Almost.

Then he looked back up at you, expression so maddeningly innocent it had to be fake. “The majority?”

You narrowed your eyes at him, which only made him smile.

You hated him.

You hated him.

You were starting to think that might be a problem.

“No sex,” you added, sharper this time.

Allie choked on a laugh.

Hannah breathed, “Oh my god.”

Dean blinked once, then twice, before his mouth curved. “Sweetheart,” he murmured slowly, “I hadn’t even brought that up.”

Heat rushed to your face. “That’s why I’m bringing it up first.”

“Very responsible of you.”

“I’ll stab you with this spoon.”

Dean’s grin widened. “Fake relationship rule number two. No sex.”

“Rule number one,” you corrected, “is no kissing unless necessary.”

“Right. Very tragic rule.”

“Rule number three,” you went on, ignoring him. “No feelings.”

Dean raised an eyebrow like that was exactly the wrong thing to say. “Were you worried?”

“Yes. For you.”

Dean laughed. “For me?”

“You seem emotionally fragile.”

“I’m already devastated.”

“Rule number four,” you continued. “No calling each other boyfriend or girlfriend when no one is around.”

Dean’s smile shifted slightly, just for a second, before it came back.

“Why not?” Dean wanted to know.

“Because that’s weird.”

“We’re pretending to date for an entire weekend, sharing a hotel room, and lying to my parents, but boyfriend is where you draw the line?”

“Yes.”

“Interesting.”

“It’s not interesting, Dean.”

“It’s kind of interesting.”

“Rule number five,” you went on, louder this time. “When this is over, we go back to normal.”

Dean studied you like he knew there was more beneath the surface. For once, he didn’t immediately make a joke, which somehow made it worse.

The word sat between you in a way you didn’t want to look at too closely, because normal, for you and Dean, had never been simple. It’d always been bickering in kitchens and too-long eye contact, comments that felt like dares, and smiles you pretended not to return. It’d always been his hand hovering near your back in crowded places, never staying long enough for anyone to call it something, but close enough that you noticed every time.

Dean nodded once, like he understood exactly what he was agreeing to. “Deal.”

Your stomach tightened a little. “You’re agreeing too easily.”

“I told you, I’m desperate.”

“That’s very comforting.”

“I mean it,” he promised. “Your rules. I’ll follow them.”

Allie coughed, as if she had thoughts about it.

Dean glanced at her. “What?”

“Nothing,” Allie said, in a way that meant absolutely nothing.

“That sounded like a judgmental cough.”

“I just think ‘your rules, I’ll follow them’ is going to age beautifully.”

You ignored her and held Dean’s gaze like you were trying to figure out whether you believed him.

“You owe me,” you reminded him.

“Anything,” Dean promised.

“You don’t even know what I want yet.”

“Then I’ll find out.”

The words shouldn’t have sounded like that, soft and low and too much like a promise. Your fingers tightened around your mug.

Allie, because she had no mercy, leaned back in her chair. “This weekend is going to be a disaster.”

Dean looked at you, and you looked back at him. For once, neither of you argued.

**

Less than twenty-four hours later, the disaster began.

Dean picked you up at noon, which gave him just enough time to text you seven times beforehand.

dean

wear something my mom will believe i had a shot with

you

so basically nothing?

dean

very hurtful.

you

objectively accurate.

dean

my mom’s going to love you.

you

because i’m obviously charming?

dean

because you’re mean to me. she’ll find it refreshing.

you

your family sounds smarter than you.

dean

everyone says that, actually.

By the time Dean pulled up outside your apartment, you were already on the curb with your overnight bag, pretending your stomach wasn’t twisting.

Dean pulled up to the curb and got out immediately.

You wished he looked worse. It would’ve been helpful if he’d shown up in something ridiculous, like a stained hoodie, bad shoes, or a hat that made him look like an idiot.

Instead, he showed up in dark jeans, a navy sweater pushed up at the sleeves, and sunglasses hooked into the collar like he’d been designed specifically to ruin your life at a family charity weekend.

His eyes moved over you before he seemed to remember he wasn’t supposed to be obvious about it. Too late, though. You noticed.

“You look…” Dean started, then seemed to forget the rest of the sentence.

You raised an eyebrow. “Careful.”

His mouth curved. “Expensive.”

You stared at him because somehow that was worse.

Dean smiled like he couldn’t believe he had to explain it. “That was a compliment.”

“That was a weird compliment.”

“My mother’s going to love it.”

“You really know how to make a girl feel special.”

He took your bag from your hand like it hadn’t occurred to him not to.

“I’m your fake boyfriend,” he reminded you. “That’s my job.”

You froze. Dean froze, too, like he’d realized it at the same time, and then you slowly turned your head toward him.

“What was rule number four again?”

Dean sighed as if this rule were personally inconvenient. “No calling each other boyfriend or girlfriend when no one is around.”

“And are we currently around anyone?”

Dean looked dramatically up and down the empty street before nodding toward a bird. “Does that count?”

“Dean,” you warned.

“Fine.” He put your bag in the trunk. “I’m the man pretending to be emotionally invested in you for social gain. Better?”

“Much better.”

“You’re impossible.”

“You literally begged me.”

“I’m regretting it already.”

“No, you’re not.”

He shut the trunk and smiled at you over the roof of the car like he knew you were right.

“No,” he told you. “I’m not.”

That shouldn’t have warmed something in you. It did anyway.

The drive to the hotel took about 2 hours. Dean spent the first 30 minutes giving you a full family briefing, as if you were about to enter witness protection.

“My mom’s going to ask how we got together.”

“We’re going to need a story.”

“We already have one.”

You looked over at him. “Since when?”

“I flirted with you until you gave up.”

You stared at him until he glanced over. “What?”

“That’s not a story.”

“It’s close enough to the truth.”

“It’s absolutely not.”

Dean grinned as he’d just found a loophole. “So you admit there’s some truth to it?”

“I admit you flirt with anything that has a pulse.”

“Not anything.”

“Sorry,” you corrected. “Anything attractive that breathes.”

Dean tilted his head as he’d just caught you. “So you admit you’re attractive?”

You closed your eyes as that might help. “I hate you.”

“That’s not very fake girlfriend of you.”

“Dean. Rule four.”

“Fake girlfriend,” he insisted.

“That still counts.”

“It doesn’t.”

He smiled at the road like he was enjoying this way too much.

You hated how easy it was to fall into this with him, into the fighting and the rhythm and the way he always seemed ready for whatever you threw at him. It made the fake part feel less fake than it should’ve, and that was dangerous. Very dangerous.

Dean’s phone buzzed where it sat in the cup holder.

He glanced down at it, then passed it to you. “Can you read that for me?”

You picked it up. The text was from his mom, which felt ominous.

Mom

Can’t wait to meet her. Your father says, “Please don’t be late.” I say try not to scare her off before dinner.

You smiled despite yourself as you handed the phone back. “She sounds nice.”

“She’s nice,” Dean admitted. “That’s the problem.”

“Since when is nice a problem?”

“When nice people are disappointed in you, it’s worse.”

Your smile softened. Dean said it casually, but his fingers tightened slightly on the wheel, just enough for you to notice.

That was the problem with fake dating someone you spent so much time pretending not to care about. You knew things, tiny things you weren’t supposed to know, like how Dean joked more when he was nervous, how he tapped his thumb against the wheel when he was thinking too hard, and how his confidence was loudest when he was trying to convince himself of it.

“You’re nervous.”

Dean’s thumb stopped tapping against the wheel.

“I’m not nervous.”

“You are.”

“I’m just focused.”

“On lying to your parents, you mean?”

“On surviving this weekend.”

You studied him for a moment, and when you spoke again, your voice was quieter. “Do they really think you’re that unserious?”

Dean’s mouth twitched, but it didn’t quite turn into a smile. “I mean, I haven’t exactly given them evidence otherwise.”

Something in your chest pulled tight. “Dean.”

He glanced over at you, and for a second, there was no teasing in his expression at all.

“I know what people think of me,” he admitted. “It’s not like they’re wrong.”

You didn’t answer immediately, because you’d thought those things too. Cocky, careless, shameless, charming enough to get away with anything. But then there were the other things, the things Dean pretended didn’t count, like how he’d shown up at Hannah’s after one text when Garrett was spiraling, how he always checked if Allie got home safe even when they were arguing, and how he noticed which teammate needed to be dragged out of a party before anyone else did.

Dean was unserious about a lot of things, but not everything.

“Maybe you’re just bad at letting people see the evidence,” you offered.

Dean looked over at you again, and when the car went too quiet, you looked out the window like that would help.

“Don’t make it weird,” you told him.

His voice was softer than you expected. “You made it weird.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“You said something nice to me.”

“That was an accident.”

“Do that again, and I might fall in love.”

Your head snapped toward him, and there it was again, Dean’s grin, annoying and beautiful and infuriating all at once.

“Rule three,” you reminded him.

“No feelings,” he agreed lightly. “Yeah, yeah.”

But his hand stayed tight on the wheel long after that.

**

The hotel was exactly what you expected from a Di Laurentis family charity weekend: expensive, tasteful, and deeply intimidating.

It sat beside a sprawling country club with polished lawns, white columns, and more valet attendants than one entrance could need. People moved through the lobby in tailored clothes and quiet confidence, like they knew which fork went with which course and had opinions about wine regions.

You stepped out of Dean’s car and immediately felt underdressed, which was unfair, considering you’d agonized over your outfit for an hour.

Dean appeared beside you, already grabbing both bags from the trunk. “You okay?”

You blinked at him. “What?”

He looked down at you, brows drawn like he’d noticed before you had. “You got quiet.”

“I’m just observing the rich people’s habitat.”

His mouth twitched. “Careful. They can smell fear.”

“Great. Then I’ll stand behind you.”

“You think I look less scared?”

“You look like you belong here.”

Dean looked toward the hotel, his expression shifting into something you couldn’t quite read.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “That’s the idea.”

Before you could ask what he meant by that, a woman’s voice called his name.

“Dean, sweetheart!”

Dean’s whole posture changed, not dramatically, but enough for you to notice. His shoulders straightened, and his smile shifted into something warmer, brighter, less guarded.

A woman with dark hair and elegant gold earrings crossed the lobby toward you, followed by a man in a blazer who looked like an older, sharper version of Dean.

His parents.

Your stomach flipped when Dean’s hand touched your lower back, light and brief, like a silent check-in. You hated how much it helped.

“Mom,” Dean greeted, leaning down to kiss her cheek when she reached him.

She hugged him tightly, and despite yourself, you smiled. Then her eyes found you, the warmth in them sharpening into curiosity.

“And you must be [Y/N],” she greeted warmly.

You smiled and extended a hand, but she ignored it and pulled you into a hug instead.

“Oh,” you laughed softly, surprised. Beside you, Dean coughed.

His mother pulled back, still smiling. “Sorry, I’m a hugger. Dean should’ve warned you.”

“He left that part out,” you told her.

Dean’s father stepped forward and offered his hand. “It’s nice to meet you finally.”

Finally.

The word made you glance at Dean, but he was looking anywhere except at you.

You shook his father’s hand and smiled. “It’s nice to meet you, too.”

His father looked between you and Dean, assessing but not unkind.

“So,” his mother began, slipping her arm through Dean’s like she wasn’t about to interrogate you in the middle of a hotel lobby. “How long has this been going on?”

Dean opened his mouth, but you answered first. “Long enough for him to annoy me into saying yes.”

Dean’s mother laughed instantly. Dean turned to stare at you, and you smiled sweetly up at him.

His father’s mouth twitched like he was trying not to smile. “That sounds like Dean.”

“It really does,” you agreed sweetly.

Dean leaned in, lowering his voice so only you could hear. “You’re enjoying this too much.”

“You literally begged me,” you whispered back.

His eyes flicked down to yours.

For half a second, the lobby disappeared.

His mother looked between you and Dean, smiling. “Well, I already like her.”

Dean’s gaze lingered on yours for a second too long.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “That happens.”

Your heart did something deeply inconvenient.

So you looked away first.

Check-in went smoothly, mostly because Dean’s mother handled it while asking you questions with the skill of a woman who had definitely hosted charity events before and knew how to extract personal information without seeming rude.

She wanted to know where you were from, what you were studying, how you knew Hannah and Allie, and, most importantly, how you and Dean had gotten close.

Dean answered the last one before you could. “She hated me at first.”

You blinked at him. “At first?”

His mother’s smile widened. “And now?”

You tilted your head like you were giving it serious thought. “Now I tolerate him.”

Dean pressed a hand to his heart as you’d wounded him. “She’s shy with affection.”

“I’m shy with public displays of murder.”

His father laughed under his breath. Dean’s mother looked delighted, and Dean looked at you like he was trying not to smile.

It was ridiculous how easy it was.

That should’ve been the first warning sign.

The second came when the receptionist handed Dean the room keys and said, “King suite, eighth floor.”

You waited, Dean waited, and his mother smiled pleasantly.

Your stomach dropped.

“King suite?” you echoed.

Dean’s head turned slowly toward his mother like he already knew she was responsible.

She blinked at him with perfect innocence. “Is something wrong?”

“No,” Dean said, too quickly.

At the same time, you asked, “One bed?”

Dean’s father raised an eyebrow. Dean’s mother looked between you and Dean, just as his hand came to rest at your waist.

Warm. Steady. Entirely too natural.

“We’re good,” Dean said smoothly. “She likes to pretend she needs her own space.”

You turned your head very slowly toward him.

Dean smiled down at you, the kind of smile that made people believe terrible lies.

“Isn’t that right, sweetheart?”

Sweetheart.

Your nails dug into your palm.

Rule four. No boyfriend or girlfriend in private. Technically, this wasn’t private.

Still.

Dean was enjoying this.

You smiled back, bright and dangerous. “Only because you kick in your sleep, babe.”

Dean’s eyes flashed. His mother made a soft, delighted sound. His father looked like he might be reconsidering everything he knew about his son.

Dean leaned down until his lips were close to your ear.

“Babe?” he murmured, like he was testing the word out.

“You started it,” you whispered back.

“You’re going to regret that,” he murmured, still close to your ear.

“Can’t wait.”

You felt his fingers flex once at your waist, like he’d forgotten himself for half a second.

Then he stepped back, smile still in place.

You were in trouble.

The room was somehow worse.

The suite was beautiful, because apparently Dean’s family didn’t do anything halfway. There was a sitting area, a massive window overlooking the golf course, a marble bathroom, and, right there in the middle of the bedroom section, one enormous king bed.

You stood in the doorway, staring at it. Dean set the bags down behind you.

Neither of you spoke.

Then you said, very clearly, “Absolutely not.”

Dean sighed, already resigned. “Here we go.”

“You knew.”

“I didn’t know.”

“You absolutely knew.”

“I thought there would be a couch.”

You stared at him. “There’s a couch.”

You both turned to look at the small decorative couch near the window.

It looked like it’d been designed exclusively for people without spines.

Dean made a face.

You pointed at the couch. “Enjoy.”

“I’m six foot two.”

“Congratulations.”

“I won’t fit.”

“Fold.”

Dean turned to you like you’d lost your mind. “You want me to sleep on that?”

“You created this problem.”

“I didn’t create the furniture.”

“You created the fake serious girlfriend.”

Dean opened his mouth. Closed it. Then nodded once, like he hated that you had a point. “Fair.”

You walked farther into the room and crossed your arms. “I’m not sharing a bed with you.”

Dean’s eyebrows rose. “Scared?”

You laughed. “Of you?”

“Yeah.”

“Dean, the only thing scary about you is your ego.”

“My ego and my charm.”

“Your delusion.”

“You like my charm.”

“I tolerate your charm.”

“You said you tolerate me. That’s different.”

“I’m expanding the category.”

He stepped closer, smiling like he knew exactly how annoying he was. “You know, for someone who hates me, you’re very committed to arguing with me.”

“For someone who needs me, you’re very committed to being unbearable.”

“Maybe that’s my love language.”

“Then I pity every woman you’ve dated.”

Dean’s smile faltered, barely enough to notice.

But you noticed.

The joke had landed wrong somehow.

You almost apologized.

Then Dean turned away, walking toward the window like he needed something else to look at. “You can have the bed.”

Your arms loosened before you could stop them. “Dean.”

“It’s fine,” he said, but it didn’t sound like it.

The sudden lack of teasing felt strange. Too strange.

You watched him pull his phone from his pocket, pretending he suddenly had something to check.

Dean was good at pretending, and you were starting to realize that was part of the problem.

“I didn’t mean it like that.”

He looked back, grin already in place like nothing had happened. “Relax. I’ve slept in worse places.”

And just like that, the moment was gone.

You didn’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed.

Dinner was scheduled for seven. Dean had called it “casual,” which apparently meant everyone would be wearing outfits that cost more than your monthly rent.

You managed to unpack in silence for approximately three minutes before Dean ruined it.

“So,” Dean said from the other side of the room, sounding way too casual, “should we practice?”

You looked up from your bag, shoe already in hand. “If the next words out of your mouth are kissing-related, I’m throwing this at you.”

Dean glanced at the heel in your hand and raised both palms like you were the unreasonable one. “Hostile work environment.”

“You created the job.”

“I meant the story.”

“What story?”

“Our story.”

The shoe lowered in your hand. “Right.”

Dean sat on the edge of the bed, which annoyed you because he looked too good there. Relaxed, comfortable, like the room belonged to him, and the weekend wasn’t already beginning to unravel around you.

“How did we get together?” he asked.

“You annoyed me until I had a lapse in judgment.”

“Funny, but my mother is going to want details.”

“Fine. We started hanging out because of Hannah and Allie.”

“True.”

“You flirted.”

“True.”

“I rejected you repeatedly.”

“Debatable.”

“Dean.”

“I’m listening.”

“And then one day, you were slightly less annoying than usual, so I agreed to dinner.”

His eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “I like that.”

“You like being called annoying?”

“I like that your version still has me winning.”

“You didn’t win. I suffered a moment of weakness.”

“I’ll take it.”

You rolled your eyes, but your mouth betrayed you anyway.

Dean saw the almost-smile.

“Careful,” he murmured.

You looked at him, instantly suspicious. “What?”

“You almost looked like you liked me for a second.”

The room shifted. Maybe it was the softness in his voice, or the bed between you, or the fact that in less than an hour, you’d have to walk downstairs and convince his entire family that whatever this was had a name.

You forced a laugh like that would fix whatever had just happened. “Don’t get excited, Di Laurentis.”

“Too late,” he said, smiling like he knew exactly what he was doing.

Your stomach flipped. You turned back to your bag before he could notice.

He probably noticed anyway.

Dinner was both easier and harder than you expected. Dean’s family was warmer than you’d feared, which should’ve helped, except their warmth only made the lie feel worse.

His mother sat beside you at the long table in the hotel restaurant, asking questions with genuine interest. Across from Dean, his father watched him with quiet amusement every time you corrected him or stole the bread basket from his side of the table.

“You two bicker a lot,” his mother said, smiling into her glass.

Dean leaned back, his arm draped over the back of your chair. “It’s part of our charm.”

“Our?” you echoed, eyebrows rising. “Interesting.”

“Fine. Your charm. My patience.”

You laughed before you could stop yourself.

Dean looked at you, and his smile softened.

His mother noticed.

You could feel it.

“So,” she said, looking entirely too pleased, “Dean tells us you’re the reason he’s been slightly less impossible lately.”

You nearly choked on your water.

Behind you, Dean’s arm stiffened. “I said no such thing.”

His father’s mouth twitched. “You said she keeps you in line.”

“That’s completely different.”

You turned to him before you could stop yourself. “You talk about me?”

Dean’s eyes met yours, and for once, he didn’t look away.

Then he said, “Only to complain.”

“Liar,” you said, but there was no heat in it.

His mouth curved. “Prove it.”

The table faded again.

That kept happening. Little moments where the performance went quiet, and something else slipped in.

You hated it.

You liked it.

You were doomed.

Later, after dessert, after his mother had hugged you again and his father had told Dean not to be late for breakfast, you both made it back to the suite in silence.

The door clicked shut behind you.

The performance dropped, sort of.

Dean let out a breath and leaned back against the door. “You were good.”

You kicked off your shoes. “I know.”

He laughed quietly. “Humble.”

“I was excellent.”

His smile softened. “You were.”

The sincerity made you pause. Dean pushed off the door, rubbing the back of his neck as he walked farther into the room.

“My mom loves you.”

“She has good taste.”

“My dad too.”

“Clearly, good taste runs in the family.”

Dean looked at you then, and something unreadable moved through his eyes.

“Yeah,” he said, still looking at you. “They do.”

Your pulse stumbled.

No.

Absolutely not.

You turned toward the bed because that felt like the safer option.

It wasn’t.

The bed was still there, large and waiting and definitely mocking you.

You pointed at the decorative couch. “Your throne.”

Dean followed your gaze and sighed. “You’re really going to make me sleep there?”

“Yes.”

“You’re cold.”

“You’ll survive.”

“I might not.”

“How tragic.”

He walked over to the couch and sat down, only for his knees to immediately look ridiculous.

You pressed your lips together, trying not to laugh.

Dean stared at you. “Don’t laugh.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“I’m being respectful.”

“You’re biting your lip.”

“Out of grief.”

He narrowed his eyes, which only made you laugh.

You couldn’t help it.

Dean tried to glare, but his mouth twitched. “You’re enjoying my suffering.”

“Deeply.”

“You know, a loving fake girlfriend would offer to share.”

You froze, and Dean froze too.

For a second, both of you seemed to remember the rule at the same time.

No boyfriend or girlfriend when no one was around.

“Sorry,” he said, quieter this time.

The apology came quickly, too quickly, as he meant it, and that made it worse.

“It’s fine,” you said.

Dean stood, suddenly restless. “I’ll sleep on the couch.”

You looked at him. Really looked. Noticed how tired he seemed now that his family wasn’t watching, how the weekend had already pulled something tight in him, how he was trying, actually trying, to respect the line you’d drawn.

The bed was huge. Huge enough to avoid touching, probably.

Maybe.

You exhaled. “Dean.”

He looked up, cautious now.

“You can sleep in the bed.”

His eyebrows rose like he wasn’t sure he’d heard you right.

“But,” you said sharply, pointing at him, “there will be rules.”

His mouth curved slowly. “More rules?”

“Yes.”

“I love rules.”

“You break rules.”

“I lovingly challenge them.”

“You stay on your side.”

“Yes.”

“No touching.”

“Yes.”

“No flirting.”

His smile widened. “In my sleep?”

“Especially in your sleep.”

“What if I dream about you?”

“Then wake up ashamed.”

Dean laughed, warm and low, and you hated how much you liked hearing it in the quiet room.

“Deal,” he said, softer than you expected.

You changed in the bathroom, mostly because you didn’t trust Dean and partly because you didn’t trust yourself.

When you came out in sleep shorts and an oversized shirt, Dean was already in bed, shirtless.

You stopped in the doorway, because apparently your body needed a second.

He looked up from his phone. “What?”

“Where’s your shirt?”

Dean looked down at himself like he’d forgotten. “Off.”

“I can see that.”

“I sleep shirtless.”

“Not tonight.”

“You’re policing sleepwear now?”

“Yes.”

Dean’s gaze moved over your face, amused and something else you didn’t want to name.

“You’re flustered.”

“I’m annoyed.”

“You’re standing in the bathroom doorway, glaring at my chest.”

“I’m glaring at all of you.”

“My chest feels singled out.”

You marched to your suitcase, grabbed a pillow, and threw it at him. He caught it easily, laughing.

“Put a shirt on.”

“Why?”

“Because.”

“Because why?”

“Because I said so.”

Dean’s smile turned dangerous. “That’s not a reason.”

Your face warmed. His eyes flicked over it, but then he reached down, grabbed a shirt from his bag, and pulled it on.

“There,” he said.

You blinked. “That was… easy.”

“I can be easy.”

“Never say that again.”

His grin returned immediately. “Too tempting?”

You reached for the lamp on your side and turned it off before he could see your expression.

“Go to sleep, Dean.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he murmured.

You climbed into bed carefully, staying as far to the edge as possible. The mattress dipped under Dean’s weight when he shifted. Even with space between you, you could feel him there—his warmth, his breathing, his presence taking up too much of the room.

For several minutes, neither of you spoke.

Then Dean’s voice came quietly from the other side of the bed. “You did save my life today, by the way.”

You stared into the dark. “I know.”

“My mom would’ve killed me if I showed up alone.”

“She still might if she ever realizes this is fake.”

Dean was quiet. Too quiet. You turned your head slightly, but you couldn’t see his face well in the darkness.

“Dean?”

“Yeah?”

You didn’t mean for your voice to soften. “Are you okay?”

He let out a quiet laugh, not amused exactly.

More surprised.

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“You went quiet.”

“I’m fine,” he said, too quickly.

You recognized the answer because you used it too.

Fine.

The least convincing word in existence.

You rolled onto your side, turning toward him in the dark.

He lay on his back, one arm behind his head, staring up at the ceiling.

“You don’t have to pretend with me,” you told him.

The words were out before you could think better of them.

Dean turned his head toward you, and even in the dark, you felt his gaze settle on your face.

“That’s funny,” he said softly.

“Why?”

“Because pretending is kind of the whole point, isn’t it?”

Something in your chest tightened. “Not all of it.”

The silence after that was different.

Thicker.

Dean shifted onto his side too, until you were facing each other. Too close. Not touching. Close enough to see his eyes in the low light from the window.

“You’re being nice again,” he murmured.

“It keeps happening by accident.”

“That’s a dangerous habit.”

“Don’t get used to it.”

“Too late.”

Your breath caught.

There it was again, that softness. The part of Dean that didn’t feel like a joke.

For a second, neither of you moved. His eyes dropped to your mouth, and this time, there was no pretending you didn’t see it.

Your pulse jumped.

“Dean,” you whispered.

“I know,” he murmured, his voice lower now. Rougher.

He didn’t move closer, and neither did you, but somehow, the space between you felt impossibly small.

“No kissing unless necessary,” you whispered.

His gaze lifted back to yours. “Right.”

“This isn’t necessary.”

“No,” he said, but neither of you moved. He didn’t look away, and you didn’t roll back over.

Almost kissing him was somehow worse than actually kissing him. The possibility of it. The heat. The fact that you could feel how easy it would be to close the distance and ruin every rule on the first night.

Dean’s hand shifted on the mattress between you. Not touching, but close enough.

Your fingers curled into the sheet.

He noticed. His jaw flexed, and then he rolled onto his back, putting space between you with a quiet exhale.

“Goodnight, [Y/N].”

You stared at the side of his face, your heart still racing. “Goodnight, Dean.”

You eventually turned away, facing the window. But sleep didn’t come quickly. Not with Dean lying beside you. Not with the ghost of an almost-kiss sitting between your ribs. Not with the horrible realization that rule number one had already started to feel less like protection and more like a challenge.

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[garrettgrahamswhore]

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨ 𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐨𝐩 ୧⋆ ˚｡⋆

summary 𓂃 when you admit you’ve never been on top before, dean decides there’s no better place to learn than his bed.

warnings 𓂃 18+ mdni, explicit smut, established relationship, insecurity, first time riding, protected sex, praise, dirty talk, boob play, clit stimulation, missionary, soft aftercare.

word count 𓂃 3,468.

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

You'd been pretending to watch the movie for at least fifteen minutes.

Dean had been doing a terrible job of pretending he wasn't staring at you for just as long.

It was a terrible performance on both sides, especially considering the laptop was still playing some action movie at the end of his bed, and neither of you could've named one thing that'd happened in the last ten minutes. You were tucked under his sheets in one of his old Briar shirts, the hem brushing soft against your thighs because your underwear was the only thing you'd bothered putting on after your shower, and Dean was lying beside you with one hand behind his head and the other low on your hip like he was trying very hard to act like a gentleman.

He was trying to behave, which was sweet, really, but not exactly successful.

"You're staring again," you murmured, not even bothering to look away from the screen.

Dean's thumb moved in a slow circle over your hip. "You're in my bed wearing my shirt. You can't really blame me."

"You gave it to me," you pointed out, like that was supposed to make him less smug about it.

"I know." Dean's mouth curved like he'd been waiting for you to say exactly that. "Great decision, honestly."

You rolled your eyes, but the smile breaking through kind of ruined the effect. "You're impossible."

"Yeah." Dean leaned in, his lips brushing your shoulder through the fabric of his shirt. "But you like me anyway."

"Sometimes," you said, though your smile made it sound a lot less convincing.

"Right now?" he asked, his voice dropping just enough to make your stomach flip.

You turned your head to answer, which was apparently all the invitation Dean needed, because then he was kissing you, slow and warm, one hand sliding up your side beneath the fabric like he'd planned the whole thing. It was easy to melt into Dean like that, a lot easier than you'd ever admit out loud. Dean kissed you like he knew exactly how much time he had, which apparently meant he had no problem spending it dragging every little sound out of you to see how much trouble it got him into.

His fingers slipped beneath the hem of the shirt, warm against your waist in a way that shouldn't have made you gasp as quickly as it did.

Dean smiled against your mouth, entirely too pleased with himself. "There she is."

"Don't start."

"I didn't even say anything."

"You were about to, and we both know it."

He laughed, low and entirely too pleased with himself, before rolling onto his back and tugging you over him like he already knew you'd follow. And you did, because apparently thinking was no longer part of the plan, one knee sliding across his hips until you were straddling his lap.

Then you froze beneath his hands, and Dean felt the change in you immediately.

His hands settled on your waist, thumbs brushing over your sides in a way that was soft enough to make your chest ache a little. "Hey."

You swallowed, suddenly very aware of the fact that you were in his lap with your thighs spread around his hips, his hard length pressing up beneath his sweatpants, and somehow his shirt still covering you didn't make you feel any less exposed.

"This feels like a lot of responsibility," you said, aiming for a joke and landing somewhere embarrassingly close to panic.

Dean's brow lifted like he wasn't sure whether to laugh or be concerned. "Responsibility?"

"I just..." You looked down, your fingers curling into the front of his shirt like that'd somehow make the words easier to get out. "I've never really done this before."

His expression softened, though that amused little spark in his eyes didn't go anywhere. "Been on top?"

Your cheeks warmed, which was annoying because Dean absolutely noticed. "Not really."

"Not really?" Dean repeated, thumbs still brushing over your waist like he was trying very hard not to look too pleased about that.

"Dean," you said, dragging his name out like a warning, even though the warmth in your cheeks made it pretty hard to sound threatening.

He smiled a little, his hands giving your hips a gentle squeeze like he'd decided to behave for once. "Okay. Not really."

"It's not a big deal," you said quickly, which was unfortunate because saying it that fast made it sound like it was definitely a big deal. "I just feel like I'd look stupid, or I wouldn't know what I was doing, and then you'd have to pretend it was hot, which is a very nice boyfriend thing to do, but also something I'd never emotionally recover from."

Dean stared at you for a beat, then laughed in this soft, disbelieving way that only made your face feel warmer. "Baby, I'm hard because you're sitting on my lap in my shirt. You could sneeze right now, and I'd find a way to be into it."

You blinked because, annoyingly enough, it had worked. "That was weirdly comforting."

"I'm great at comfort."

"You're absolutely not."

"I am when you're half-naked on top of me."

You tried to bite back a laugh, but it came out as this breathy little sound instead when Dean's hands guided your hips down, showing you exactly how slowly he wanted you to move over him. The pressure caught against your clit through your underwear, warm and steady enough to make your thighs tense before you could stop them.

Dean's eyes darkened like he'd felt the way your body reacted. "Does that feel good?"

You nodded, your thighs still tense beneath his hands.

His mouth curved. "Words, sweetheart."

"Yes," you breathed, because apparently that was the only word your brain had left to offer.

"There you go," Dean murmured, his voice soft enough to make your stomach flip.

The next kiss was messier, mostly because Dean kept guiding your hips over him like he had all the patience in the world, dragging it out until your underwear was damp, clinging to you, and making it pretty impossible to pretend you weren't affected. At first, the sounds you made were small and half-swallowed against his mouth, but Dean noticed every single one like he'd been waiting for them.

"Don't do that," he murmured.

You blinked at him. "Do what?"

"Hold back." His fingers tightened on your hips like he was making sure you couldn't pretend you didn't know what he meant. "I like hearing you."

Your stomach flipped, which was annoying because Dean absolutely felt it, and then he kissed you again until the friction dragged a moan out of you that you finally let him hear.

Dean groaned, as if he'd heard you'd done something terrible to his self-control.

That helped more than anything else could have.

By the time Dean had pushed his sweatpants down and rolled on a condom, your underwear was shoved to the side, your hands were planted on his chest, and the shirt was still hanging over you like a very pathetic attempt at feeling covered. Dean didn't try to take it off, which somehow made your chest feel tighter. He just held your hips, eyes fixed on your face as he guided himself through your wetness.

"Slow," he murmured. "Take your time."

You lowered yourself carefully, trying to take your time like he'd told you to, but your mouth still fell open the second the head of his cock pressed inside you. The stretch was familiar and different all at once, deeper like this, more intense because you were the one in control, which sounded nice in theory and felt a lot more terrifying with Dean watching your face like that. You sank inch by inch, trying very hard to look like you had any control over yourself, but the second he filled you, your fingers curled against his chest, and a shaky whimper slipped out before you could stop it.

Dean's jaw tightened. "Fuck."

You froze immediately. "Bad?"

His eyes snapped to yours as you'd just said something insane. "Are you joking?"

"You made a face."

"Yeah, baby, because you feel so good, I'm trying not to embarrass myself."

Your cheeks warmed, which was embarrassing enough on its own, but the praise still settled low in your stomach like your body had decided to enjoy it before you could overthink it.

"You're not just saying that?"

Dean's hands slid up your thighs, grounding you in a way that made it annoyingly hard to spiral. "Move once, sweetheart, and see if I sound like I'm lying."

So you did, moving slowly at first.

Your hips lifted, then sank back down, and Dean's head tipped against the pillow with this rough, helpless groan that made it pretty hard to believe he'd been lying about any of it.

"Oh," you breathed, and the second you moved again, it turned into something closer to a moan.

Dean's eyes opened, heavy and dark, like he'd been waiting for exactly that. "Yeah?"

"Feels good," you said, already sounding a little wrecked.

His hands squeezed your thighs. "Then keep going, sweetheart."

Your movements were awkward at first, mostly because your brain wouldn't shut up long enough to let your body figure it out, too busy worrying about the rhythm, whether you were doing enough, and whether you looked ridiculous hovering over him in his shirt with your thighs trembling.

Then Dean's hands tightened on your hips like he could feel you spiraling. "Stop thinking."

"I'm trying."

"No." His voice dropped, rough around the edges but still gentle. "You're trying to look good, which is insane, because you already do. Just move how you want."

The words hit harder than you'd expected, mostly because Dean sounded like he meant them, so you tried to believe him.

You rolled your hips instead of lifting so high, chasing the angle that made your clit catch against him every time you sank back down, and the moan that left you was loud enough to make Dean's cock twitch inside you like he was having a very hard time staying calm about it.

Your eyes flicked to his face, and Dean looked so wrecked that it made it pretty hard to keep worrying about whether you were doing it right.

His lips parted, jaw tense, and his hands kept flexing on your hips like Dean was having the world's hardest time remembering he'd told you to move how you wanted.

"You like this?" you asked, and even though your voice shook, it still came out bolder than before.

Dean laughed once, rough and breathless, as the question had actually offended him. "Like it?" His hips jerked up into you, dragging a gasp out of your mouth. "Baby, I'm trying not to lose my fucking mind."

That did something to you, mostly because Dean sounded like he meant it, and apparently, your body liked knowing you could mess him up that badly.

Your next movement was smoother, more confident, and the moan that came out of you wasn't even close to quiet, which Dean clearly noticed because his hands tightened on your hips immediately.

"Dean—fuck," you moaned, and the way his eyes darkened made it pretty clear he'd liked hearing his name like that.

"That's it," he murmured. "Let me hear you."

You rode him slowly at first, then a little faster once you realized your body had apparently figured out what your brain kept trying to overthink, your hands sliding up his chest as his shirt rode higher over your thighs. Your cunt was soaked around him, every movement making it easier, wetter, and a lot harder to feel shy about, especially when Dean looked down to watch where you were taking him and groaned as he'd just lost whatever was left of his self-control.

"God," he muttered, hands tightening on your hips. "You were worried about this?"

You tried to laugh, but it came out closer to a whimper when he helped you grind down harder. "Maybe."

Dean looked like that answer personally offended him. "You're killing me."

His fingers tugged at the hem of the shirt, and you slowed immediately, like your body had decided to panic before your brain could tell it not to.

Dean noticed immediately, because, of course, he did, his eyes lifting back to yours, as if taking the shirt off suddenly mattered a whole lot less than making sure you were okay. "Can I see you?"

Your stomach fluttered.

His hands rubbed up your thighs, warm and steady. "You can keep it on if you want."

You hesitated for only a second before lifting your arms, which felt a lot braver than it probably looked.

Dean pulled the shirt over your head and tossed it aside, leaving you in your bra and still moving over him like your body hadn't quite figured out whether to be nervous or proud. His eyes dragged over you slowly, and for once, Dean Di Laurentis had absolutely nothing to say.

That made your chest tighten, mostly because Dean looking at you like that was a lot harder to handle than any stupid comment he could've made. "What?"

His hands slid up your waist, warm and certain. "You're so fucking pretty."

Your breath caught the second his palms covered your breasts through your bra, thumbs brushing over your nipples beneath the thin fabric, and your rhythm faltered immediately, because apparently, Dean touching you there made moving and thinking at the same time impossible.

"Oh—Dean."

His mouth curved, entirely too pleased with himself. "No, don't stop."

"You're distracting me."

"Good." His thumbs circled again, making you clench around him like your body had decided to prove his point. "Keep riding me anyway."

You moaned louder this time, hips rolling as his hands played with your tits through your bra, and every touch made you stutter in a way Dean very clearly noticed. Every bit of praise made you wetter, every look on his face made you a little bolder, until the embarrassment started slipping away as your body had finally decided to stop fighting him.

"Tell me," he said, voice rough. "Tell me what feels good."

You swallowed, still moving over him because apparently stopping would've been the worst idea. "Your hands."

"Yeah?"

"And your cock." Your voice was breathless enough to be embarrassing, but you said it anyway, and Dean's eyes went so dark that it made the embarrassment feel worth it. "Feels good when I move like this."

You rolled your hips harder to show him, and Dean's head dropped back as you'd just ruined him on purpose.

"Fuck," he groaned. "Don't stop doing that."

Hearing Dean sound like that ruined something dangerous to your confidence, mostly because it was a lot harder to feel embarrassed when he sounded like he was the one barely holding it together.

Your hands moved behind your back, unclasping your bra before your brain could show up and ruin the moment. It slipped down your arms and fell somewhere between you, and Dean stared as you'd just done something genuinely unfair to his ability to breathe.

"Look at you," he breathed, and the way he said it made your whole body feel warm.

The words made your chest warm in a way you weren't sure what to do with.

Then his mouth was on you, lips closing around one nipple while his hand covered your other breast, and you cried out so quickly it would've been embarrassing if Dean hadn't groaned like it'd done something to him. Your fingers slid into his hair, hips moving faster now as pleasure started building low in your stomach.

"Dean, I'm—" Your voice fell apart into a whimper when his thumb found your clit, because apparently your body had no interest in letting you finish a sentence. "Oh my god, right there."

"There?" he asked, smug in a way that would've been annoying if he didn't sound so wrecked.

"Yes. Fuck, yes."

He rubbed slow circles over your clit while you rode him, his other hand on your hip and his mouth moving from your breast to your throat like he wasn't already making it impossible to focus. You were close, so close your thighs had started shaking, but the rhythm was getting harder to keep, your moans turning messier and needier as frustration tangled with the pleasure your body kept trying to chase.

Dean caught it instantly, like every little shift in your body was something he'd been waiting for.

"Come here," he murmured.

Before you could even think about arguing, Dean rolled you beneath him and pulled the sheets over both of you, settling between your thighs without slipping out like he'd decided you'd done enough thinking for one night. The new angle made you gasp, your legs wrapping around his waist as he pressed deeper.

Then Dean caught both your hands and laced your fingers together, pinning them above your head so gently it made your chest ache a little.

Dean kissed you, slow and messy, like he had every intention of making good on that promise. "Let me finish what you started."

"Please," you whispered, and it came out a lot needier than planned, which Dean absolutely noticed.

Dean's expression flickered. Then his hips started moving. Slow, deep, steady thrusts that had you moaning into the space between you, thighs locked around his waist, your hands crossed with his over your head. The sheets tangled around your legs, heat building under the blanket, his body heavy and warm over yours.

"You did so well," he murmured, his mouth brushing your jaw like he knew exactly how badly the praise was getting to you. "Looked so fucking good on top of me."

"Dean," you whimpered.

"I know." His hips rolled deeper, pulling your back into an arch. "I've got you."

His hand slipped between your bodies again, thumb finding your clit like he already knew exactly what you needed, and your whole body tightened around him.

"Oh—fuck, don't stop," you gasped, which was probably unnecessary considering Dean looked like stopping would've killed him.

He groaned anyway. "Wasn't planning on it."

The pleasure snapped through you suddenly, hot and sharp, and your moan broke against Dean's mouth as you came around him. Your thighs locked around his waist, fingers tightening in his above your head like you needed something to hold onto while your body shook beneath him.

Dean followed right after, his thrusts going uneven as he'd finally lost the last of his control, face buried in your neck as a rough groan broke out of him while he held you close and came.

For a while, neither of you moved, both of you too warm and tangled beneath the sheets to do anything other than breathe.

"You okay?" he asked softly.

You nodded, still trying to catch your breath. "Yeah."

His grin appeared slowly, which was never a good sign. "So."

"No."

"I didn't say anything."

"You were about to."

"I was just gonna say you're definitely not bad at being on top."

Your face warmed, and you turned it into the pillow like that might somehow save you. "You're so annoying."

"And you were so loud."

"Dean."

"I liked it," he said, kissing your cheek like he hadn't just made you want to disappear into the mattress. "A lot."

You tried to glare, but it came out pretty weak, especially when he slipped out carefully and disappeared to clean up like he hadn't just ruined your ability to function. When he came back, he helped clean you with a warm towel, gentle when your thighs twitched, before pulling his shirt back over your head as it belonged there.

"Putting me back in this?" you asked, glancing down at the shirt.

"Obviously." Dean climbed into bed beside you and pulled you into his chest, looking far too pleased with himself. "It's my new favorite thing now."

You laughed softly, settling against him while his arm wrapped around you like he had no plans of letting you go anytime soon.

For a minute, Dean only rubbed slow circles over your back like he was trying to make sure you'd fully melted into him. Then his voice came again, softer this time, though obviously still teasing because it was Dean.

"So..." His mouth brushed your hair, and you could hear the grin in his voice before he even finished. "You wanna do that again sometime?"

You pinched his side, which only made him laugh because apparently even that wasn't enough to make him less pleased with himself.

Dean laughed and pulled you closer, sounding far too pleased with himself for someone who'd just been pinched. "I'll take that as a yes."

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

💌lmk if you want to be added to my taglist

taglist: @elixirandstars @ethanthequeefqueen @beebeechaos

[liafieldnotes-03]

My weakness for Dean is insane

[pucksandpower]

civic duty

Dean Di Laurentis x Reader

Summary: Dean has never met a problem he couldn’t charm his way out of or a woman he couldn’t leave completely satisfied. So when he overhears a football player publicly blame you for his own failures in bed, Dean does the only logical thing: he shows up at your doorstep with a duffel bag full of toys and a mission

Warnings: 18+ content

The crisp March wind whips across the Briar University quad, but Dean hardly feels the chill. He’s running on four hours of sleep, a triple-shot espresso, and the lingering high of a weekend well spent.

“I’m just saying,” Garrett says, adjusting the strap of his duffel bag over his shoulder. “If Coach makes us bag skate again tomorrow, I’m staging a full-team mutiny. I’m not doing it.”

Logan snorts. “You love bag skates.”

“I tolerate bag skates,” Garrett corrects him. “There’s a massive difference.”

“You’re both whining,” Tucker chimes in, his steady southern drawl a stark contrast to Garrett’s rapid-fire complaining. “Just put your heads down and skate.”

Dean grins, walking backward for a few steps so he can face his teammates. “Tuck’s right. It’s all about pacing, boys. Stamina. You can’t blow all your energy in the first period. You have to finesse it. Read the ice. Just like with a woman.”

Beau, walking beside Dean, rolls his eyes and shoves Dean’s shoulder. “Jesus, Di Laurentis. Does everything come back to your sex life?”

“When it’s as spectacular as mine?” Dean winks. “Yeah. It does.”

He isn’t trying to be an arrogant prick. It’s just the truth. Dean loves women. He loves the way they look, the way they smell, the way they sound when he’s doing things right. He grew up surrounded by affection — two powerhouse attorney parents who actually love each other, a sprawling maternal family with a business empire, and a childhood free of the usual rich-kid neuroses. He knows how lucky he is. And he believes in sharing the wealth. Specifically, by ensuring that any woman lucky enough to end up in his bed leaves it thoroughly, exhaustingly satisfied.

“Who was it this weekend?” Logan asks, kicking a stray pebble across the pavement. “Wait, don’t tell me. The blonde from the Gamma Gamma party?”

“Her name is Tori,” Dean says easily. “And she’s a delight. Highly recommend her taste in music. Terrible taste in breakfast food, though. Who orders egg whites and no bacon? It’s a crime against mornings.”

“You bought her breakfast?” Beau asks, raising an eyebrow.

“I always buy them breakfast.” Dean turns back around, matching his stride to the rest of the guys. “It’s called manners, Beau. You should try it sometime. Instead of just throwing a football at people.”

“I’m a quarterback,” Beau says defensively. “Throwing a football is literally my job description.”

“Yeah, well, my job description is making sure everyone leaves happy.”

They turn the corner near the student union. The quad is packed with bodies hurrying between afternoon classes, a sea of Briar U hoodies and overpriced coffee cups.

Up ahead, leaning against the low brick wall near the fountain, are two guys wearing Briar football jackets.

Beau groans under his breath. “Oh, great. It’s McMahon.”

“Who?” Tucker asks.

“Wide receiver,” Beau mutters. “Hands made of stone, ego the size of Rhode Island. Don’t look at him, or he’ll start complaining to me about his target share.”

Dean has no interest in football politics, so he keeps his eyes straight ahead. They’re about to walk past the two guys when McMahon’s voice carries over the noise of the quad. It’s loud. Too loud. The kind of loud a guy uses when he wants everyone around him to know he’s talking.

“I had to dump her, man,” McMahon is saying to his buddy, a sneer clear in his voice. “Total waste of my time.”

“Yeah?” The other guy asks.

“Oh, absolutely. I’m telling you, she’s a frigid bitch.”

Dean slows his steps. Next to him, Garrett stiffens.

McMahon laughs, a harsh, grating sound. “I put in the work, you know? But nothing. Swear to God, she just laid there. Something must genuinely be wrong with her. She can never cum.”

Dean stops walking completely.

Beau takes two more steps before realizing Dean isn’t beside him. He turns around. “Dean. Come on. Don’t.”

“Did you hear what he just said?” Dean asks, his voice dropping low. All the playful ease from a moment ago evaporates.

“I heard it,” Logan says, his expression tightening. “The guy’s a class-A douchebag. Let’s keep moving.”

“He just announced to half the quad that he couldn’t get a girl off,” Dean says, staring at the back of McMahon’s head. “And he blamed her.”

“Dean,” Tucker says, stepping into Dean’s line of sight. “Not our circus. Not our monkeys.”

“It is an insult to womankind,” Dean says. He isn’t joking. His chest actually feels tight with genuine indignation. “A crime. A travesty.”

“It’s a wide receiver with a fragile ego,” Beau says, grabbing Dean’s elbow. “Leave it alone.”

Dean shrugs off Beau’s hand. He isn’t going to start a brawl in the middle of the quad, he has no interest in getting suspended for the next five games. But the sheer audacity of it is ringing in his ears.

Something must genuinely be wrong with her.

No. Dean shakes his head. No, there is nothing wrong with you. He doesn’t even know who you are. He doesn’t know your face, or your laugh, or the way you look when you’re a mess in the sheets. But he knows, with absolute, unwavering certainty, that McMahon is an idiot.

“There’s no such thing as a frigid woman,” Dean says, his voice carrying just enough that McMahon’s conversation pauses. “Just lazy, incompetent guys who don’t know where the clit is.”

Silence drops over their immediate vicinity.

Garrett scrubs a hand over his face. “Jesus Christ.”

McMahon turns around, his face flushing dull red. He spots Beau first, then his eyes slide to Dean. “You got something to say, Di Laurentis?”

Dean slides his hands into the pockets of his jeans, rocking back on his heels. He gives McMahon a lazy, condescending smile. “Just offering some unsolicited biological facts, McMahon. Sounds like you need a tutor. Maybe a diagram.”

McMahon steps away from the brick wall, puffing his chest out. “Are you calling me incompetent?”

“I think you just called yourself incompetent, man,” Dean says smoothly. “Loudly. In public. I’m just agreeing with you.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” McMahon snaps. “You don’t know her.”

“I don’t need to know her,” Dean counters, his tone perfectly even. “I know anatomy. I know effort. If a girl doesn’t get off, it’s because you didn’t pay attention. You rushed it. You fumbled the play. Isn’t that what you guys call it? Fumbling?”

Beau winces. “Dean.”

McMahon takes a step forward, his fists clenching. “You think you’re so fucking funny.”

“I think I’m highly effective,” Dean corrects him. “And I think you should keep your bedroom failures to yourself instead of dragging a girl’s name through the mud because your fragile masculinity can’t handle the fact that you suck in bed.”

For a second, it looks like McMahon is going to swing. Dean shifts his weight, perfectly ready to slip the punch and drop the guy. He’s not a fighter by nature, but he’s a hockey player. It comes with the territory.

But Tucker steps in, his frame easily blocking McMahon’s path. “I think that’s about enough conversation for one afternoon,” Tucker says calmly. His tone is polite, but his eyes are flat.

McMahon glares at Tucker, then at Dean. He points a finger. “Watch your mouth, Di Laurentis.”

“Watch your form, McMahon,” Dean shoots back. “Maybe use two fingers next time. Or, God forbid, your tongue.”

Logan chokes on a laugh, quickly disguising it as a cough.

McMahon spits on the ground, turns, and shoves his way through the crowd, his buddy trailing awkwardly behind him.

Dean watches them go, his jaw tight.

“Well,” Garrett says after a moment. “That was diplomatic.”

“I hate guys like that,” Dean mutters, running a hand through his hair. “I really, genuinely hate them.”

“We know,” Beau sighs, clapping Dean on the back. “You’re the caped crusader of the female orgasm. We’re all very proud to know you. Can we go get food now? I’m starving.”

They resume their walk toward the dining hall, the tension slowly bleeding out of the group as Garrett and Logan pick up their argument about practice drills right where they left off.

But Dean is quiet. He tunes out the banter, his mind replaying McMahon’s harsh, dismissive words.

It’s just sloppy. It’s pathetic. Dean loves women too much to stand the thought of one being treated like a chore, or worse, a lost cause. Sex isn’t a race. It isn’t just about friction. It’s about connection, observation, communication. It’s about worshipping a body until it unravels for you.

He doesn’t know who you are. He doesn’t know what you’re doing right now. Maybe you’re sitting in a lecture, feeling insecure because some meathead wide receiver told you you were broken. Maybe you’re in your dorm room, crying over a guy who couldn’t even be bothered to figure out what you like.

Dean looks up at the crisp blue sky, mentally sending a prayer up to the universe.

“Dear Universe, please watch over this woman’s sadly neglected clitoris,” he thinks solemnly. “May it one day find someone who actually knows what they’re doing. Amen.”

He kicks a stray leaf on the sidewalk. It is a damn tragedy, that’s what it is. A tragedy that needs rectifying.

“Hey, Beau,” Dean says suddenly, interrupting whatever Tucker was saying.

Beau glances over. “Yeah?”

“Who did McMahon just break up with?”

Beau frowns, his steps slowing. “What? Why?”

“Just answer the question.”

“I don’t know, man. He dates around. I try not to keep track of his personal life. Why?” Beau squints at him. “Wait. No. Whatever you’re thinking, stop.”

“I’m not thinking anything,” Dean lies smoothly.

“You are. You have that look on your face.” Logan points a finger at him. “The ‘Dean is about to do something stupid’ look.”

“I resent that,” Dean says. “I don’t do stupid things.”

“You bought a jet ski on eBay at three in the morning last week,” Garrett points out.

“It was a steal, G. An absolute steal. You don’t understand economics.” Dean waves a hand dismissively. “Seriously, Beau. Does anyone know who she is?”

“Why do you care?” Tucker asks, amused.

“Because it’s an injustice,” Dean states flatly. “It is a cosmic wrong that needs to be righted. She’s probably out there right now, thinking she’s the problem, when the reality is she was just subjected to the sloppy, fumbling hands of a guy who treats sex like a two-minute drill.”

Beau groans, burying his face in his hands. “You’re not going to track this girl down, Dean.”

“I am absolutely going to track her down.”

“And do what?” Logan asks, laughing in disbelief.

Dean looks at his friends, entirely serious. “And give her the orgasm she’s been so cruelly denied. It’s my civic duty.”

“You’re insane,” Garrett says, though he’s grinning. “You are actually insane.”

“I’m a humanitarian,” Dean corrects him. “I’m giving back to the community.”

“You don’t even know her name,” Tucker says softly.

“I’ll find it out,” Dean promises. He glances back toward the direction McMahon disappeared.

He doesn’t know you yet. He doesn’t know if you’re blonde, brunette, tall, short, quiet, or loud. But he knows one thing for sure.

He is going to find you. He is going to ruin you for every other man on the planet. And he is going to make damn sure you never, ever think there is something wrong with you again.

***

The stale smell of pepperoni pizza and the frantic clicking of Xbox controllers fill the living room of the off-campus hockey house.

“Pass it, pass it, pass it,” Logan chants, mashing the buttons on his controller as he leans so far forward on the couch he’s practically sitting on the coffee table.

“I am passing it, you pylon,” Dean snaps back, his eyes glued to the television screen. “If you would get into position instead of skating around like a lost toddler-”

“I’m open!”

“You’re surrounded by both defensemen!”

“Shoot the damn puck!” Garrett yells from the armchair, throwing a piece of popcorn at Logan’s head. “You guys are an embarrassment to the sport. It’s a video game. It requires a fraction of the athletic ability we actually possess, and you’re still blowing it.”

“Shut up, Graham,” Dean and Logan say in unison.

On the screen, the buzzer blares. Game over. Logan groans and tosses his controller onto the cushions, dragging a hand down his face.

Dean exhales, leaning back and stretching his arms over his head. His shoulders pop. Normally, he’d be demanding a rematch, relentlessly trash-talking Logan until the guy agreed to play another round just to shut him up. But today, Dean isn’t feeling it. His head isn’t in the game. It hasn’t been in the game since they left the quad three hours ago.

He keeps replaying the conversation in his head. Or rather, the broadcast. That loudmouth wide receiver, McMahon, announcing to half the student body that the girl he was dating couldn’t get off.

It pisses Dean off. It genuinely, deeply aggravates him.

“You’re quiet,” Garrett notes, watching Dean from the armchair. “You won. Usually, you do a victory lap around the coffee table.”

“I’m conserving my energy,” Dean says, picking up his phone to check his notifications. Nothing interesting. Just a text from a girl in his sociology seminar and an email from his dad about spring break.

“He’s still thinking about his crusade,” Logan says, snagging a cold slice of pizza from the box on the table. “The caped crusader of the clitoris.”

“It’s not a crusade,” Dean says defensively. “It’s a matter of principle.”

“You don’t even know her,” Garrett points out, amused. “For all you know, McMahon was telling the truth.”

Dean glares at him. “Garrett. Look at me. Do I look like a man who accepts defeat in the bedroom?”

“You look like a man who spends too much time on his hair,” Garrett deadpans.

“My hair is flawless, and that is entirely besides the point,” Dean shoots back. “The point is, there is a fundamental lack of effort plaguing the male population of this campus. It’s an epidemic. Guys like McMahon treat sex like a race to the finish line, and then they have the audacity to blame the woman when she doesn’t cross it with them. It’s pathetic.”

Logan chews his pizza thoughtfully. “I mean, you’re not wrong. But you can’t save them all, man.”

“I don’t need to save them all,” Dean says, his voice dropping a fraction. “I just need to save this one.”

The front door swings open before Logan can reply, slamming against the wall with a loud thud.

Beau trudges into the house, looking like he just survived a minor war. He’s still wearing his gray Briar football sweatpants and a tight compression shirt that clings to his exhausted frame. He drops his massive gym bag onto the hardwood floor, kicks off his slides, and groans loudly.

“Practice?” Garrett asks sympathetically.

“Practice,” Beau confirms, shuffling into the living room and collapsing onto the empty space on the couch next to Dean. He smells faintly of artificial turf, sweat, and the sharp tang of Deep Relief muscle rub. “Coach made us run the stadium stairs. Twice. Because someone — who shall remain nameless, but his initials rhyme with DickMahon — kept dropping his routes during seven-on-sevens.”

Dean’s ears perk up. He turns to look at his best friend, his previous lethargy vanishing instantly. “McMahon?”

Beau closes his eyes and tips his head back against the couch cushions. “Don’t.”

“You were in the locker room with him,” Dean presses, shifting his body so he’s fully facing Beau. “Did you ask around?”

Beau keeps his eyes squeezed shut. “Dean, I am tired. My calves are screaming. I want a shower, a beer, and for you to stop looking at me with that deranged glint in your eye.”

“Tell me you found something out,” Dean says, ignoring every word Beau just said. “Tell me you didn’t spend two hours in a locker room full of gossiping linebackers and come back empty-handed.”

Beau sighs, a long, dramatic sound that ruffles his blonde hair. He slowly opens one eye, looking at Dean with a mixture of exhaustion and profound regret. “Do you want the good news or the bad news first?”

Dean’s heart actually kicks up a notch. He leans forward, resting his forearms on his knees. “Good news. Always start with the good news.”

Beau sits up a little, rubbing the back of his neck. “Okay. The good news is, I know who she is. I asked Howard, the backup tight end, because he knows everybody’s business. He told me who McMahon just dumped.”

“Who?” Dean demands.

“Her name is Y/N Y/L/N,” Beau says.

Dean processes the name. It suits you. It sounds smart, put-together. “And?”

“And,” Beau continues, “she’s not just some random girl. She’s a junior. Pre-law, I think. And she’s the president of the Delta Zeta sorority.”

Logan whistles low. “Delta Zeta? Those girls don’t mess around. That’s the house with the insane GPA requirement and the terrifying philanthropy events.”

Dean smiles, a slow, genuine curve of his lips. He likes this. He really likes this. A sorority president. That means you are organized. Driven. You probably walk around campus with a planner perfectly color-coded to match your outfits. You take charge, you handle responsibility, and you probably don’t take shit from anyone. Which makes it even more infuriating that a guy like McMahon made you feel inadequate.

“Y/N,” Dean says your name out loud, testing the syllables on his tongue. He likes the way it sounds. He likes the way it feels. “Okay. That’s excellent news. What’s the bad news?”

Beau hesitates. He looks away from Dean, glancing at Garrett and Logan, who are suddenly very invested in the conversation. Beau scrubs a hand over his jaw, looking distinctly uncomfortable.

“Spit it out, Beau,” Dean says, the smile fading from his face.

“The bad news,” Beau says slowly, “is that McMahon wasn’t the first guy to complain about her.”

The living room goes dead silent. The only sound is the low hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen.

Dean stares at him. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m just telling you what I heard,” Beau says defensively, holding his hands up in a placating gesture. “Howard started talking, and then a couple of the other guys chimed in. Apparently, she dated a guy on the lacrosse team last year. And before that, some dude from Kappa Sig.”

“And?” Dean prompts, his jaw tightening.

“And the grapevine says the same thing,” Beau mutters, looking at the floor. “Nobody has ever been able to make her cum. The lacrosse guy said she was completely unresponsive. The Kappa Sig guy said he tried for an hour and gave up. It’s … it’s a known thing, Dean. The guys in the locker room were joking that she’s cursed.”

Dean feels a cold, sharp spike of anger lodge itself right beneath his ribs.

He imagines you, standing in front of a mirror, wondering what’s wrong with you. He imagines the quiet humiliation of lying in bed while a guy sighs in frustration, rolls over, and goes to sleep. He imagines you carrying around a reputation you didn’t ask for, created by guys who are too incompetent to do their damn jobs.

It makes him want to punch a hole through the drywall.

“They were joking about it,” Dean repeats, his voice dangerously soft.

“Locker rooms are toxic,” Garrett says quietly from the armchair. “You know how it is, Dean. Guys talk. They exaggerate to protect their own egos.”

“It’s not an exaggeration if three different guys are saying the exact same thing,” Beau points out gently. He looks back at Dean, his expression softening into an apology. “Look, man. I know you’re on this crusade to prove McMahon wrong, but … maybe he isn’t. Maybe it’s not a lack of effort.”

Dean narrows his eyes. “What are you implying?”

Beau shifts uncomfortably. “I’m just saying … biology is weird. Some people have weird wiring. Maybe she really does have some sort of issue. You know? Like, a medical reason why she can’t get off. It happens.”

“No,” Dean says immediately.

“Dean, be reasonable,” Beau tries. “If multiple guys-”

“I don’t give a damn if the entire starting lineup of the New England Patriots tried and failed,” Dean snaps, pushing himself off the couch. He paces across the living room, running a hand aggressively through his hair. “I am shutting that theory down right now.”

“You can’t just shut down biology,” Logan argues reasonably.

“Watch me,” Dean shoots back. He turns to face his friends, pointing an accusatory finger at Beau. “Do you know what the common denominator is here? It’s not her. It’s the guys.”

“A lacrosse player, a frat bro, and a wide receiver,” Garrett lists, counting them off on his fingers.

“Exactly!” Dean throws his hands in the air. “The holy trinity of selfish lovers! What do they all have in common? Ego. They care more about their own performance than her pleasure. They probably pounded away for five minutes like jackrabbits, didn’t bother with foreplay, and then got offended when she didn’t magically explode.”

Beau sighs. “Dean-”

“I’m serious, Beau,” Dean interrupts, his voice hard. The anger is settling into something sharper, something far more resolute. “Do not sit there and tell me she’s broken. Do not tell me she has a physiological issue just because three frat-star idiots couldn’t find the clit with a flashlight and a map.”

The conviction in his voice fills the room. He isn’t laughing. He isn’t playing around. He means every single word.

“Women’s bodies aren’t slot machines,” Dean says, pacing back toward the television. “You don’t just put a coin in, pull a lever, and wait for the jackpot. It takes attention. It takes communication. You have to learn the body you’re touching. You have to figure out what she likes, what she hates, what she needs before she even knows she needs it.”

He stops pacing, planting his hands on his hips as he stares down his three friends.

“If she hasn’t come,” Dean states, absolute certainty ringing in his tone, “it is because nobody has bothered to learn her properly. Nobody has put in the work.”

Garrett raises an eyebrow. “And you think you’re the guy to put in the work?”

“I know I am,” Dean says without a second of hesitation.

“Dude.” Logan lets out a breath, shaking his head. “You’re talking about taking on a campus legend. If she really is, uh, un-finishable-”

“Stop calling her that,” Dean snaps. “She’s not a challenge on a bucket list. She is a girl who deserves to feel good.”

Beau looks at him for a long, quiet moment. He knows Dean better than anyone in the room. Beau knows when Dean is messing around, and he knows when Dean is dead serious.

Right now, Dean is dead serious.

“Okay,” Beau says softly, holding his hands up in surrender. “Okay. I hear you. But let’s look at this logically. What exactly is your plan here?”

Dean drops back onto the couch, resting his elbows on his knees. “My plan is simple. I’m going to find her. I’m going to get to know her. And then I’m going to help her.”

“Help her,” Beau repeats flatly.

“Yes. I am going to give her the release she has been denied. I am going to do what apparently no other incompetent man on this campus has managed to do.” Dean’s eyes gleam with a fierce, protective determination. “I am going to break the curse.”

Logan lets out a sudden, bark-like laugh. “You’re out of your mind.”

“I am a visionary,” Dean corrects him.

Beau rubs his temples, looking like he’s developing a severe migraine. “Dean, think about this for two seconds. You can’t just walk up to a girl — a sorority president, no less — and offer to give her an orgasm.”

“Why not?” Dean asks innocently.

“Because it’s insane!” Beau yells, finally losing his cool. “Because she doesn’t know you! You can’t just stroll up to her in the dining hall, tap her on the shoulder, and say, ‘Hey, I heard your ex-boyfriend has the sexual prowess of a wet sponge, let me fix that for you!’”

“Well, obviously I wouldn’t use those exact words,” Dean says, offended. “I have tact, Beau. I have charm. I know how to talk to women.”

“You’re going to get pepper-sprayed,” Garrett predicts, sounding entirely too cheerful about the prospect. “I’ll give you twenty bucks right now if you get it on video.”

“I am not going to get pepper-sprayed,” Dean says firmly. “I am going to be a gentleman.”

“A gentleman doesn’t solicit orgasms to strangers,” Tucker’s voice drawls from the doorway. He’s leaning against the frame, holding a massive protein shake in one hand, having apparently walked in through the kitchen halfway through the conversation.

“A true gentleman recognizes a woman in need and steps up to the plate,” Dean counters smoothly. “I’m going to do it. That’s exactly what I’m going to do.”

“Dean, please,” Beau begs, sounding genuinely distressed. “She’s a prominent figure on campus. If you go up to her and say something crazy, she’s going to ruin your reputation.”

“My reputation?” Dean laughs. It’s a bright, easy sound. “Beau, my reputation is already that of a shameless flirt who sleeps around. What’s she going to do? Tell people I offered to make her feel good? Oh, the horror.”

“She’s going to think you’re a creep,” Beau insists.

“She won’t,” Dean says confidently. “Because I’m not going to be creepy about it. I’m going to be honest. Completely, brutally honest. Women appreciate honesty.”

Garrett snorts. “Yeah, let me know how that honesty works out for you when she slaps you across the face.”

Dean ignores them. He tunes out Garrett’s laughter, Logan’s skepticism, and Beau’s frantic attempts to reason with him. His mind is already racing, piecing together a strategy.

He knows you are the president of Delta Zeta. That means you are busy. It means you are likely stressed, overworked, and constantly dealing with other people’s drama. You probably drink too much coffee, don’t get enough sleep, and carry the weight of your entire house on your shoulders.

And on top of all that, you have the baggage of guys like McMahon making you feel inadequate.

Dean feels that fierce, protective urge flare up again. It isn’t just about his ego anymore. It isn’t just about proving a point to the locker room. It’s about you. It’s about the fact that nobody has looked at you and decided you were worth the time it takes to figure out what you need.

He stands up again, suddenly too energized to sit still. “When does Delta Zeta usually hold their chapter meetings?”

Beau groans, throwing himself face-first into a couch pillow. “I’m not telling you.”

“Fridays,” Logan provides helpfully. “Usually around seven. I know because I hooked up with a DZ last semester, and she always made me leave by six-thirty so she could get ready.”

“Friday,” Dean repeats. Today is Wednesday. That gives him two days to figure out an approach. Two days to find you, study you, and plan his move.

“You’re really going through with this?” Beau asks, his voice muffled by the pillow.

“I am,” Dean says. He walks toward the hallway leading to his bedroom, pausing at the threshold to look back at his friends. “I’m going to find her. I’m going to look her in the eyes, and I’m going to offer my services.”

“Services,” Garrett echoes, shaking his head. “You make it sound like you’re an independent contractor.”

“I’m a specialist,” Dean corrects him with a wink. “And Y/N Y/L/N is about to become my top priority.”

He turns and walks down the hall, already mentally mapping out the campus to figure out where a pre-law sorority president is most likely to spend her Friday afternoon. The library? The student union? A coffee shop?

He’ll check them all. He doesn’t care how long it takes.

Because Dean loves a challenge. But more than that, he loves making things right. And making sure you finally understand that there is absolutely nothing wrong with you?

That is going to be the best thing he’s ever done.

***

Dean does not usually require props.

In fact, he prides himself on his natural abilities. He has spent years perfecting his technique, learning the exact amount of pressure, the perfect rhythm, the right things to whisper in the dark. He is a craftsman, and his hands and mouth are his chosen tools.

But as he stands in his bedroom on Friday afternoon, staring into the bottom drawer of his nightstand, he decides to make an exception.

Because you aren’t just a regular Friday night hookup. You are a mission. You are the final boss of Briar University’s dating pool, a girl who has allegedly stumped every self-serving idiot on this campus. And while Dean is completely, undeniably confident in his own mouth, he also believes in being prepared. A good lawyer — like his mother always says — never walks into a courtroom without covering all his bases.

So, he grabs a sleek, black duffel bag from his closet.

He tosses in a small, discreet bullet vibrator. Then a curved silicone toy that he knows for a fact works absolute miracles. He adds a bottle of premium, water-based lubricant, just to be safe. He zips the bag up, slinging it over his shoulder.

“Where are you going?” Garrett asks, looking up from the kitchen island as Dean walks out of his room. Garrett is eating cereal straight out of the box.

“I have an appointment,” Dean says, checking his reflection in the hallway mirror. He runs a hand through his hair, making sure it falls with just the right amount of effortless messiness. He’s wearing a fitted black long-sleeve henley that highlights his shoulders, and his favorite jeans. He looks good. Approachable. Trustworthy.

“An appointment,” Garrett repeats flatly. His eyes drop to the black duffel bag. “Are you going to the gym, or are you actually going through with this psychotic plan to accost McMahon’s ex-girlfriend?”

“Her name is Y/N,” Dean corrects him. “And I am not accosting anyone. I am offering a philanthropic service. I’m giving back to the community.”

“You’re going to get arrested,” Garrett says, tossing a piece of Cap’n Crunch at him.

Dean catches it mid-air and eats it. “Have a little faith, Graham. I’ll be back in a few hours. Victorious.”

He walks out the door before Garrett can say anything else.

The Delta Zeta house is a massive, sprawling brick mansion situated at the end of Sorority Row. It has white columns, a perfectly manicured lawn, and an intimidating aura of organized femininity. Dean walks up the pristine paved walkway, his heart doing a strange, unfamiliar flutter against his ribs.

He isn’t nervous. Dean Di Laurentis doesn’t get nervous around women. But he is acutely aware that he is operating without a net here. He doesn’t have an introduction. He doesn’t have a mutual friend paving the way. All he has is his charm, a bag of toys, and a burning desire to prove McMahon wrong.

He steps onto the porch and presses the doorbell. It chimes, a soft, melodic sound that echoes through the heavy oak door.

Dean takes a breath. He squares his shoulders. He prepares his opening line. He’s going to be suave. He’s going to introduce himself, ask if you have a minute to talk privately, and then gently, delicately broach the subject.

The lock clicks. The door swings open.

And Dean completely forgets how to speak.

You are standing there, holding a clipboard in one hand and a half-empty mug of coffee in the other. You are wearing a pair of faded gray sweatpants and an oversized Briar University sweatshirt that is slipping off one shoulder. Your hair is pulled up into a messy bun that looks like it’s barely surviving, held together by a single, desperate claw clip. You look exhausted, irritated, and absolutely, devastatingly beautiful.

He wasn’t expecting this. He expected a perfectly polished sorority president in a twinset and pearls. But you look real. You look like a girl who has been managing fifty different crises since six in the morning.

You blink at him, your eyes trailing from the toes of his boots, up his jeans, to his face. “Can I help you?”

Your voice is slightly raspy, like you’ve been talking all day. It sends a sudden, sharp jolt straight to Dean’s groin.

“Uh,” Dean says. The suave opening line evaporates from his brain. The delicate approach vanishes. He stares into your eyes, overwhelmed by the sudden, intense urge to drag you upstairs, lay you down, and spend the next six hours worshipping every single inch of you.

“Hello?” You prompt, arching a single, perfect eyebrow. “I’m in the middle of a budget crisis with my treasurer, so if you’re looking for one of the sisters, you need to tell me who, or I’m shutting this door.”

Dean’s brain short-circuits entirely. “I’m here to make you come.”

Silence.

Thick, heavy, suffocating silence drops over the porch.

You freeze. The hand holding the coffee mug tightens so hard your knuckles turn white. You stare at him, your eyes widening in sheer, unadulterated shock.

Dean realizes what he just said a fraction of a second too late. “Wait. No. I mean-”

The slap echoes across the porch like a gunshot. Your palm connects with Dean’s cheek with stunning, terrifying precision. It stings instantly, a hot flare of pain that snaps his head to the side.

Before he can even register the hit, you step back.

“Get the hell off my porch, you absolute creep!” You snap, and then you slam the heavy oak door directly in his face. The deadbolt clicks into place with a resounding finality.

Dean stands there, staring at the brass knocker. He slowly reaches up, pressing two fingers to his stinging cheek.

“Well,” he mutters to himself. “That could have gone better.”

He doesn’t leave. He can’t leave. If he leaves now, he’s just the lunatic who showed up and harassed you. He drops the duffel bag onto the porch mat, takes a deep breath, and knocks on the door. Firmly.

“Go away!” Your voice filters through the wood, muffled but furious. “Or I’m calling campus security!”

“Please!” Dean calls out, leaning closer to the door. “Just give me one minute! I swear to God, I didn’t mean it like that!”

“You literally said you were here to make me come!” You yell back.

“I know!” Dean winces. “I know I said it! My brain stopped working! I panicked! But I’m not a creep, I promise!”

The lock turns. The door cracks open just an inch, held securely in place by a heavy brass chain. Your eyes appear in the gap, glaring at him with a mixture of anger and deep suspicion.

“You have exactly ten seconds to explain yourself before I pepper-spray you,” you say sharply. “And yes, I have it in my hand.”

Dean immediately holds his hands up in surrender, stepping back so you can see he isn’t trying to force his way in. “Okay. Okay, fair. Listen to me. My name is Dean Di Laurentis-”

“I know who you are,” you interrupt, your voice dripping with disdain. “You play hockey. You’re Beau Maxwell’s best friend. And you have a reputation for sleeping with half the female population of this school.”

“Okay, half is an exaggeration,” Dean says defensively. “A third, maybe. But that’s exactly why I’m here! Listen, I’m a feminist. I love women. I genuinely, deeply respect women and their right to absolute satisfaction.”

You stare at him through the crack. “Are you on drugs?”

“No! Look, I overheard McMahon talking on the quad yesterday.”

The shift in your demeanor is instantaneous. The fiery anger in your eyes extinguishes, replaced by a sudden, protective wall of pure ice. Your jaw clenches, and Dean can practically see you putting your armor on.

“Oh,” you say softly. The word is hollow. “I see. You heard what he said.”

“I heard it,” Dean confirms, his voice dropping, softening. “And I heard what the other guys in the locker room have been saying, too. The lacrosse guy. The Kappa Sig guy.”

You close your eyes for a brief second. When you open them, the ice is thicker. “And you came here to what? Mock me? Place a bet with your friends to see if you can be the one to break the curse?”

“No!” Dean is genuinely horrified. “No, God, absolutely not. I came here because it pisses me off. It pisses me off that these lazy, incompetent assholes don’t know what they’re doing, and they’re making you feel like you’re the problem.”

You don’t say anything. You just watch him through the narrow gap in the door.

“I came here to right a wrong,” Dean pleads, leaning in slightly. “To redeem my gender. I brought toys, just in case, to cover all the bases! I can even give you references, if you want. Seriously. Call Leah from Beta. Call Kayla from the dance team. Call-”

“Stop naming girls you’ve slept with,” you hiss, glancing nervously past him.

Dean looks over his shoulder. A group of freshmen girls are walking down the sidewalk, staring openly at him standing on the Delta Zeta porch, talking to the door.

You let out a frustrated groan. “You are causing a scene. Di Laurentis, I swear to God, if you make this a spectacle …”

“I’ll stand here all day,” Dean threatens lightly, giving you a small, charming smile. “I’ll shout my references to the quad. I’ll sing them. I have a terrible singing voice, Y/N. It will be tragic for everyone involved.”

You glare at him, a muscle ticking in your jaw. Then, with a harsh sigh, you shut the door.

For a second, Dean thinks he’s lost. But then he hears the rattle of the chain sliding out of the lock. The door swings open wide enough for him to enter.

“Get in,” you snap. “Before someone takes a picture.”

Dean quickly grabs his duffel bag and slips past you into the foyer.

The inside of the house is beautiful — hardwood floors, a sweeping staircase, the faint smell of vanilla and expensive perfume. But Dean doesn’t look at any of it. He turns to look at you.

You shut the door behind him and lean against it, crossing your arms tightly over your chest. Without the door between you, Dean can see the exhaustion lining your eyes. You look incredibly guarded, like a cornered animal waiting for the strike.

“Okay,” you say, your voice flat. “You’re inside. You got your little heroic speech out of the way. Now let’s get one thing straight.”

“I’m listening,” Dean says, matching your serious tone. He drops the bag onto the floor.

“You think this is about them,” you say, gesturing vaguely toward the door, indicating the male population at large. “You think McMahon and the others are just selfish lovers who didn’t try hard enough. You think you can waltz in here with your magical hockey-player hands and fix the lazy mistakes of frat boys.”

“I do, actually,” Dean says without hesitation. “I know I can.”

You let out a harsh, humorless laugh. It lacks any real joy. “Your ego is astounding. Truly. But you’re wrong, Dean. It’s not them.”

Dean frowns, taking a half-step toward you. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, it’s me,” you say bluntly. You look him dead in the eyes, refusing to flinch, refusing to look away. “I have never come. Ever.”

Dean stops. “I know. The rumor-”

“No,” you cut him off, your voice slicing through the air. “Not just with guys. Never. Not with men. Not with women. Not with a vibrator. Not with my own hand in the privacy of my own bedroom.”

Dean stares at you. The cocky comeback dies in his throat. He literally doesn’t know what to say.

“It’s a dead end,” you continue, your voice terrifyingly calm. “I have tried everything. I have read the articles, I have bought the expensive toys, I have tried relaxing, I have tried not overthinking it. It doesn’t work. The wires don’t connect. I physically cannot achieve orgasm.”

Dean’s heart aches. It’s a strange, sudden pang right in the center of his chest. Because he can hear the resignation in your voice. He can hear the years of frustration, of quiet, lonely disappointment, all packed into those few clinical sentences.

“Y/N,” he starts softly.

“Don’t,” you say, holding a hand up. “Do not give me pity. I am perfectly fine with it. I have made my peace with my body. I still enjoy sex. I still like the intimacy. It’s the guys who can’t handle it. They take it as a personal insult to their masculinity. They throw tantrums, they call me frigid, and they whine about it to their friends in the locker room.”

You drop your hand, your posture stiffening.

“So, thank you for the valiant attempt to save me,” you say, your tone dripping in sarcasm. “But I don’t need your help. I don’t need a savior. And I certainly don’t need another guy treating my body like a puzzle he has to solve just to stroke his own ego. You can take your bag of toys and leave.”

You reach behind you, grabbing the doorknob.

“Wait,” Dean says, moving faster than he ever has on the ice. He closes the distance between you, stepping just close enough that you pause, but far enough away that he isn’t crowding you.

He looks down at you. You are breathing a little heavy, your eyes defiant, daring him to push.

This changes things. Beau was right. It wasn’t just lazy guys. It’s a deep-rooted wall. But the thing about Dean Di Laurentis is that he doesn’t back down from walls. He scales them. He dismantles them brick by brick.

“I’m not leaving,” Dean says quietly.

You frown, your grip on the doorknob tightening. “I just told you-”

“I heard what you told me,” Dean says, his voice steady, entirely stripped of the usual playful banter. “You think you’re broken. You think it’s impossible. And you’re sick of guys making it about them instead of about you.”

You swallow hard, your eyes flickering with something that looks dangerously like vulnerability. “Yes.”

“I am not them,” Dean says. He holds your gaze, pouring every ounce of sincerity he possesses into the look. “I don’t care about my ego. My ego is perfectly intact. I care about the fact that you have convinced yourself you aren’t allowed to feel the best feeling in the world.”

“It’s not that I’m not allowed-”

“It’s a mental block,” Dean interrupts gently. “Or a physical one. Or a combination of both. But it’s not permanent. Nothing is permanent.”

“You don’t know that,” you whisper, looking away. “You don’t know my body.”

“Then let me learn it,” Dean says.

You snap your eyes back to him, shocked.

“Give me one chance,” Dean pleads. He isn’t cocky anymore. He is practically begging. “One chance, Y/N. No expectations. No pressure. If nothing happens, I will walk away. I will never bother you again. I won’t throw a tantrum, I won’t blame you, and I sure as hell won’t talk about it to a locker room full of idiots.”

You stare at him, your chest rising and falling rapidly. You look genuinely torn, the exhaustion and the fear battling against the tiny, microscopic sliver of hope he just offered you.

But then the wall goes back up.

“No,” you say firmly. You shake your head, stepping away from the door and pointing toward it. “No. I am not doing this again. I am not getting my hopes up just to lie there and feel broken while you get frustrated. Out. Now.”

Dean’s mind races. He’s losing you. He can see the door closing on this entire crusade, and he refuses to let you push him away just because you’re scared.

He needs leverage. What does he know about you?

Sorority president. Pre-law. Busy. Philanthropy.

“What if we make a wager?” Dean blurts out.

You stop. “What?”

“A wager,” Dean repeats, the idea taking shape in his mind as he speaks. “A bet. To make it worth your while. If I try, and I fail — which I won’t, but let’s pretend for a second that I do — I will give you something you want.”

You look at him like he’s lost his mind. “There is nothing you have that I want, Di Laurentis.”

“Delta Zeta is hosting the Splash & Dash charity car wash next Saturday, right?” Dean asks, pointing a finger at you. “To raise money for the women’s shelter downtown?”

You blink, clearly thrown off by his knowledge of your sorority’s philanthropic schedule. “How do you know that?”

“I pay attention to things,” Dean says smoothly. “Now, traditionally, your sisters wash the cars in bikinis. It brings in decent money. The frat guys show up, they pay twenty bucks, they ogle your sisters. It’s a solid business model.”

“Where are you going with this?” You demand, your patience wearing thin.

Dean grins. The slow, devastating, million-dollar grin that has gotten him out of trouble more times than he can count.

“If I fail to give you an orgasm,” Dean says slowly, letting the words hang in the air, “I will personally guarantee that the entire Briar University hockey starting lineup will participate in your car wash.”

You stare at him.

“And,” Dean adds, leaning in just a fraction, “we will do it shirtless.”

Your mouth parts slightly. You don’t say anything, but Dean can practically see the gears turning in your head.

The Briar hockey team is campus royalty. They are the most popular, most sought-after guys at the university. Garrett, Logan, Tucker, himself — they draw crowds just by walking into the dining hall.

“Shirtless,” you repeat, your voice skeptical.

“Shirtless,” Dean confirms. “Washing cars in the blazing sun. flexing. Sweating. We will advertise it. We will bring in hundreds of girls. Sorority girls, townies, professors — they’ll all show up. You will triple your fundraising goal in two hours.”

You look at him, the logic warring with your defense mechanisms. “Garrett Graham would never agree to that.”

“I am very persuasive,” Dean promises. “I will make them do it. If I lose.”

“And if you win?” You ask, narrowing your eyes. “What’s in it for you?”

Dean looks at you. He looks at the dark circles under your eyes, the messy bun, the oversized sweatshirt that hides a body he is dying to uncover. He thinks about McMahon’s cruel words on the quad, and the quiet resignation in your voice when you told him you’ve never come.

“If I win,” Dean says, his voice dropping to a low, husky register, “then I get the satisfaction of knowing I made you feel as good as you deserve to feel. That’s it. That’s the prize.”

You search his face, looking for the catch. Looking for the punchline, or the arrogant smirk. But there is nothing there except absolute, unwavering sincerity.

The silence stretches out. The grandfather clock in the hallway ticks steadily.

Finally, you let out a long, slow breath. The tension bleeds out of your shoulders. You look down at the floor, then back up at him.

“Shirtless,” you say softly.

“Pants are non-negotiable sadly,” Dean says solemnly. “Tucker is very modest.”

The tiniest, most microscopic hint of a smile tugs at the corner of your mouth. It’s barely there, but Dean catches it, and it feels like he just won the Stanley Cup.

“One chance,” you say, your voice turning serious again. “You get one chance, Dean. When it doesn’t work, we stop. You leave. And you deliver your team on Saturday.”

“Deal,” Dean says instantly. He holds his hand out.

You look at his hand. You hesitate for a second, then reach out and shake it. Your hand is small, your skin soft, but your grip is firm.

“When?” You ask.

“Tomorrow night,” Dean says, unwilling to wait any longer than absolutely necessary. “Eight o’clock. My place.”

You drop his hand, pulling your sweatshirt tighter around yourself. “Fine. Tomorrow night.”

Dean picks up his duffel bag from the floor. He gives you one last look, memorizing the way you look standing in the foyer, the challenge clear in your eyes.

“Get some sleep, Y/N,” Dean says, stepping out the door onto the porch. “You’re going to need your energy tomorrow.”

He doesn’t wait for your response. He turns and walks down the paved path, his heart hammering a victorious rhythm against his ribs.

He got his foot in the door. He got the chance.

Now, he just has to do the impossible.

***

The house is completely, suspiciously silent when you knock on the front door at exactly eight o’clock on Saturday night.

Dean opens the door before you can even lower your hand. He’s wearing gray sweatpants that hang low on his hips and a plain white t-shirt. His hair is slightly damp, curled at the ends, and the faint, clean scent of his body wash drifts out into the cool evening air.

He looks entirely too calm. You, on the other hand, feel like you might throw up.

“You’re right on time,” Dean says, a slow, easy smile spreading across his face. He steps back, opening the door wider. “Come on in.”

You step into the foyer, clutching the strap of your purse like a lifeline. You’re wearing jeans and a simple black sweater, a deliberate choice to make this feel casual, even though your heart is currently hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird.

“Where are your roommates?” You ask, your voice sounding a little too tight, a little too loud in the empty house.

“I bribed them to leave,” Dean says easily, shutting and locking the front door. “Logan and Tucker went to a movie. Garrett took his girlfriend out to dinner. The house is ours until at least midnight. I wanted zero distractions.”

He turns to look at you, and his smile softens. He can clearly see how rigid your shoulders are, how tightly you’re holding onto your bag.

“Hey,” he murmurs, stepping closer. “Relax. I’m not leading you to the gallows.”

“I know,” you say defensively. “I’m relaxed.”

“You look like you’re about to take the LSAT,” Dean counters. He reaches out, his large, warm hands gently curling over your shoulders. He rubs his thumbs in slow, soothing circles against your collarbones. “Look at me, Y/N.”

You lift your gaze from the center of his chest, meeting his eyes. They’re a warm, bright green, and completely devoid of the cocky arrogance you usually associate with him.

“Forget the bet,” Dean says quietly. “Forget the car wash, forget McMahon, forget the locker room. Tonight is just about you. And if you want to leave right now, or in ten minutes, or in an hour, you just say the word and I’ll walk you to the door. No questions asked. No pressure. Okay?”

You swallow hard, the tight knot of anxiety in your chest loosening just a fraction. “Okay.”

“Good.” Dean drops his hands, gesturing down the hallway. “My room is this way.”

Dean’s bedroom is surprisingly immaculate. You expected a stereotypical frat-boy disaster zone, but the bed is made with dark gray sheets, the floor is clear, and the only mess is a small stack of textbooks on his desk. The bedside lamp is on, casting a warm, dim glow over the room.

On the nightstand rests the black duffel bag from yesterday.

You stare at it, your stomach doing a complicated flip.

Dean catches your look. He tosses your purse onto his desk chair and turns to face you. “The bag is just backup. Honestly, I don’t think we’ll need it.”

“Your confidence is terrifying,” you mutter, crossing your arms over your chest.

“It’s not confidence. It’s just a fact.” Dean steps right into your personal space. He doesn’t ask permission to touch you this time, he simply lifts his hands and frames your face. His palms are slightly rough from handling a hockey stick, but his touch is incredibly gentle. “You think too much. I can practically hear the gears turning in your head.”

“I can’t help it,” you whisper, closing your eyes briefly as his thumbs brush over your cheekbones. “I’m waiting for the part where this doesn’t work, and you get annoyed, and I have to pretend I’m sorry.”

“That part isn’t coming.” Dean’s voice is a low, raspy murmur right against your mouth. “Open your eyes.”

You do. He is staring at your lips.

“I’m going to kiss you now,” Dean says, the warning a courtesy. “And you aren’t going to think about anything except how it feels.”

He closes the distance before you can argue. His mouth covers yours, warm and firm and demanding. You’ve been kissed a lot, but this is different. It isn’t rushed. He doesn’t shove his tongue down your throat or grope you aggressively. He simply takes his time, parting your lips, tasting you like he has all the time in the world.

A small, involuntary sigh escapes your throat, and Dean swallows it. His hands slide from your face, down your neck, tracing the line of your shoulders before sliding under the hem of your sweater. His warm palms flatten against the bare skin of your waist.

The shock of skin-on-skin contact makes you gasp, and Dean takes advantage, his tongue sliding against yours. He tastes like mint and something inherently dark and male.

“That’s it,” he murmurs against your mouth. “Just feel.”

He walks you backward, his hands pulling you flush against his chest, until the back of your knees hit the edge of the mattress. Dean breaks the kiss just long enough to pull your sweater up and over your head, tossing it blindly over his shoulder.

You reach for the hem of his t-shirt, suddenly desperate to feel his bare skin, but Dean catches your wrists.

“Uh-uh,” he says, a teasing lilt in his voice. “My clothes stay on for now. You don’t get to focus on me. Tonight is a one-way street.”

“Dean,” you protest, but he just smiles, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead.

He unhooks your bra with terrifying efficiency, letting it drop to the floor. The cool air hits your bare breasts, making your nipples pebble instantly. Dean tracks the movement, his eyes darkening as they drag down your torso.

He pushes you gently down onto the edge of the bed. You’re sitting there in just your jeans, feeling exposed and hyper-aware of his gaze. But there is no judgment in his eyes, no impatient rush to get to the main event. He just looks at you like you are the most incredible thing he has ever seen.

Dean drops to his knees on the hardwood floor between your legs.

He reaches out, his hands wrapping around your waist, pulling you an inch closer to the edge. “You’re beautiful,” he says softly, pressing an open-mouthed kiss directly in the center of your chest.

You shiver, your hands instinctively tangling in the thick hair at the nape of his neck.

Dean unbuttons your jeans. He slides the zipper down, his knuckles brushing intentionally over the sensitive skin of your lower stomach. You suck in a sharp breath. He pulls the denim down your legs, taking your plain cotton underwear with them, until you are completely bare, sitting on the edge of his bed while he kneels between your thighs.

“Dean,” you whisper, your voice shaking slightly as the familiar, suffocating wave of performance anxiety begins to creep in. What if he realizes it’s hopeless? What if nothing happens?

“Stop,” Dean says instantly. He looks up at you, his eyes blazing. He knows exactly what you’re doing. “Stop thinking. Stop putting pressure on yourself. If you don’t cum tonight, you don’t cum. I don’t care. I’m perfectly happy just staying down here and tasting you for the next three hours regardless.”

The blunt, dirty honesty of his words sends a jolt of liquid heat straight between your legs.

Dean doesn’t give you time to overthink it again. He shifts closer, wrapping his strong hands around the backs of your thighs, and gently parts your legs wider.

He lowers his head.

The first touch of his tongue is a shock to your system. It’s a slow, broad, open-mouthed slide right up your center. You jerk instinctively, your hands gripping his shoulders.

“Easy,” Dean murmurs, his breath hot against your dripping core. “I’ve got you.”

He goes back in, and this time, there is no hesitation. Dean Di Laurentis is a master at this, and he proves it in seconds. He doesn’t dive right for the clit, pounding away like every other guy has. He takes his time. He kisses the soft skin of your inner thighs. He traces the delicate folds with the tip of his tongue, teasing, mapping out your body, figuring out exactly what makes your breath hitch and your muscles tighten.

“You taste so fucking sweet,” Dean groans, the vibration of his voice buzzing directly against your most sensitive flesh.

He finds the swollen bundle of nerves and swirls his tongue around it, light and teasing. You let out a soft, stuttering gasp, your head dropping back.

It feels good. It feels amazing. But the mental block is a heavy, leaden thing sitting in the back of your mind. You hit the plateau — the place you always hit, where the pleasure builds and builds but never actually crests. You feel yourself tensing, bracing for the inevitable disappointment.

Dean feels it. He stops immediately.

“Look at me,” he orders. His voice isn’t gentle anymore; it’s low, rough, and demanding.

You force your eyes open, looking down. Dean is kneeling between your legs, his lips wet and shining with your arousal, his green eyes locked onto yours. The sight is so intensely intimate, so totally raw, that it makes your chest ache.

“Tell me what you’re feeling right now,” Dean demands, his hands tightening on your thighs, his thumbs pressing firmly into your skin.

“I … I can’t,” you stutter, shaking your head. “Dean, it’s not going to-”

“I didn’t ask what’s not going to happen,” he interrupts sharply. “I asked what you’re feeling right now. Describe it to me.”

“It feels good,” you whisper, tears of frustration stinging the corners of your eyes. “But I’m stuck. I’m stuck.”

“You’re not stuck.” Dean leans in, kissing the inside of your thigh, his breath hot. “You’re in your head. So get out of it. Focus on my mouth. Focus on my fingers.”

He slides two thick fingers directly inside you. You gasp, your hips bucking up off the mattress as he stretches you open. You are incredibly wet, slick with your own arousal, and Dean uses it to his advantage. He curls his fingers upward, hitting a deep, heavy spot inside you with a firm, relentless rhythm.

“Tell me what that feels like,” Dean says, his eyes never leaving yours.

“It’s full,” you choke out, your fingers digging painfully into his shoulders. “It’s deep.”

“Good.” Dean lowers his head again. He replaces his mouth over your clit, but this time, he isn’t teasing. He sucks the sensitive nub directly into his mouth, applying a firm, steady suction while his tongue flickers against it relentlessly.

The combination of his fingers sliding deep inside you and his mouth pulling fiercely at your clit is a sensory overload.

“Dean,” you sob, the sound entirely involuntary.

He doesn’t stop. He doesn’t ask if you’re okay. He knows exactly what he’s doing. He keeps his eyes open, staring right up at you as his tongue lashes against you and his fingers pump in a rapid, demanding rhythm.

The pressure is building. It’s a hot, coiled spring in the center of your body, winding tighter and tighter. You try to pull away, terrified of failing again, terrified of hitting the wall, but Dean’s hands are like iron on your thighs. He holds you perfectly still, refusing to let you escape the pleasure.

“Come on,” Dean growls, pulling his mouth away for a fraction of a second. “Let go, Y/N. Give it to me. Let go.”

He goes back to sucking, harder this time, dragging his teeth lightly against the hood.

The sensation splinters through your entire body. The wall in your mind — the mental block that has haunted you for years — suddenly shatters under the sheer, overwhelming force of what he’s doing to you. You can’t think. You can’t analyze. You can only feel.

The coiled spring snaps.

A choked scream rips out of your throat as the climax hits you like a freight train. It explodes, radiating from your core out to your fingertips in violent, uncontrollable waves of pleasure. Your hips jerk up, grinding frantically against Dean’s mouth as your inner muscles clamp down brutally around his fingers.

Dean swallows your scream, his mouth sealed tightly against you, taking every single drop of your release. He doesn’t stop, even when you’re thrashing, even when you’re begging him to because it’s too sensitive. He forces you to ride out every single wave, his fingers continuing to pulse inside you until you are completely spent.

When he finally pulls his hand out and lifts his head, you collapse backward onto the mattress.

You are panting, staring blindly at the ceiling. Your entire body is trembling. Tears — actual, physical tears of sheer disbelief and overwhelming relief — are sliding down your temples into your hairline.

Dean stands up. He looks down at you, his chest heaving under his white t-shirt, his hair thoroughly wrecked from your hands. He reaches over, wiping the moisture from his chin with the back of his hand.

He doesn’t look cocky. He doesn’t look like he just won a bet. He just looks satisfied.

He climbs onto the bed, hovering over you, and gently wipes a tear from your cheek with his thumb.

“You see?” Dean whispers, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your slightly swollen lips. “You aren’t broken, Y/N. You just needed someone to actually pay attention.”

You let out a shaky, hysterical laugh, wrapping your arms around his neck and burying your face in his shoulder. “Oh my god. Oh my god, Dean.”

“I know,” he murmurs, wrapping his arms around your waist and holding you tight. He strokes your bare back, letting you ride out the aftershocks. “I know.”

You lie there for what feels like hours, just breathing him in. You feel light. You feel like a massive, suffocating weight has just been lifted off your chest. It wasn’t you. It was never you. You just needed a guy who cared more about your pleasure than his own ego.

“Thank you,” you whisper into his neck.

Dean pulls back slightly, looking down at you. His green eyes are dark, glittering with something dangerous. The tender, comforting moment shifts instantly, replaced by a heavy, palpable heat.

“Don’t thank me yet,” Dean says, a wicked, devastating smile curving his lips. “We have the house until midnight, Y/N. And I am far from finished.”

Your eyes widen. “Dean, I don’t think I can—I’m so sensitive-”

“I know,” he says smoothly. He reaches over to the nightstand, grabbing the black duffel bag and unzipping it. He pulls out the small, sleek bullet vibrator. “But you’re about to learn that the second time is always easier than the first. The wall is gone now. Now, we’re just playing.”

He turns it on. The low, electric hum fills the quiet room.

You swallow hard, your core clenching in anticipation.

Dean pushes you onto your back, his knees bracketing your hips. He finally grabs the hem of his t-shirt and pulls it over his head, tossing it onto the floor. His chest is broad, defined, covered in a light dusting of hair that trails down beneath the waistband of his sweatpants. You stare at the prominent V-lines pointing downward, suddenly incredibly desperate to see the rest of him.

But Dean isn’t rushing the main event. He reaches down, parting your folds with two fingers, and presses the buzzing toy directly against your swollen clit.

You arch completely off the bed, a loud, unabashed moan tearing from your lips.

It is instantaneous. Without the mental block holding you back, your body reacts with terrifying speed. Dean grins, watching your face as he manipulates the toy, circling the most sensitive nerves. He leans down, capturing your mouth in a deep, filthy kiss, his tongue mimicking the frantic circles of his hand.

You reach down, frantically grabbing at the waistband of his sweatpants, desperate to touch him, but Dean swats your hands away.

“Not yet,” he pants against your mouth. “Focus.”

It takes less than three minutes. The second orgasm crashes through you with even more ferocity than the first. You scream his name into his mouth, your nails digging crescent moons into his shoulders as your body bows off the mattress, shaking violently.

Dean pulls the toy away, tossing it onto the nightstand, and finally reaches for his own waistband.

He strips out of his sweatpants and boxers in one fluid motion. He is heavily, beautifully aroused, his thick erection jutting out, hot and ready. He grabs a condom from the nightstand drawer, ripping the foil open with his teeth, and rolls it on with quick, efficient movements.

You are still trembling from the second climax, your eyes hazy and completely blown out.

Dean settles himself between your legs, his hands gripping your hips to anchor you. He lines himself up with your wet, slick opening.

“Look at me,” he demands softly.

You meet his eyes.

“You’re perfect,” Dean whispers.

And then he pushes his hips forward, burying himself deep inside you in one long, smooth thrust.

You gasp loudly, the feeling of him filling you completely sending fresh sparks of pleasure racing through your overloaded system. Dean lets out a harsh groan, his head dropping back as he gives himself a second to adjust to the tight, wet heat of your body.

He begins to move. He doesn’t pound into you; he makes love to you. He pulls almost all the way out before driving deep again, grinding his hips firmly against yours so that the base of his shaft perfectly rubs against your clit with every single thrust.

It is a steady, relentless rhythm. You wrap your legs around his waist, locking your ankles together to pull him even deeper.

“Dean,” you pant, your head tossing back against the pillows. “Please.”

“I’m right here,” he answers, his voice strained. He reaches a hand down, slipping his thumb perfectly between your bodies to press firmly against your clit while he continues to thrust inside you.

The sensory overload is absolute. The deep, heavy stretching inside and the sharp, electric friction on the outside. You are unraveling, falling completely apart underneath him.

“Let it go again, baby,” Dean encourages, his thrusts getting faster, harder, completely losing his earlier restraint. “Come for me. Give it to me.”

You shatter for the third time. The orgasm rips through you so forcefully that your vision actually whites out for a second. You clamp down around his cock with brutal strength, crying out as the pleasure sweeps through you in violent, pulsing waves.

Your tight, milking climax is enough to send Dean right over the edge with you. He lets out a guttural shout, his hips driving into you one final, desperate time as he comes hard, his body rigid and shaking above yours.

He collapses heavily onto your chest, burying his face in the crook of your neck, his chest heaving as he fights to catch his breath.

You lie there, your arms wrapped tightly around his broad back, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his. The room is completely silent except for the sound of your combined, ragged breathing.

A full five minutes pass before Dean finally lifts his head. He props himself up on his elbows, looking down at you. His hair is a wild, sweaty mess, his eyes heavy with post-coital satisfaction.

He smiles. It’s a soft, genuine smile that makes your chest squeeze.

“So,” Dean rasps, tracing the line of your jaw with his finger. “I guess this means the hockey team is keeping their shirts on next weekend.”

You let out a weak, breathless laugh. “You’re a menace, Di Laurentis.”

“I’m a man of my word,” he corrects you, rolling off you and pulling you flush against his side. He drags the gray sheet up over your naked bodies, tucking you securely under his arm. “Though Logan is going to be incredibly disappointed. He’s been doing extra crunches all week just in case.”

You smile against his bare chest, tracing a lazy circle over his heart.

The bet is over. He proved his point. He did what no other guy could do, and he won.

But as Dean presses a lingering kiss to the top of your head, his arm tightening possessively around your waist, you get the overwhelming feeling that this is no longer just a mission for him.

And as you close your eyes, listening to the steady beat of his heart, you realize it’s definitely not just a bet for you, either.

***

The Delta Zeta front lawn looks like a chaotic, high-budget commercial for spring break.

The bass from the massive portable speakers is vibrating through the soles of your white sneakers, blasting a remix of a top-forty pop song that you’ve heard at least six times since nine o’clock this morning. Soapy water floods the driveway, running in iridescent little rivers toward the street drain. Everywhere you look, girls in bright bikinis and cut-off denim shorts are scrubbing windshields, spraying each other with the hose, and flagging down passing cars with neon pink cardboard signs.

“Y/N!” Jess, your vice president, jogs over to the cash box table where you’re currently organizing a stack of slightly damp twenty-dollar bills. She’s out of breath, her blonde hair plastered to her forehead. “We’re out of microfiber towels. And I think Brittany just accidentally sprayed a physics professor in the face.”

You sigh, dropping a twenty into the lockbox. “Check the garage for the backup towels. And tell Brittany to aim lower. Has the line of cars slowed down?”

“A little,” Jess admits, wiping her brow. “It’s barely noon, though. The frat guys won’t drag themselves out of bed for at least another hour.”

You look out at the street. She’s right. The morning rush of faculty and early-risers has died down, leaving an empty spot in the driveway. If you want to hit your fundraising goal for the women’s shelter, you need a second wave. A big one.

“We need a draw,” you mutter, tying your hair back up into a higher ponytail. “Something to get the foot traffic to stop.”

“I think your draw just arrived,” Jess says, her voice suddenly dropping an entire octave. She points toward the sidewalk.

You follow her gaze, and your breath catches in your throat.

Walking down Sorority Row, looking like a slow-motion shot from a movie, are four massive guys. Garrett looks annoyed, Logan is already grinning and waving at a group of sophomores, and Tucker is casually spinning a key ring around his finger.

And leading the pack is Dean.

He’s wearing a pair of faded board shorts, flip-flops, and a gray Briar Hockey t-shirt. Sunglasses hide his eyes, but the moment he spots you standing by the cash table, a slow, devastating smirk spreads across his face.

A collective gasp ripples through the sorority girls on the lawn. Two freshmen actually drop their hose. The hockey team doesn’t just show up to random philanthropy events unless there’s a camera crew involved.

You cross your arms over your bikini top, fighting the massive smile threatening to break across your face as Dean stops right in front of your table.

“Good morning, Madam President,” Dean says smoothly. He pulls his sunglasses down, resting them on the collar of his shirt. His green eyes travel down the length of your body, lingering on the exposed skin of your stomach before snapping back up to your face. The heat in his gaze is entirely inappropriate for a Saturday morning charity event.

“Di Laurentis,” you say, keeping your voice even despite the butterflies staging a full-scale riot in your stomach. “What are you doing here?”

“We’re here to wash cars,” Logan chimes in from behind Dean, dropping his bucket onto the grass. “Obviously. Show me to the nearest CR-V.”

“You don’t have to be here,” you say, looking back at Dean. You lower your voice so only he can hear. “You won the bet, Dean. You proved your point. Vigorously. Multiple times.”

Just the memory of last Saturday night sends a flush of heat up your neck. You haven’t seen him all week — midterms, chapter meetings, and his away games kept you completely separated. But you certainly haven’t forgotten. You haven’t been able to think about anything else.

“I know I won the bet,” Dean says, stepping a fraction closer. “And it was the most satisfying victory of my athletic career. But the guys and I took a vote. We decided we want to participate anyway.”

“Oh, really?” You raise an eyebrow. “Just out of the goodness of your hearts?”

“Not exactly,” Garrett grumbles, crossing his muscular arms. “Dean wouldn’t shut up about it. He threatened to hide my skates if I didn’t show up. Put me to work, Y/N, before I change my mind and go back to bed.”

You laugh, motioning toward the empty driveway. “Grab a hose, Graham. The sponges are in the buckets.”

Garrett, Logan, and Tucker disperse, immediately swarmed by a giggling flock of Delta Zetas who are suddenly very eager to demonstrate proper soap application techniques.

Dean doesn’t move. He stays right in front of your table, leaning his hip against the edge.

“The team’s participation comes with a new condition,” Dean says softly, his eyes locking onto yours.

“A condition?” You tilt your head. “I didn’t agree to any conditions.”

“You’re going to want to agree to this one,” Dean promises, that wicked smirk returning. “We wash cars today. We bring in the crowds. And in exchange, you agree to go on a real date with me tonight.”

Your heart does a stupid, happy little flip. “A date.”

“A real date,” Dean confirms. “No bets. No ulterior motives. Just you, me, a disgustingly expensive Italian restaurant downtown, and absolutely zero talk about hockey or sorority budgets.”

You bite your lower lip, trying to maintain a facade of careful consideration. “I don’t know, Dean. I’m pretty busy.”

“I am offering you free labor, Y/N. Look at them.” He gestures behind him.

You look. Garrett, Logan, and Tucker have already pulled their t-shirts over their heads, tossing them onto the grass. The reaction is instantaneous. Cars that were driving past suddenly hit their brakes. A group of girls walking on the opposite side of the street literally change direction and sprint toward your lawn.

“Well,” you say, trying to suppress your laughter. “If it’s for the good of the charity.”

“Exactly. You’re a humanitarian.” Dean reaches out, tracing a single finger over the back of your hand where it rests on the cash box. The light touch sends a jolt of electricity straight up your arm. “So. It’s a yes?”

“It’s a yes,” you agree.

“Perfect.” Dean takes a step back. “Now, where do you want me?”

“You’re a professional,” you tease. “I’m sure you can find a spot. Just make sure you follow the dress code.”

Dean’s grin widens. Without breaking eye contact, he grabs the hem of his gray t-shirt and pulls it smoothly over his head.

You actually forget how to breathe for a second. You saw him naked a week ago, but seeing him out here in the broad daylight is a completely different experience. His chest is broad, sculpted from years of brutal on-ice conditioning, the muscles in his stomach flexing as he tosses the shirt onto your table. The sunlight catches on the light dusting of hair trailing down his stomach, disappearing into the low waistband of his board shorts.

“How’s the dress code looking?” He asks innocently.

“Acceptable,” you manage to choke out.

“Glad to hear it.” Dean winks at you, grabs his bucket, and jogs over to join his teammates.

The next two hours are absolute pandemonium.

Word spreads across campus faster than a wildfire. The Briar hockey team is shirtless at the Delta Zeta house. The line of cars waiting to get washed stretches entirely down the block. Frat boys show up just to see what the commotion is about. Groups of girls from other sororities line the sidewalk, pulling out their phones to record videos of Garrett spraying Logan with the hose, or Tucker politely scrubbing the roof of a minivan for a local soccer mom.

And Dean.

Dean is putting on a show.

You sit on the hood of a dry, parked Jeep Cherokee near the edge of the lawn, taking your state-mandated break. Jess handed you a plastic cup of spiked pink lemonade ten minutes ago, and you are happily sipping it while watching the chaos unfold.

Dean is currently washing a sleek black Audi. He is entirely soaked. Water runs down the planes of his chest, catching the afternoon sun and making his skin glisten. Suds cling to his arms and the waistband of his shorts. He’s laughing at something Logan just said, his head thrown back, running a soapy sponge over the hood of the car with long, effortless strokes.

He looks unfairly sexy. It’s actually offensive to the general public.

Every few minutes, he glances over his shoulder, catching your eye through the crowd. He always gives you a quick smirk or a subtle wink, making sure you know exactly who he’s showing off for.

“I’m going to ask you a question,” Jess says, hopping up onto the hood of the Jeep next to you. She takes a sip of her own lemonade. “And as your sister, I demand absolute honesty.”

“Shoot,” you say, not taking your eyes off Dean.

“Did you sleep with Dean Di Laurentis?”

You choke on your lemonade, coughing as the sour liquid burns the back of your throat. “Excuse me?”

“Don’t play coy with me,” Jess says, bumping her shoulder against yours. “He has been staring at you like you’re his last meal on death row for two hours. And you keep looking at him like you want to drag him into the bushes.”

You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, feeling your face burn. “We’re … hanging out. It’s new.”

Jess lets out a low whistle. “Damn. Good for you. He’s gorgeous. A menace to society, but gorgeous.”

“He’s actually really sweet,” you defend him quietly.

“I’m sure he is.” Jess smirks, hopping off the car. “I’m going to go make sure Logan hasn’t flooded the neighbor’s flower bed. Enjoy the view.”

You smile into your cup. The view is indeed spectacular.

You watch Dean finish rinsing the Audi. He wipes his forehead with the back of his forearm, looking genuinely exhausted but incredibly happy. He tosses his sponge into the bucket, says something to Tucker, and then starts walking toward you.

Your heart does that stupid flip again.

He reaches the Jeep and stops right between your dangling legs, resting his wet, soapy hands on the metal on either side of your thighs. He is breathing hard, radiating heat. The smell of coconut-scented soap, clean sweat, and Dean completely overwhelms your senses.

“You’re working hard,” you note, reaching out to brush a stray, wet curl off his forehead.

Dean leans into your touch instantly. “I’m earning my keep. The lockbox looks full.”

“We broke our fundraising record an hour ago,” you smile. “The shelter is going to be thrilled. Thank you, Dean. Seriously.”

“I told you I’d deliver.” Dean steps closer, until his bare, wet chest is practically brushing against your knees. “Though I expect to be heavily compensated tonight. We’re talking appetizers, an entrée, and at least two desserts.”

“I think I can manage that.”

“Good.” Dean tilts his chin up, his eyes dropping to your lips. “Can I kiss you? I know we’re in public, but you look incredible in that bikini and I have zero self-control.”

You laugh, tangling your fingers into his damp hair at the nape of his neck. “Yes, you can kiss me.”

He doesn’t need to be told twice. Dean leans up, capturing your mouth in a deep, wet, entirely distracting kiss. He tastes like lemonade and sunshine. You pull him closer with your knees, letting your eyes flutter shut as he hums in approval against your lips.

“Well, well, well. Isn’t this a touching scene.”

The loud, grating voice slices through the bubble of your perfect moment like a rusty knife.

You freeze. Dean pulls back, his body stiffening instantly.

You look over Dean’s shoulder. Standing on the sidewalk, holding a red solo cup and flanked by two of his giant, meathead friends, is McMahon. 

He looks you up and down, his lip curling into a condescending sneer. Then he looks at Dean.

“Slumming it, Di Laurentis?” McMahon asks loudly, making sure the people around them can hear. “I heard you were desperate for a date, but I didn’t think you’d settle for my sloppy seconds.”

A dead, heavy silence drops over your immediate vicinity. The music is still playing, the water is still running, but everyone within earshot has stopped what they’re doing. Even Garrett and Logan have dropped their hoses, their heads snapping toward the sidewalk.

Your stomach plummets. You instinctively pull your legs back, suddenly feeling entirely too exposed in your bikini, the old, familiar shame threatening to choke you.

But Dean doesn’t step back. He doesn’t let you pull away.

He stands exactly where he is, keeping his hands planted on the Jeep, shielding your body with his own massive frame. Slowly, he turns his head to look at McMahon.

All the playful, charming energy evaporates from Dean’s demeanor. His jaw tightens, the muscles in his back cording with tension. He looks terrifying. He looks like a guy who spends three hours a day slamming people into glass walls for a living.

“What did you just say?” Dean asks. His voice is eerily quiet. It doesn’t boom. It doesn’t yell. It just carries.

McMahon puffs his chest out, trying to look intimidating, but you can see the slight hesitation in his eyes. He clearly wasn’t expecting Dean to look quite so murderous. “I’m just saying, man. You could do better. I already warned you she’s a dead end in bed.”

Garrett takes a step forward, his hands balling into fists, but Dean throws a hand up, stopping his friend in his tracks.

“I don’t need you to fight my battles, Graham,” Dean says, never taking his eyes off McMahon.

Dean turns fully around, facing the wide receiver. He crosses his arms over his bare chest. He doesn’t look angry anymore. He looks amused. And somehow, that’s so much worse.

“You know, McMahon,” Dean says smoothly, his voice carrying perfectly over the background noise. “I actually owe you a thank you.”

McMahon frowns, clearly thrown off script. “What?”

“I said thank you,” Dean repeats, a sharp, patronizing smile touching his lips. “Because if you weren’t such a loudmouth, incompetent idiot, I never would have found her.”

McMahon’s face flushes a dark, ugly red. “Watch your mouth, Di Laurentis.”

“No, you watch mine,” Dean steps off the grass and onto the concrete, closing the distance until he is standing a foot away from McMahon. He has a solid two inches of height on the football player, and he uses every bit of it, looking down his nose with absolute disdain.

“I tried to give you the benefit of the doubt, man,” Dean says loudly, making sure the surrounding crowd can hear every single word. “I really did. I thought, ‘Hey, maybe he’s just new at this. Maybe he doesn’t know where the clit is.’ But then I spent some time with Y/N.”

You cover your mouth with your hand, your eyes widening as a few sorority girls in the background gasp.

“And let me tell you,” Dean continues, his tone conversational but his eyes lethal. “There is absolutely nothing wrong with her. In fact, she is perfectly, beautifully responsive. Explosive, actually.”

McMahon’s jaw drops. “You’re lying.”

“I don’t need to lie,” Dean laughs, a harsh, dismissive sound. “She came three times, McMahon. Three. In the span of an hour. And the only thing she needed was a guy who actually knows what the hell he’s doing.”

The silence on the lawn is absolute. A few frat guys in the back actually let out low whistles of impressed shock.

“So,” Dean concludes, leaning in so close that McMahon actually takes a half-step backward. “The fact that you couldn’t get her off? The fact that you blamed her in front of half the campus? That isn’t her failing, buddy. That is a pathetic testament to your own sexual inadequacy.”

McMahon opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. He looks completely, utterly humiliated. His two buddies have actually taken a step away from him, clearly not wanting to be associated with the collateral damage.

Dean isn’t finished.

He drops the amusement. The lethal seriousness returns, dark and unyielding.

“If I ever hear you talk about her again,” Dean says, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous gravel. “If I ever hear you say her name, or look at her, or breathe in her general direction … I will not use my words next time. I will put you on the ground. Are we clear?”

McMahon swallows hard. He looks around at the massive crowd staring at him, judging him, laughing at him. He looks back at Dean, the reality of the situation finally sinking in.

He doesn’t say a word. He just turns on his heel and stalks away down the sidewalk, his friends trailing awkwardly behind him.

The crowd immediately erupts into whispers and laughter. Someone starts a slow clap that ripples through the hockey team.

Dean completely ignores them. He turns his back on the crowd and walks straight back to you.

You are sitting on the hood of the Jeep, staring at him in absolute awe. The lingering anxiety that McMahon’s appearance had sparked is completely gone. In its place is a rush of pure, unadulterated affection.

No one has ever stood up for you like that. No one has ever publicly, unapologetically claimed you.

Dean stops between your knees again. He looks a little flushed, the tension slowly draining out of his shoulders. He looks up at you, suddenly looking a little unsure.

“Was that too much?” He asks quietly. “I know you don’t like a scene, but I couldn’t just let him-”

You cut him off by grabbing the sides of his face and kissing him.

It’s not a sweet kiss. It is desperate, hot, and entirely public. You pour every ounce of gratitude and desire you have into it, your tongue tangling with his. Dean lets out a rough sound of surprise before his arms wrap tightly around your waist, hauling you flush against his chest, lifting you slightly off the hood of the car.

The crowd around you actually cheers, but you barely hear them.

You pull back, resting your forehead against his. You are both breathing heavy, smiling like idiots.

“That was perfect,” you whisper.

“Yeah?” Dean’s green eyes shine with relief and happiness.

“Yeah. Though you just ruined that man’s reputation forever.”

“He ruined it himself. I just provided the facts.” Dean smirks, rubbing his thumb over your hip bone. “Besides. I told him the truth. You are explosive.”

You swat his shoulder, laughing as a blush covers your cheeks. “Shut up and go wash a car, Di Laurentis. You still have an hour on the clock.”

Dean groans dramatically, dropping his head onto your shoulder. “You are a cruel, demanding taskmaster. I’m being exploited for my body.”

“You love it,” you remind him.

“I do,” Dean admits softly, turning his head to press a lingering kiss to the bare skin of your neck. “I really, really do.”

He pulls back, giving you one last, breathtaking smile.

“I’ll pick you up at seven,” Dean promises. “Wear something that’s easy to take off.”

“Dean!”

He just laughs, a bright, booming sound that echoes over the noise of the car wash. He winks, turns around, and jogs back over to grab his sponge, immediately shoving Logan out of the way to take over a sports car.

You sit on the hood of the Jeep, watching him work.

You think about the girl you were a week ago — convinced you were broken, resigned to a life of quiet disappointment, carrying the weight of incompetent men on your shoulders.

And then you look at Dean. Arrogant, charming, relentless, and fiercely protective. The guy who saw a wall and decided to tear it down with his bare hands.

You take a sip of your lemonade, a soft, permanent smile etched onto your face.

Yeah. Seven o’clock can’t come fast enough.

[g0ldendesiree]

Out of Your Head | Dean Di Laurentis

summary: when girls keep on trying to get Deans attention, you can’t help but get into your head about it.

request: yes/no

warnings: drinking, swearing

word count: 1.86k

authors note: hey you lot! I have just finished uni for the semester so the updates will be back to a more regular schedule!

The first time you met Dean, you assumed he was flirting as a joke.

Because guys like Dean Di Laurentis didn't look at girls like you.

Not really.

And definitely not twice.

But most certainly not in the way he was looking at you.

You were standing in line at a campus coffee shop, bundled into an oversized sweater, trying very hard not to notice the hockey players who had just walked in.

Then one of them stepped beside you “hey." That voice made the hair on the back of your neck stand.

You looked up.

Dean smiled.

Not a smirk.

Not some cocky grin.

Just a smile that, if you didn’t know any better felt genuine "hi?" You looked behind you as if he was looking through you, only to stupidly be faced with his teammates.

"I've seen you around."

Your immediate thought was that he was either blind or just s

Your second thought was that he was making fun of you.

But then he asked for your name.

And remembered it.

Because he showed up again a few days later.

And then again.

And somehow, against all logic, Dean kept choosing you.

Which six months later, left you still trying to understand why.

Not because Dean gave you any reason to doubt him. It was exact opposite, actually.

He was the most affectionate boyfriend you'd ever seen.

Which for a man that lived and breathed casual, it felt like you were waiting to wake up from this always.

Always touching you.

Always pulling you into his lap.

Always kissing your forehead.

Always looking at you like you were the prettiest girl in every room.

The problem was that your brain refused to let your heart accept it.

Years of insecurity didn't disappear because one beautiful hockey player loved you.

So most of the time they crept back in.

Like tonight.

You and Dean were at a team party.

The house was packed.

Music thumped through the walls.

Girls crowded around the hockey players.

And every few minutes you caught someone staring at Dean.

A blonde near the kitchen.

A brunette by the stairs.

Another girl who literally laughed and touched his arm while he was talking.

You knew Dean wasn't encouraging it because you knew he loved you.

But the little voice in your head was being particularly cruel tonight.

Look at them.

Look at you.

Of course they'd want him.

Why wouldn't they?

You found yourself drifting toward a quieter hallway.

Just for a minute.

Just to breathe.

Your feet carried you up to his room, the place you found yourself most nights.

A few minutes later you heard footsteps.

Then Dean's voice "thought I’d have to get some missing posters up soon.” You looked up to see him holding two drinks.

One for him.

One for you.

You forced a smile as your fingers dropped your bracelet “hey.” Dean immediately narrowed his eyes.

He knew you too well. In the few short months that you had been together, this man could read you like a book "what’s wrong?" He cocked his head as he shut the door behind him.

Dean handed you your drink as you frowned “it’s nothing.” You shook your head.

The boy crouched down in front of you “liar." He rested his hand on your knee as you looked away.

You knew it was one of those things that shouldn’t have been picking at your heart but it rang in your ears "it’s stupid." You pursed your lips together as you sucked at your teeth.

Deans fingers traced random shapes on the inside of your thigh "tell me anyway." You twisted the cup in your hands, clearly letting the mental coin toss play in your head.

He waited.

Patiently.

Eventually you sighed.

Tugging your fingers through your hair "I just-" You sipped at your drink as if it could buy you time.

Because you hated saying it out loud "I don't know." You shrugged almost wishing that he hadn’t caught you upstairs.

Dean stayed quiet.

So you continued "I look around at girls at these parties and they're all gorgeous." Your voice got smaller trying not to look stupid “then there's me."

Dean's entire face fell.

Not in annoyance.

In heartbreak.

Like hearing that hurt his soul “baby.” His hands pulled away from you.

As if he was walking on a tight rope trying to avoid hurting you.

You shrugged "it’s fine." You tried to convince yourself that it was normal to feel that way.

Dean was quick to disagree with you “it is absolutely not fine." You laughed weakly as you picked at the edge of your nail.

"It's not your problem."

The words didn’t get a chance to hang in the air before Dean decided that he had enough "the hell it isn't." Dean set his drink down on the floor and turned fully toward you.

His hands rested on your thighs "look at me." You hesitated and it made him repeat himself.

"Look at me."

So you did.

His expression was unbelievably serious "you think I settled for you?" He cocked his head as you almost looked annoyed.

Your eyes widened "what? No-" you went to explain yourself but he cut you off.

Dean wasn’t trying to argue with you but he really wanted to make sure that you got what he was saying “that's what you're saying." The hockey player sucked at his teeth “you think I looked at every girl on campus and somehow ended up with you by accident?"

You blinked as Dean leaned closer "I chose you." His words were both sweet and somehow effortless at the same time.

Your heart throbbed “Dean,” you couldn’t help it when you cracked a small smile.

His voice was barely a whisper “please listen to me.” His hand found yours as his squeezed.

It was as if you could hear a pin drop in here that’s how quiet Deans room was around you both "I like the way you laugh." Another finger intertwined with yours.

Still your heart pounded in your chest "I like the way you get excited when you're talking about something." All of the guys were used to listening to your tangents about what meats go on a sandwich or why the boys picked the wrong star in whatever Real Housewives collection they let you put on.

He licked his lips before he continued "I like that you snort when something's actually funny." You groaned knowing that it was something that he really wouldn’t let you live down.

Dean smiled as he nodded "I like every inch of you." Heat flooded your face as you scrunched your nose.

You sounded like a teen boy that had just been smothered in kisses by their grandmother "Dean." Your eyes rolled trying to act like you didn’t feel like you were drowning in love.

If you gave him the chance he’d kiss every inch of your body he’d do it "I do." Dean brought your hand up to his lips as he kissed your fingers.

His thumb brushed over your knuckles "you’re beautiful." You shook your head automatically.

Dean immediately caught it "nope." He narrowed his eyes at you like he had all the time in the world to deal with this.

"Dean-“

"No." He poked your cheek cutting you off "you don't get to argue with me about my own girlfriend." You laughed despite yourself.

"That's not how that works."

He stuck his tongue out at you "it is,” as he nodded.

"It isn't."

The two of you sounded like children "it absolutely is." His arm wrapped around your waist.

Strong.

Secure.

Like there was nowhere else he'd rather be.

"Besides."

He lowered his voice “do you know how obsessed I am with you?" His words sent shivers down your spine, shooting straight to your core.

You covered your face "oh my God." You shook your head as it was buried in your hands

"I'm serious."

You held back a laugh "you're ridiculous." Your cheeks were sore as you wanted his bed to swallow you.

Dean pulled your hands away as he wanted to see you "I am." He kissed your nose.

He had that smug look on his face as he had your total attention “but I'm also right." It was the truth.

Then your forehead.

Then your cheek.

Then finally your lips.

Slow.

Soft.

Patient.

The kind of kiss that felt like being wrapped in a blanket on a cold winters morning.

When he pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours “you know what I see when I look at you?" You swallowed almost nervous about what you’d hear.

"What?"

His eyes dropped to your stomach before they quickly went back to your eyes “the girl I want to come home to." Your chest tightened as you knew all about how he wanted three kids.

His thumb drew circles against your wrist “who I want in my jersey at every game." Getting to see you sat in the crowd was almost just as good as getting to get you out of the jersey.

Another kiss on your lips.

He stopped as he took the chance to really look at you, "the girl I can't stop thinking about." His voice was soft as if he was worried he’d scare you.

And just like that he was ready to hit what felt like the nail in the coffin "the girl I love." Your eyes immediately filled and Dean noticed instantly.

"Oh no."

You laughed.

You raised your hand to stop him "don’t." You blinked rapidly to avoid tears falling.

He was quick to tease you "oh, she's crying." You sniffled as you shook your head.

"I'm not crying."

The hockey player laughed as he shook his head "she’s definitely crying." You shoved his shoulder.

Dean grinned as he sat down next to you, quickly pulling you onto his lap.

The moment you settled against him, he wrapped both arms around your middle and squeezed.

Tight and protective.

Like he was proud to be holding you.

Like he wanted the entire world to know you were his “you know," he murmured into your hair, "those girls at the party?" You groaned, shoving your head into the crook of his neck.

The boy grinned as he ran his fingers through your hair “they can look." If anything he enjoyed getting the chance to show you off.

He didn’t stop there, no he was actually convinced he was going to be the most insufferable boyfriend that day “they can stare." It made him smirk how you squirmed.

Your cheeks reddened as you whined, "stop." He laughed as he shook his head.

His fingers danced over the waist of your pants "because at the end of the day?" His lips brushed your temple as he let out a soft breath.

Dean let his fingers rest under your chin as he forced you to look at him "I get the girl I want." That was more than any public claim mattered.

And somehow, tucked safely against his chest while he held you like the most precious thing he'd ever touched, you almost believed him when he said it.

[fezrus]

Thigh high

John Tucker x Reader

Tucker finally catches you staring at his thighs and decides a cooking lesson isn't what you actually need.

word count : 2.1k — explicit — thigh-riding — dry-humping — praise — tuck being super sweet and cute and a giver — tuck (he deserves a warning cause damn) — my boy tucker deserves the filth so i'm not sorry about that one — enjoy and please tell me what you think !

There was a fine line between patience and sheer torture, and John Tucker had been dragging you across it for months.

It wasn't his fault, that was the worst part. He wasn’t playing games—he was just genuinely, wholesomely oblivious. Every time you wore his favorite jersey, or intentionally leaned close to touch his forearm while he laughed, or made a pointed comment about how he’d make an incredible boyfriend, Tucker would just beam, give you that sweet, devastating dimpled smile, and say something like, "Appreciate you, darlin', always so good to me."

Always so good to him. His polite deflections were a special kind of psychological torture.

Right now, you were sitting at his kitchen island, supposed to be chopping garlic for the shrimp scampi alfredo he was teaching you to make. Instead, you were entirely hypnotized by the view.

Tucker was standing at the counter, leaning over a cutting board. He was wearing a pair of very, very thin, gray athletic shorts. Because he was leaning forward, the fabric was pulled tight, completely mapping out the staggering size of his thighs. They were dense, farm-boy quads carved out by years of heavy squats and explosive skating. You could see the distinct, powerful sweep of muscle definition, and the way they flexed every single time he shifted his weight.

You swallowed hard, your grip tightening on the knife. You wanted to bury your face in them. You wanted them gripping your waist. You wanted—

"Uh, darlin'?"

Tucker’s sweet voice shattered your trance.

You blinked, snapping your eyes up. He was looking at you, a half-bun of messy dark curls sitting on top of his head, holding a block of aged asiago cheese. He was frowning slightly, but his eyes were warm and amused.

"You've been hacking at that same clove of garlic for five minutes, and I think you're about to slice your thumb off," he laughed, stepping away from the counter.

"Oh. Right. Sorry," you muttered, looking down at the mangled garlic.

"Everything alright?" He walked over, stopping right beside your stool. He was so close you could feel the heat radiating off his bulky frame. "You've been quiet all evening. Not like you."

"I'm fine, Tuck. Just... distracted."

"By the cooking?" He smiled, entirely missing the mark. "I can take over the chopping if you need a break."

Amused, Tucker leaned closer, resting one hand on the edge of the counter to look down at your messy chopping board. The movement brought him directly into your space. Because you were sitting and he was standing, his broad chest was right at your eye level, and his solid leg was practically brushing against your knee.

The kitchen went dead silent, save for the low sizzle of the butter and garlic simmering on the stove.

You froze, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm. Up close, the sheer size of him was completely overwhelming, and your eyes helplessly darted right back to the thick muscle of his leg, just inches away from you. The weight of your own dirty thoughts made you dizzy, and a wave of mortification washed over you. You couldn't think, couldn't breathe, and you definitely couldn't handle him being this close while your brain was doing that.

"Tuck," you choked out, your voice tight as you gently pressed a hand against his chest to keep him from getting any closer. "Can you... can you back away just a little bit? Please?"

Tucker blinked, completely caught off guard. He froze, looking down at your hand, and then up at your face. The easy, golden-retriever warmth in his eyes instantly shifted into pure, panicked concern. He immediately took a large step back, his shoulders tensing.

"Did... did I do something wrong?" he asked, uncharacteristically quiet and hesitant. He looked entirely heartbroken at the idea that he’d made you uncomfortable. "I swear I didn't mean to overstep, darlin'. If I said something insensitive, or if I'm being a bad teacher—"

"No! No, Tuck, it's really not you," you interrupted quickly, your face burning a violent, hot shade of red as you looked away shyly. You wrung your hands in your lap, wishing the kitchen floor would open up and swallow you. "It’s... it’s a really silly thing. Honestly. I'm just being ridiculous, but I... I haven't been able to stop thinking about it all evening, and having you right there was just too much."

Tucker frowned slightly, his concern melting into soft, focused curiosity. He leaned forward just a fraction, throwing the dishtowel he was holding over his shoulder, trying to catch your eye, his tone incredibly sweet. "What is it? You can tell me. You know you can tell me anything."

You swallowed hard, your throat completely dry. You tried to find the words to explain the last three months of unrequited pining, but your brain entirely short-circuited. Instead of speaking, your gaze helplessly dropped again.

You just stared.

Tucker followed your line of sight. He looked down at his own lower half, at the thin, gray athletic shorts stretched taut over his quads.

He looked back up at you, his brows arching high in utter disbelief. He slowly raised a hand, pointing a thick index finger directly at his own leg.

You gave a tiny, incredibly embarrassed nod.

"You're... you're thinking about my legs?" he breathed, his voice dropping into a register that was completely new. The confusion on his face melted away, replaced by a sudden, breathless warmth.

He didn't back away this time. Instead, he took a slow, deliberate step forward, re entering your space again until your bodies almost touched. Up close, he was so bulky and warm, and as his eyes locked onto yours, his gaze softened into something... different. Heavier. His eyes dropped down, noting the deep flush spreading down your neck, the way your breathing had turned shallow, and the distinct, telling tension in your posture.

Tucker’s breath hitched. A slow realization hit him.

"Oh," he murmured, his voice deep and velvety.

A faint, endearing pink crept up his own neck, but he didn't back down. Instead, a sweet, slightly stunned smile touched his lips. He reached out, his large hands surprisingly gentle as they settled on your cheeks. He leaned in, leaving barely any space between your faces.

"Well, little darlin'," he whispered, his voice low and teasingly soft near your ear. "If it's bothering you that much... do you think you'd let me help you with it?"

You gave a tiny, helpless tremble. You couldn't even breathe, completely undone by the sudden, heavy hunger in his eyes.

"Yes," you whimpered.

The sweet, patient boy didn't hesitate. With one easy, seamless movement, Tucker took a step back, pulling up the barstool right next to yours. He sank onto it heavily, rotating his frame so his back was resting flush against the edge of the countertop.

He looked up at you through his long lashes, his chest heaving as he let out a low exhale. The golden-retriever innocence was far gone, replaced by a quiet intensity that made your pulse skyrocket. Without a word, Tucker raised his hand and firmly patted the top of his rock-hard thigh.

"Come here."

Your breath hitched, a sudden wave of nerves making you freeze. You stared at his leg, then up at his eyes, faltering on the edge of your seat.

Seeing your hesitation, Tucker's expression softened into a look of pure, reassuring patience. He reached out, sliding his hand over yours. His fingers wrapped around your wrist, warm and steady, and he slowly guided you off your stool. He pulled you into the narrow space between his knees, lifting you just enough to guide your legs apart until you were straddling his right thigh.

The contact was electric. Before you could pull away, he took both of your hands in his. He brought them down, pressing your open palms flat against the bare, burning skin at the hem of his shorts. He forced your fingers to curve around the thick, dense sweep of his quad.

"Touch it," he hummed, his voice a sweet command against your ear.

Even now, with the air thick and heavy between you, his true nature didn't change. Tucker was, at his core, a caretaker. He was the boy who always quietly made sure you were looked after, and this moment was another extension of that—him easing the ache you’d been carrying all evening, giving you exactly what you needed. But as your palms settled fully against his skin, his chest rose in a slow, deep breath, his eyes closing as he let out a shaky exhale. His thigh flexed under your hands—not to pull away, but leaning up into your touch, completely yielding to it. Because Tucker wasn't just doing this for you; he was sinking into it just as deeply, needing the closeness just as much.

The sheer sensation of his muscle flexing under your fingertips sent a jolt straight to your core. Your hips twitched instinctively, a helpless, desperate movement that ground your center right against the hard ridge of his leg.

Tucker let out a low, ragged growl, his hands instantly locking onto your waist to hold you right where he wanted you. "Do that again. Ride it, darlin'. Let me feel you."

All your built-up frustration broke. You shifted your weight, and slid your hips down against his leg in a heavy, deliberate rhythm. The friction through your clothes was devastating. Tucker leaned his head back, a choked sound escaping his throat as you rode him, his fingers digging possessively into your hips. He braced his foot against the bottom rung of the stool, angling his thigh up to give you more leverage, matching your frantic pace with steady, torturous upward thrusts.

The friction alone was sending him over the edge. Up close, you could feel the sheer, radiating heat rolling off him; he was burning up, a fine sheen of sweat breaking out on his forehead. Beneath the thin gray fabric of his shorts, his length had grown shockingly hard, straining painfully against his waistband as he watched you work yourself against him.

The pleasure built too fast, coiling tight and sharp in your stomach. You whimpered, your movements turning wild and uncoordinated as the edge rushed up to meet you.

As your body began to tighten and tremble, Tuck reached up. He brought his large hand to your face, cupping your jaw with a fierce devotion. His thumb brushed over your lips, parting them, and he pushed it ever so slightly into your mouth.

You didn't even think. Your eyes locked onto his blown-out pupils as you instantly wrapped your lips around his thumb, sucking on it desperately while your hips shuddered through a hard, breathless climax.

He leaned in close, pulling you up until your foreheads pressed flush together, his hot, heavy breath mingling with yours. As the waves of heat crashed through you, Tucker watched you shake, his attention entirely locked on you as he guided you through it.

"Good girl," he husked, the warm pad of his thumb moving gently inside your mouth. "Look at how perfect you fit against my thighs."

You cried out around his finger, your core pulsing helplessly against his solid quad as the release completely emptied you out. The intense, tight contractions of your climax clamped down on his leg, and the sheer sight and feel of you completely unraveling in his lap shattered whatever remaining restraint Tucker had left.

His jaw went rigid, his eyes rolling back as a harsh, violent shudder tore right through his bulky frame. He choked on a breath, his fingers digging bruisingly deep into your waist as his hips gave one last, desperate, involuntary jerk upward into you. He came hard right there in his pants, the thick heat of his release soaking through the front of his gray athletic shorts, matching the wetness you had left on his thigh.

For a long moment, the only sound in the kitchen was the ragged asymmetry of your shared breathing. Tucker’s forehead rested heavily against yours, his chest heaving as the tremors finally subsided, leaving him thoroughly spent and slumped against the counter.

Gradually, a slow, familiar warmth returned to his eyes. He slipped his wet thumb from your mouth and used it to gently tap the tip of your nose, that devastating dimple finally cutting through his dazed expression.

"You know," he chuckled breathlessly, looking up at you through his messy curls. "Next time you want to skip the lesson, all you have to do is ask."

He gave your waist an affectionate squeeze, his eyes dancing with mischief as he looked down at the dark wetness soaking through his shorts.

"You spent all that time on this one," he teased, his gaze dropping to where your hands were still molded around his right quad. A slow, playful grin touched his lips as he nudged his left leg slightly against yours, drawing your attention to it. "But I promise the other one is just as good."

@addisondavenport @slvrstrs @coolfrogs868 @ficdelusioncore @kristenm74 @jujuonthatbeat1357 @ayeeshuh @linnygirl09 @unknownsangel2 @rollsonrollss

[garrettgrahamswhore]

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨ 𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐭 𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐥 ୧⋆ ˚｡⋆

john tucker x fem!reader

summary 𓂃 tucker doesn’t think he’s the kind of guy girls pick first. after closing at malone’s, you decide to prove him wrong.

warnings 𓂃 18+ mdni, explicit smut, flirting, oral sex, fingering, protected sex, wall sex, praise, dirty talk, body worship, soft aftercare.

word count 𓂃 7,529.

author’s note 𓂃 requested by @myst3ryin0rperated 💌 this ended up being way longer than planned, but honestly? tuck deserves the attention. i love parts of this, but i’m also not fully sure how i feel about it yet, so i’d love to know what you think <3

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

The first time Tucker saw you, you almost took out an entire row of glasses at Malone’s. Not one, not two, but an entire row.

It happened on a Friday night, which meant the bar was already packed with students pretending they didn’t have assignments due, hockey players pretending they weren’t exhausted from practice, and Della behind the counter pretending she wasn’t five seconds away from throwing someone out for ordering another round only to forget what they’d asked for immediately.

You were new, and that much was obvious. Not because you were bad at the job, exactly, but because you still had the bright, nervous energy of someone who hadn’t yet learned that Malone’s on a Friday night was less a bar and more a sticky-floored battlefield.

You came out from behind the counter with a tray balanced carefully in both hands, brows pinched in concentration as your bottom lip caught between your teeth. You were wearing black jeans and a Malone’s blue shirt, your hair pulled back messily, as if you’d done it in a rush, and Tucker found himself noticing you before he could think better of it.

He noticed the way you smiled at a customer who was definitely being too loud. He noticed the way you thanked Della twice when she moved around you. He noticed how hard you were trying to do everything right.

And then you set the tray down on the bar too quickly, caught the edge of a napkin holder, and sent three clean glasses tipping into each other with a loud, terrible clatter.

Everyone at the table flinched. Dean was the first to turn around, Garrett’s attention snapped away from whatever Hannah was saying, and Logan started laughing before he’d even fully figured out what had happened.

You froze immediately.

“Oh my god,” you said, hands flying up like you were surrendering to the glasses. “I’m so sorry. I swear I’m usually less of a disaster when no one’s watching.”

Della sighed, though there was already affection in it. “Sweetheart, nobody expects grace here. Just survival.”

Dean grinned from the booth where he sat with the boys. “Ten out of ten entrance.”

Garrett kicked him under the table without even looking at him.

You winced, cheeks burning, and immediately started gathering the glasses before any of them could fall off the bar.

Tucker was on his feet before he’d even thought about moving.

“Here,” he said, already grabbing a stack of napkins from the end of the counter and stepping closer. “I got it.”

You looked up at him, startled, like you hadn’t expected someone to help instead of laugh. Something weird shifted in Tucker’s chest.

“Oh,” you said, your voice softening. “Thank you.”

“Don’t worry about it,” he said, steadying one of the glasses before it could roll off the edge. He gave you a small smile. “First Friday?”

“Is it that obvious?”

“Only a little,” he said, smile tugging at his mouth.

Your mouth curved into an embarrassed but sweet smile, and Tucker noticed the way your whole face seemed to warm with it.

Dean, because of course he did, leaned over the booth and said, “Careful, Tuck. She might make you work for free.”

You glanced between them, your smile still lingering. “Tuck?”

“Tucker,” he said, handing over the glass he’d rescued. “John Tucker.”

You took it from him, your fingers brushing against his for half a second.

“I’m [Y/N],” you said. Then you looked down at the glasses, sighed, and added, “Apparently also a public safety hazard.”

Tucker laughed, not because it was that funny, though it was, but because you were smiling at him like you were happy he had.

That was the first thing Tucker noticed. Not that you were the prettiest girl in the room, though you were. Not that you were the clumsy new waitress, though the boys would absolutely bring that up later. Not even that you were the transfer student Hannah had mentioned once, the one who’d started working at Malone’s because she needed extra money, and Della liked hiring people she could boss around.

The first thing was that you looked at Tucker like he was the one you were talking to — not the guy beside Dean, not Garrett’s friend, not one of the hockey boys. Him.

It was a stupid thing to notice, so of course Tucker noticed.

Over the next few weeks, you became part of Malone’s the way some people became part of a song — slowly at first, then all at once.

You were there on Fridays and sometimes Saturdays, always with your hair tied back in a way that never lasted more than an hour before pieces started falling loose around your face. You learned the regulars’ orders faster than anyone expected. You learned Della’s moods, learned that Dean always said he wanted something different before ordering the same beer anyway, that Logan would steal fries from whoever sat too close, that Garrett was polite because Hannah elbowed him when he forgot, and that Allie always tipped too much because she knew what the job felt like.

And Tucker — you learned his drink by the third Friday. That shouldn’t have affected him. It did anyway.

“You want the usual?” you asked, already reaching for it as he and the boys slid into their booth after the game.

Dean stopped mid-sentence and turned slowly toward Tucker, wearing the most irritating smile imaginable. Logan looked absolutely delighted. Garrett looked like he was trying very hard not to seem delighted. Tucker ignored every single one of them.

“You remembered?” he asked, which was the wrong thing to say because it made him sound surprised.

You blinked at him, then smiled. “You order the same thing every time.”

“So does Dean,” Tucker said.

“Yeah, but Dean changes his mind three times before going back to the same thing. You have to prepare for that emotionally.”

Garrett laughed quietly into his drink.

Dean put a hand over his chest. “I feel attacked.”

“You should,” Allie said, appearing beside him like she’d been summoned by the opportunity to tease him. “It was accurate.”

You grinned and slid Tucker his drink first, and he hated how quickly he liked it—hated how his eyes followed you when you walked away to help another table. Hated even more that Dean noticed immediately.

“Oh, you’re so in trouble.”

Tucker glanced at him. “Shut up.”

“I didn’t even say anything specific,” Dean said.

“You didn’t need to.”

Logan leaned forward, as if this were crucial evidence. “She gave you your drink first.”

“Because I was sitting closest.”

“You weren’t,” Garrett said.

Tucker shot him a look. “Aren’t you supposed to be mature now?”

Garrett shrugged, his arm around Hannah. “I’m in a relationship, not dead.”

Across the room, you laughed at something Della said, nearly dropped a pen, caught it against your chest, and looked far too proud of yourself for saving it.

Tucker tried not to smile, and failed.

Dean pointed at Tucker’s face as he’d just found evidence. “That. Right there. That’s pathetic.”

Tucker picked up his drink, unimpressed. “You’re literally dating Allie.”

“Yes, and I became pathetic in public. It’s part of the process.”

“I’m not becoming anything,” Tucker said.

“Sure,” Dean said.

Tucker knew exactly what they thought.

He knew how it looked: new girl, pretty smile, sweet enough to make everyone in the room feel like she was happy to see them. Of course, he liked her. Everyone probably liked her. You were the kind of person people noticed because you made it easy for them. You asked questions, laughed without trying to seem cool, apologized to chairs when you bumped into them, and once gave a drunk sophomore a full pep talk because he looked sad over mozzarella sticks.

You were sunshine in a place that mostly smelled like beer and fried food.

Tucker told himself that was all it was: you were friendly, and he was interested because of it. It didn’t mean you were interested back.

Girls usually went for guys like Dean: loud, confident, easy to flirt with because he did half the work for them. Or Garrett, with the captain thing and that accidental golden-boy charm, even though Hannah would probably murder anyone who tried. Or Logan, who looked like trouble and knew exactly how to make it work.

Tucker was the nice one, the safe one, the one girls asked to hold their coats while they danced with someone else.

He’d made peace with that a long time ago — mostly. Then, on the fourth Friday, you proved you were going to be a problem.

It was later than usual, with the crowd thinning out around midnight and the booths left sticky and half-empty. Tucker had ended up at the bar while the others argued over whether to go back to the house or order food. You were wiping down the counter with your sleeves pushed up, cheeks flushed from the long shift.

“You’re staring again,” you said, not even looking up.

Tucker blinked at you. “What?”

You glanced at him, eyes bright with amusement. “I said you’re staring.”

“I wasn’t,” he said.

“You were,” you said.

“I was just thinking,” he said.

“About the counter?” you asked.

“It’s a very interesting counter.”

You smiled, and Tucker felt stupidly pleased with himself for being the reason.

“You always do that,” you said, still smiling.

“Stare at counters?” he asked.

“No,” you said, leaning your hip against the bar. “Make jokes when I catch you looking at me.”

Tucker’s throat went dry.

That wasn’t fair. You couldn’t look that sweet and then say things like that.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

You hummed like you didn’t believe him, which was fair, considering he sounded ridiculous.

Dean appeared at Tucker’s shoulder at the worst possible time, because of course he did. “He never does.”

Tucker closed his eyes like he was praying for patience. “Go away.”

Dean grinned at you because, apparently, subtlety had never been an option. “Has he asked you out yet?”

Tucker’s head snapped toward Dean. “Jesus Christ.”

You froze for half a second before your face went pink.

Dean looked like Christmas had just come early.

“Oh,” Dean said slowly, looking far too pleased. “Interesting.”

“Dean,” Tucker said, warning clear in his voice.

You cleared your throat and turned back to the counter, trying to hide your smile. “Does he need help with that?”

Tucker stared at you, Dean made a sound like he’d been shot, and Garrett yelled from the booth, “What happened?”

“Nothing,” Tucker said, far too quickly.

Dean turned back toward the table. “Tucker’s dying.”

“I’m fine,” Tucker said.

You were still smiling down at the counter like you hadn’t just caused chaos.

Tucker didn’t recover for the rest of the night.

After that, things changed. Not dramatically, and not enough that anyone else would’ve called it obvious — except maybe Dean, who called everything obvious if it helped him be annoying. But Tucker felt it.

You started lingering near him when the bar slowed down. You leaned across the counter when you talked to him, chin propped in your hand and eyes warm with focus. You asked about his classes. His practices. His stupid sandwich preference after Logan tried to convince you Tucker had “boring taste,” which somehow turned into a ten-minute argument about whether turkey counted as a personality flaw.

You also started touching him. Not much, just enough to ruin him.

Your fingers brushed his wrist when you set down his drink. Your knee bumped his when you sat beside him for five minutes during your break. Your hand landed briefly on his shoulder when you squeezed past him behind the bar, soft and apologetic and completely unnecessary.

Tucker told himself you were probably like that with everyone, right up until he watched you tell Dean to stop leaning over the bar because he was “ruining the ecosystem,” and decided maybe you weren’t.

By the sixth Friday, Della had started looking at both of you like she knew something neither of you had admitted yet.

That was also the night everything finally clicked into place.

The boys came in late after an away game, tired and loud, their faces flushed from the cold. Hannah and Allie were with them, bundled in coats and already claiming a booth while Dean declared he was starving with the drama of a man who hadn’t eaten in years.

You were working closing again, and Tucker tried very hard not to look too happy about that. Failed, probably.

From behind the bar, you caught his eye and smiled so brightly that his chest went warm.

“The usual?” you asked.

Dean groaned, as if he were personally offended. “This is disgusting.”

You laughed, confused. “What?”

“He’s smiling like an idiot,” Dean said.

Tucker elbowed him in the side.

You looked at Tucker, smile softening as you asked, “Are you?”

“No,” Tucker said.

“He is,” Logan called from the booth.

“He absolutely is,” Garrett added from the booth.

Tucker stared at Garrett. “You too?”

Garrett lifted his hands in surrender. “I’m just observing.”

You set his drink down in front of him, fingers brushing his for a second too long. “For the record, I don’t mind.”

Tucker forgot how to speak, and you walked away before he could find a response.

Dean leaned closer, his voice low enough that only Tucker could hear. “If you don’t ask her out tonight, I’m doing it for you.”

“You are not doing anything,” Tucker said.

“Then do something,” Dean said.

Tucker looked toward the bar, where you were reaching for a stack of napkins and laughing at something Hannah had said. You nearly knocked over a bottle with your elbow, caught it just in time, and then looked around to see if anyone had noticed.

Tucker had. You saw him seeing you, and your nose scrunched with embarrassment. He smiled before he could stop himself.

Dean sighed, as if this were personally exhausting. “God, you two are unbearable.”

Tucker looked away, like that settled it. “She’s just friendly.”

Dean stared at him.

“What?”

“Are you actually stupid?”

“Wow. Very helpful.”

“I’m serious,” Dean said, glancing toward you before looking back at Tucker. “That girl has been making heart eyes at you for a month.”

“She’s nice to everyone,” Tucker said.

“She threatened to pour soda on Logan last week,” Dean said.

Logan looked up from stealing Allie’s fries. “I deserved that.”

Dean continued, with the patience of someone explaining something painfully obvious, “She likes you.”

Tucker shifted, uncomfortable under the weight of the words. “You don’t know that.”

Dean’s expression softened slightly, which was somehow worse. “Tuck.”

“Don’t,” Tucker said.

“I’m just saying,” Dean started.

“I know what you’re saying,” Tucker said, his voice coming out lower than he meant. “But she’s new. She’s nice. And she has all of you literally sitting here every week. I’m not going to assume she’s looking at me like that just because I want her to.”

For once, Dean went quiet.

Tucker regretted saying it immediately. Not because it wasn’t true, because it was, but because he’d never said it out loud before. And, of course, because timing apparently wasn’t on his side, he looked up and saw you standing a few feet away with a tray in your hands, your expression caught somewhere between surprise and something softer.

Tucker’s stomach dropped. You had heard. Maybe not all of it, but enough.

You blinked once, then gave him a small smile, the kind that didn’t quite reach your eyes. “Della said last call.”

Then you turned and walked back to the bar.

Dean leaned back slowly, the teasing finally slipping from his face.

Tucker dragged a hand over his face, guilt hitting all at once. “Fuck.”

“Yeah,” Dean said, quieter now. “That one might be on you.”

The next twenty minutes were horrible. You weren’t rude, and somehow, that made it worse. You were still sweet when you cleared the table, still smiling when Hannah hugged you goodbye, still telling Logan he couldn’t take the basket of fries with him because it was “not a souvenir.” But you didn’t linger near Tucker, didn’t brush his hand, didn’t smile at him first.

By the time the others left, Dean gave him one very pointed look from the door. Tucker ignored it, mostly because he deserved it.

He stayed behind while you wiped down the bar, sitting at the end with his coat folded beside him like he wasn’t sure where else to put himself. Della had disappeared into the back, clearly on purpose, and without the usual noise, the bar felt strange. Softer. Too quiet.

You didn’t look at him for a while, and Tucker let you have that.

Eventually, you set the rag down with a sigh. “Are you waiting for Della or me?”

“You,” he said. You glanced up, and he swallowed. “If that’s okay.”

You looked at him for a moment before nodding. “Okay.”

“I’m sorry.” You seemed surprised by that, so Tucker kept going before he could lose his nerve. “For what I said earlier. You weren’t supposed to hear it.”

“Would it be better if I hadn’t heard it?”

“No,” he said, looking down at his hands before meeting your eyes again. “Probably not.”

You crossed your arms and leaned against the bar. “Do you really think I’m just being nice?”

Tucker hated how gentle your voice was.

“I think you are nice,” he said.

“That’s not what I asked.”

A small smile tugged at his mouth before he could stop it. “No, it wasn’t.”

You waited, giving him time to answer.

Tucker exhaled slowly. “I don’t know what I think. I guess I’m trying not to assume.”

“Assume what?” you asked.

“That you’d choose me.”

The words settled between you, quiet and honest and too exposed.

Your expression softened when you said his name. “Tucker.”

He let out a short laugh, but there was no humor in it. “I know. It sounds stupid.”

“It doesn’t,” you said.

“It kind of does,” he said.

“No,” you said, walking slowly around the bar until you were standing in front of him. “It sounds like you don’t see yourself clearly.”

He looked at you then. Really looked. Your face was still flushed from work, hair coming loose around your cheeks, your eyes tired but warm. There was nothing teasing in them now.

“You keep acting like I’m looking past you,” you said, voice soft. “I’m not.”

Tucker went completely still.

You swallowed, a little nervous now, and somehow that made the words hit even harder. “I saw all of them first. I still looked at you.”

For a second, Tucker couldn’t speak. He’d imagined you saying a lot of things. Not that. Never that.

“[Y/N],” Tucker said quietly.

Your smile wobbled slightly. “Too much?”

“No,” he said, voice rough. “No, not too much.”

Della chose that moment to appear from the back, took one look at the two of you, and turned right back around. “I forgot absolutely nothing. Continue.”

You laughed, breaking the tension just enough for Tucker to breathe again.

He stood and grabbed his coat. “Let me walk you home.”

Your eyes lifted to his, softer now. “Okay.”

Outside, the cold air hit your face, and you pulled your jacket tighter around yourself. Tucker walked beside you, close enough for your shoulders to brush every few steps, but not close enough to crowd you. The streets around Briar were quieter now, wrapped in the kind of late-night stillness that made every little sound feel louder — your shoes on the sidewalk, Tucker’s breath in the cold, the distant noise from another bar down the street.

For a minute, neither of you said anything, and then you laughed softly.

Tucker looked over at you. “What?”

“I just realized I basically confessed to you in front of a bar counter that still smelled like spilled beer.”

His mouth twitched like he was trying not to smile. “Very romantic.”

“I’ve always been known for my elegance.”

“You did knock over four glasses the first night I met you.”

“Three,” you said, pointing at him. “It was three.”

“One almost fell off the counter,” he said. “I’m counting it.”

“You’re cruel,” you said, trying not to smile.

“I did help.”

“You did,” you said, your voice softening. “That’s why I remembered you.”

Tucker’s chest tightened at that.

You kept walking for a few more steps before adding, “Everyone else laughed. Not in a mean way, but still. You just helped.”

“It wasn’t exactly heroic.”

“It was to me,” you said quietly.

He didn’t know what to do with that, so he shoved his hands deeper into his pockets and looked down at the sidewalk like it might tell him what to say.

You smiled at him, and somehow Tucker felt it even without looking.

By the time you reached your apartment building, the tension had changed shape again. It was still soft, still warm, but there was something electric underneath it now, something that had been building for weeks across bar counters, half-finished conversations, and every smile you’d given him like it wasn’t ruining his day in the best way.

You stopped when you reached the door.

“This is me,” you said.

Tucker nodded, like he knew that and still wasn’t ready to leave. “Yeah.”

Neither of you moved. Then you looked up at him. “Do you want to come in?”

His eyes lifted to yours. The question was quiet, but there was nothing unclear about it.

Tucker’s voice dropped when he asked, “Do you want me to?”

You stepped closer, your eyes still on his. “Yes.”

That was all Tucker needed.

The elevator ride was silent, broken only by your uneven breathing and the small ding of each floor passing. Tucker stood beside you with his hands at his sides, not touching you yet, though the restraint in him was obvious. You could feel it — in the tight line of his jaw, in the way his eyes kept flicking to your mouth before he forced them away, in the way he seemed to be waiting until you were somewhere private before letting himself want you properly.

Somehow, it only made you want him more.

Your apartment was small and warm, a little messy in a way that made you immediately wince as you unlocked the door.

“Don’t judge,” you said as you stepped inside. “I wasn’t expecting company.”

Tucker looked around at the books stacked on the coffee table, the blanket slipping off the couch, the mug in the sink, and the tiny lamp glowing in the corner before looking back at you.

“I like it,” he said softly.

You smiled at him. “You’re very easy to impress.”

“Only when it’s you,” he said.

The words were quiet and simple, and they stole the air from your chest.

You closed the door behind him, then turned the lock.

Tucker’s eyes dropped to the movement, and his expression shifted. When he looked back at you, something had changed. He was still Tucker — still warm, still steady — but the softness in him had sharpened into something more focused.

You swallowed, voice suddenly smaller. “Hi.”

His mouth curved, just barely. “Hi.”

“You’re standing very far away,” you said.

“I’m trying to be respectful,” he said.

You stepped closer, eyes on his. “You can stop.”

His eyes darkened at that. “Yeah?”

You nodded, not trusting your voice.

Tucker moved then, closing the small space between you in two steps. His hand came up to your jaw, gentle at first, like he was giving you one last second to lean away.

You leaned into his touch.

After that, the kiss wasn’t gentle. It was warm, deep, and immediate, like weeks of almosts had finally found somewhere to land. Tucker’s hand slid into your hair, the other settling at your waist as he pulled you close enough for your chest to press against his. A soft sound slipped out against his mouth, and Tucker’s grip tightened.

“There you are,” Tucker murmured against your mouth.

Your stomach flipped at the sound of his voice.

You kissed him harder, your hands sliding up his chest and feeling the solid warmth of him beneath his jacket. Tucker walked you back until your spine met the wall near the door, his body caging yours in without ever making you feel trapped.

“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do this,” he said, his mouth brushing your jaw.

Your head tipped back as his lips moved to your neck. “I wanted you to.”

His hand tightened briefly at your waist.

“Yeah?” His voice dropped lower. “Wanted me to walk you home?”

“Yes,” you breathed.

“Wanted me to come upstairs too?”

“Yes,” you breathed.

His mouth hovered near your ear, voice low. “Wanted me to touch you?”

Your breath caught before you could answer. “Tuck—”

He kissed the spot just beneath your jaw, pulling a sound from you that was almost a whimper.

His voice went rough. “Say it.”

You swallowed, your fingers curling into his shirt. “Yes. I wanted you to touch me.”

He groaned, low and restrained, before his mouth found yours again, hungrier this time. Your hands pushed at his jacket, clumsy with urgency, and Tucker helped you pull it off before shrugging out of it and tossing it somewhere near the couch.

You laughed breathlessly as it knocked into a chair.

“Sorry,” you breathed.

“Don’t care,” Tucker murmured, already kissing you again.

Your back hit the wall hard enough to make your whole body light up, but not enough to hurt. Tucker’s thigh slid between yours, and the second you rocked down against it without thinking, his hand tightened on your hip.

“Fuck,” he breathed against your mouth. “You’re going to make me forget how to be nice.”

Your lips curved against his. “Maybe I don’t want nice.”

His eyes lifted to yours, and there it was again — that quiet intensity.

“I can do both,” Tucker said, voice low.

The words went straight through you, sharp and warm all at once.

His hands slipped beneath your shirt, his palms warm against your skin. He touched you slowly at first, almost reverent, like he was trying to memorize the shape of you. Then your hips moved against his thigh again, and his control slipped just enough that his fingers pressed into your waist.

“You’re so pretty,” he murmured, voice rough. “I’ve been thinking that since the first night.”

“When I dropped the glasses?” you asked.

“Especially then,” he said, like it was obvious.

You laughed, only for it to break into a gasp when his mouth found your neck again, his teeth grazing lightly before his tongue soothed the spot.

“Tucker,” you breathed.

“I know,” he murmured, his hand moving higher until his fingers brushed the underside of your breast through your bra. “Tell me if you want me to stop.”

You shook your head quickly, voice barely steady. “No.”

“No?” he asked, voice low.

“Don’t stop,” you whispered.

His eyes darkened at that, and then he kissed you like those words had undone something in him. The warm, steady Tucker from Malone’s was still there, but this version of him felt different — more confident, more direct. His hands knew exactly where they wanted to go, his mouth knew how to make you melt, and every quiet groan he gave you made your knees a little less reliable.

He pushed your shirt up slowly, and you lifted your arms for him. The second your shirt hit the floor, his gaze dropped to your chest, and his jaw flexed.

“Jesus,” he breathed.

You almost made a joke. Almost. But the way he looked at you made it hard to hide behind one.

His hands came up to cover your breasts through your bra, thumbs brushing slowly over the thin fabric. Your back arched off the wall as a soft moan slipped out before you could stop it.

Tucker’s mouth parted slightly, his voice rough. “Don’t hide that.”

“What?” you breathed.

“Those sounds,” he said, his thumb moving again just to make your breath catch. “I want to hear them.”

Your cheeks warmed, but your body answered before your mouth could, another quiet whimper slipping out when he leaned down and kissed the top of your breast.

“Like that?” Tucker asked, voice low.

“Yes,” you breathed, your fingers tightening in his shirt. “Like that.”

He undid your bra carefully, sliding the straps down your arms before letting it fall between you. His eyes moved over you more slowly this time, and something about the softness in his face made your chest ache.

Then his mouth closed around your nipple, pulling a moan from you as your head knocked back against the wall.

Tucker groaned against your skin, one hand firm at your waist while the other covered your breast, fingers rolling your nipple until you started shifting against him, needy and restless.

“You’re so responsive,” Tucker murmured, kissing across your chest. “Do you have any idea what that does to me?”

You swallowed, surprising yourself with how steady it sounded. “Tell me.”

His eyes flicked up, and for a second, he looked surprised. Then his expression shifted, a small, almost dangerous smile tugging at his mouth.

“It makes me want to take my time,” he said, voice low. “Makes me want to find out every way to make you sound like that again.”

Your thighs pressed together, and Tucker noticed immediately. Of course he did. His hand slid down your stomach, fingers pausing at the button of your jeans.

“Can I?” he asked, voice low.

“Yes,” you whispered.

He unbuttoned your jeans slowly, eyes fixed on your face as he pushed the denim down your hips. You kicked them off awkwardly, nearly tripping in the process, and Tucker caught you with a quiet laugh, his hands steady on your waist.

“Still clumsy,” he murmured.

“You’re very distracting,” you said.

“Good,” he murmured.

You were about to answer, but then his fingers slipped beneath the waistband of your underwear, and every thought disappeared.

He touched you over your panties first, two fingers pressing against the wet fabric, and his breath caught.

“Fuck,” he breathed. “You’re wet.”

Your face burned at the way he said it. “You sound surprised.”

“I’m not,” he said, fingers moving slowly over your clit through the soaked material. “Just trying to process the fact that you wanted me this badly.”

“I did,” you whispered.

The admission came out soft and honest.

Tucker’s eyes lifted to yours. You held his gaze, even though it made you feel exposed.

“I wanted you,” you said again, softer this time.

Something shifted in his face. Then he kissed you hard, fingers pushing your underwear aside and sliding through your wetness. The first touch of his skin against your cunt pulled a gasp from you, your hips bucking toward his hand before you could stop them.

“There you go,” he murmured, voice rough with satisfaction. “That’s what I wanted.”

His fingers circled your clit slowly, steady and precise, and you clung to his shoulders as pleasure sparked low in your stomach.

“Tuck,” you whimpered, fingers tightening on his shoulders.

“Right here,” he murmured, his forehead touching yours. “I’ve got you.”

He slid one finger into you, eyes fixed on the way your lips parted, then added another when your hips rolled against his hand. The stretch pulled a louder moan from you, and Tucker’s jaw tightened like the sound was testing every bit of his restraint.

“Fuck,” he breathed, voice rough. “You sound so pretty.”

His touch grew deeper and more deliberate, his thumb finding you again as you stayed pressed against the wall, nearly bare while Tucker was still fully dressed. The imbalance should have made you embarrassed.

It didn’t. Not with him looking at you like that, not with his hand between your thighs, his mouth at your jaw, and his voice low in your ear.

“Tell me what feels good,” he murmured.

Your breath shook around the answer. “Your fingers.”

“Yeah?” he murmured.

“Yes,” you breathed, gripping his shirt tighter. “Right there. Don’t stop.”

His fingers curled again, and a moan broke from you into the quiet room.

“That’s it,” he murmured, voice rough. “Let me hear you.”

The pleasure built faster than you expected, heat tightening through your stomach and thighs, but just before it could break, Tucker pulled his fingers away.

A frustrated sound slipped out of you. “Why—”

He dropped to his knees, and your mouth went dry as Tucker looked up at you from the floor, hands sliding up the backs of your thighs.

“I’m not done with you yet.” It should not have sounded as hot as it did.

Then he pulled your underwear down, slow and deliberate, before lifting one of your legs over his shoulder.

“Tucker,” you breathed, fingers tightening in his hair.

His mouth pressed against the inside of your thigh. “Hold onto me.”

Your fingers slid into his hair, and then his mouth found your cunt.

The first stroke of his tongue made your whole body jerk, a sharp moan slipping out as his hands tightened on your thighs. He ate you like he’d been waiting weeks for it, slow and deep at first, tongue dragging through your wetness before flattening over your clit.

“Oh my god,” you gasped.

He hummed against you, the vibration making your knees buckle slightly, and Tucker held you up.

His mouth worked over you with a patience that felt almost unfair, tongue circling your clit, lips sucking softly while his fingers dug into your thigh every time you tugged his hair. You could feel how wet you were, could hear it too, and the sound made your face burn even as your hips started moving against his mouth.

“Tuck—fuck, right there,” you gasped.

He groaned like the words had gone straight through him, focusing there until the pleasure turned sharp and bright. Your head fell back against the wall, one hand still buried in his hair while the other braced beside you.

You were close, close enough that your thighs started trembling.

“Tucker,” you gasped. “I’m—”

He didn’t stop. He didn’t slow down. He only held you tighter, mouth sealed over your clit until you came with a broken moan, hips jerking against him as pleasure rolled through you. He stayed with you through it, easing the pressure when you started to shake and pressing kisses to your inner thigh when you finally whimpered from the sensitivity.

When he stood again, his mouth was wet and his eyes were dark.

You could only stare at him.

He wiped his thumb across his lower lip before leaning in to kiss you. You tasted yourself on his tongue, moaning into his mouth as Tucker made a rough sound against you.

“Bedroom,” he said, voice rough.

You nodded quickly.

The walk there was not graceful. You bumped into the side table, Tucker knocked into the doorframe, and you both laughed against each other’s mouths until the laughter turned into another kiss the second you reached your room.

Tucker pulled his shirt off, and you finally got to touch him properly.

He was warm beneath your palms, solid and broad, and his stomach tightened when your fingers dragged lower toward his belt.

“You okay?” you asked, a small smile tugging at your mouth.

His eyes met yours, dark and unsteady. “I’ve been better.”

You laughed, but then your hand brushed over the hard outline of him through his jeans, and his smile vanished.

“Oh,” you whispered, your smile fading too.

Tucker caught your wrist gently, his voice rough. “Careful.”

You looked up at him, pulse jumping. “Or what?”

His expression shifted again, that quiet confidence settling over him like he knew exactly what you were doing.

“Or I’m gonna fuck you against that wall before we even make it to the bed.”

Your stomach dropped, but you held his gaze. “Maybe I’d like that.”

For a second, neither of you moved. Then Tucker kissed you hard enough that you stumbled backward.

Your back hit the bedroom wall, his body pressing close while his hands lifted you by the backs of your thighs. You wrapped your legs around his waist on instinct, and Tucker groaned when you rolled your hips against him.

“Condom?” he asked, his voice strained.

“Nightstand,” you said, breathless.

He carried you to the nightstand just long enough to grab one before returning you to the wall, laughing low when you kissed his neck impatiently.

“Eager,” he murmured.

“You’re the one who mentioned the wall,” you said.

“I did,” he said, voice low.

“Then stop talking,” you breathed.

Tucker’s mouth curved, slow and dangerous. “Yes, ma’am.”

He shoved his jeans down just enough to roll the condom on, then stepped between your thighs again, one hand sliding over your hip while his other arm kept you steady against the wall.

The head of his cock brushed through your wetness, and for a second, both of you went quiet.

Your fingers dug into his shoulders, voice barely steady. “Tuck.”

His forehead pressed to yours. “I know.”

He pushed in slowly, inch by inch, stretching you open while holding you like you were something precious and something he wanted badly enough to ruin all at once. The angle was intense, your back against the wall, legs wrapped around his waist, his body doing all the work as he filled you completely.

Your mouth fell open, breath catching in your throat.

Tucker groaned, the sound rough against your mouth. “Fuck, you feel good.”

“You too,” you breathed, fingers digging into his shoulders. “You feel so good.”

His eyes squeezed shut for a second before he started moving. Slow at first. Controlled. Deep enough that every thrust stole your breath, his hips pinning you to the wall while his hands kept you steady. You were still sensitive from his mouth, still wet and aching, and every drag of his cock pulled another moan from you.

“Tucker,” you gasped.

“I know,” he murmured, his mouth brushing your jaw. “I’ve got you.”

“You keep saying that,” you breathed.

“Because I do,” he said, voice steady.

Your chest tightened, but then his hips snapped a little harder, and the feeling turned back into heat.

“Oh, fuck,” you gasped.

“There?” he asked, his voice rough.

“Yes,” you gasped.

He adjusted his grip, holding you higher before hitting the same spot again, and your head fell back against the wall with a moan.

Tucker’s eyes locked on your face. “That’s it.”

His pace built slowly, not rushed but intense, every thrust dragging sounds from you that you couldn’t hold back. The wall was cold against your back, his skin hot against yours, and your whole world narrowed to Tucker’s hands, Tucker’s mouth, Tucker’s cock moving inside you like he’d been waiting weeks to prove exactly how well he could ruin you.

“You have no idea how hard it was,” he murmured against your throat, “watching you smile at me from across that bar.”

A whimper slipped out of you before you could stop it.

“Thinking you were just being nice,” he said, hips driving into yours harder until you gasped. “Thinking I was making it up.”

“I wasn’t,” you breathed, clinging tighter to his shoulders. “I wasn’t looking at them.”

Tucker’s grip tightened, and you pulled his face to yours, kissing him messily. “I wanted you.”

He groaned against your mouth.

The next thrust nearly tore a cry out of you.

“Say that again,” he rasped.

“I wanted you.” The next thrust hit harder, stealing the rest of the sentence from you. “Tucker—”

“Again.”

“I wanted you,” you moaned, nails dragging down his shoulders. “I wanted you so badly.”

That broke something in him. His pace turned rougher, still controlled but less careful now, hips snapping into yours as he held you against the wall. You clung to him, moaning his name, letting him hear every gasp and broken sound because he seemed to need them as badly as you needed the way he moved.

“Touch yourself,” he said suddenly, and your breath hitched.

His eyes met yours, dark and intent.

“I want to feel you come around me.”

Your hand slipped between your bodies, fingers finding your clit, and the first circle made your whole body jolt. Tucker cursed, forehead dropping to yours as you clenched around him.

“Fuck, that’s it.”

Your fingers moved faster, clumsy from how badly you were shaking, but the pressure built quickly with him still fucking into you, his voice low and constant in your ear.

“Look at you,” he murmured against your ear. “You’re so pretty. Doing so good for me.”

Your breath broke.

“Come on, baby.” His grip tightened. “Let me feel it.”

The orgasm hit hard, your body tightening around him as your moan broke into something helpless. Tucker held you through it, thrusting deep and uneven as you pulsed around him, until he followed with a rough groan, hips jerking as he came.

He stayed there for a moment, breathing hard against your neck, holding you up like letting go was not an option. Then he laughed softly.

You opened your eyes, still trying to catch your breath. “What?”

“Nothing,” he said, his mouth brushing your shoulder. “Just thinking Dean’s never going to shut up if he finds out.”

You laughed, still breathless and warm. “Then don’t tell him.”

“He’ll know,” Tucker said.

“Why?” you asked, smiling against his skin.

Tucker pulled back just enough to look at you, his smile softer now. “Because I’m not going to be able to stop smiling.”

Your heart did something stupid in your chest.

After that, he carried you to the bed and set you down carefully before disappearing to clean up. When he came back, he had a damp cloth in his hand, cleaning you gently and murmuring an apology when your thighs twitched from sensitivity.

“You okay?” he asked softly.

You nodded, still a little breathless. “Very okay.”

His mouth curved. “Good.”

He lay beside you, and for a second, a strange shyness settled between you again. Not awkward. Just new.

You turned onto your side to face him. “You can stay.”

His eyes softened at that. “Yeah?”

“If you want.”

“I want,” he said, without hesitation, and the answer came fast enough to make you smile.

Tucker pulled the blanket over both of you, and you curled into his side like it already felt familiar. His arm came around you, warm and steady, fingers tracing slow lines down your back.

For a while, neither of you said anything. Then you whispered, “I meant it, you know.”

His hand paused against your back. “What?”

“I saw all of them,” you said, tilting your head up to look at him. “I still looked at you.”

Tucker stared at you for a second, something tender and disbelieving crossing his face. Then he kissed you, soft this time, slow, like he finally believed you.

The next morning, Tucker woke with your leg thrown over his and your face tucked against his chest.

For a second, he didn’t move. He just looked at you — at the sunlight slipping through your curtains, your hair messy against his skin, the tiny crease between your brows like you were arguing with someone in your sleep.

He smiled before he could stop himself, which, as it turned out, was exactly the problem. Because when he finally left your apartment in yesterday’s clothes and walked into the hockey house just before noon, Dean was sitting on the couch with a bowl of cereal.

Dean looked up. Tucker froze. The spoon stopped halfway to Dean’s mouth as a slow, terrible smile spread across his face.

“No way.”

Tucker sighed. “Don’t.”

Logan appeared from the kitchen immediately, because he had a sixth sense for chaos. “What? What happened?”

Dean pointed his spoon at Tucker. “Our boy didn’t come home last night.”

Garrett looked over from the table, his brows lifting.

Logan’s face lit up. “[Y/N]?”

Tucker tried to walk past them. “I’m leaving.”

“You just got here,” Dean said, delighted.

“Then I’m leaving again.”

Garrett laughed under his breath. “Good for you, man.”

That was somehow worse than the teasing. Tucker shook his head, but he was smiling, and Dean noticed, because Dean noticed everything that made life unbearable.

“Oh, he likes her likes her.”

“Shut up.”

Logan grinned, leaning in like this was the best news he’d heard all week. “Did she finally get tired of waiting for you to make a move?”

Tucker paused at the stairs. Thought about your smile, your apartment, your voice saying, I still looked at you. Then he turned just enough to say, “Actually, she made the move.”

The room exploded. Dean yelled, Logan swore, and Garrett laughed properly this time.

Tucker headed upstairs before any of them could ask anything else, but he still heard Dean call after him.

“I’m proud of you, Tuck!”

He rolled his eyes, but he was still smiling.

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

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[afterdarkbydel]

Leave It On

Jack Abbot x Reader

Summary: You were only unloading Jack’s dishwasher. That was all. You were in his kitchen, barefoot and comfortable in one of his old shirts, waiting for him to come home from tactical training. Domestic. Normal. Safe. And then Jack walked in wearing tactical gear. The vest. The boots. The radio. The duty belt. The quiet, knowing look on his face when he realized you could not stop staring. You tried to be normal about it. Jack noticed. Of course he did.

Warnings: 18+ only, smut, established relationship, tactical gear/uniform kink, dom/sub dynamics, praise kink, light restraint, orgasm denial, oral sex, rough sex, kitchen counter sex, consent-heavy dominance, aftercare, Jack being smug and quietly devastating.

Author's Note: You’re welcome, readers. Tactical gear Jack has been in my head for far too long, and today I am making that everyone’s problem. This is for everyone who looked at that vest and immediately understood the vision. the boots, the radio, the command voice, the smugness, the “leave it on” of it all.

We did this together, and honestly? I think we should all be ashamed.

But we won’t be.

Xoxo, Del

MDNI 18+

You knew Jack’s kitchen well enough to know he had run the dishwasher. That was the first problem. The second problem was that you also knew Jack well enough to know he had absolutely no intention of unloading it before he left for tactical training.

You found the clean dishes by accident.

You had been at his townhouse for almost an hour, tucked into the corner of his couch in one of his old T-shirts and the soft lounge shorts you kept in the bottom drawer of his dresser. Jack pretended not to notice they had taken up permanent residence there. You pretended to believe him.

The TV murmured low in the living room. Your phone was facedown beside you. Late afternoon light stretched warm across the hardwood, catching on the coffee table, the arm of the couch, the spot near the entry where Jack always kicked off his boots, even though he complained when you did the same thing.

He had told you to let yourself in.

He always did now.

That was dangerous information if you let yourself think about it too long, so mostly, you didn’t.

You used your key. You kicked off your shoes. You curled up in his house like it had started making room for you without either of you saying it out loud.

Then you wandered into the kitchen for water, saw the clean light glowing on the dishwasher, and sighed as if this were somehow your responsibility.

“Of course,” you muttered.

The dishwasher door opened with a soft hiss. Warm air rolled up, damp and clean, smelling faintly like detergent and steam. The heat brushed your bare legs. Jack had loaded the bowls in the wrong direction again, because apparently, a man could be trusted with a trauma bay, tactical medical support, and other people’s lives, but not proper dishwasher geometry.

You started unloading it anyway.

Not because you were trying to be domestic. Not because the green mug already in his cabinet made something soft move behind your ribs. Definitely not because this had started to feel like your kitchen too.

You were simply a helpful person.

A generous person.

A person who had taken her bra off the second she got comfortable because Jack was not home yet, and you had planned to do nothing more strenuous than drink water, watch terrible television, and bully him into ordering Thai food when he got back.

You put the plates away first. Then the bowls. Then the mugs. The green one went on the second shelf, where Jack always reached for it in the morning, even though he claimed he did not have a favorite.

You were stretching to slide a mug into place when the front door opened.

You did not look over right away. “You ran the dishwasher and abandoned it,” you called, rising onto your toes. “I’m choosing to believe that was a cry for help.”

Jack did not answer. That was your first clue. Your fingers paused on the cabinet handle. The house changed when Jack entered it. You never knew how to explain that without sounding ridiculous. It was not sound, exactly. Not silence. Not even presence.

It was pressure. A subtle rearranging of the air.

You lowered yourself back onto your heels and turned.

Jack stood just inside the kitchen entry.

And your entire brain stopped. Not paused. Stopped. You had seen him in scrubs. You had seen him in old T-shirts and jeans, and the gray sweatpants he pretended were not specifically engineered to ruin your life. You had seen him half-asleep at this very counter, hair flattened on one side, making coffee with the grim focus of a man performing surgery on a French press. You had even seen him at work when he got sharp and calm, voice low, hands steady, the whole room rearranging itself around him because Jack Abbot had decided panic was not useful.

But this—

This was different.

Camouflage tactical pants tucked into boots. A tan quarter-zip stretched across his chest and shoulders, darkened slightly at the collar from sweat. Camouflage sleeves pushed up enough to make his forearms a personal attack. Protective glasses shoved into his hair. A radio clipped at his shoulder. A duty belt low on his hips, heavy with equipment you did not know the names for, and suddenly wanted explained to you in unnecessary detail.

And the vest.

God help you, the vest.

It was not sleek. It was not pretty. It was bulky and practical and worn in, half-unfastened, like he had started taking it off and gotten distracted. A black patch across the front read POLICE in block letters.

It should not have done anything to you.

It did several things.

Several immediate, humiliating things.

Jack’s gaze moved from your face to the mug still in your hand.

His mouth twitched. Barely. “You okay?”

You opened your mouth.

Closed it.

Opened it again.

“Yeah.” Your voice caught. “I—yeah.”

Jack’s eyebrows lifted. Not much. Enough.

Heat rushed up your neck.

You turned back to the cabinet too quickly and shoved the mug onto the shelf. The wrong shelf. The green mug sat neatly beside his stack of bowls. The kitchen went horribly quiet.

Jack looked at the mug. Then at you. “That’s the bowl cabinet.”

Your fingers were still on the cabinet door. “I know.”

“You put a mug in it.”

“It’s visiting.”

Jack’s mouth curved. Small. Slow. Awful.

You shut the cabinet like that would erase the evidence, and bent for a plate from the dishwasher. A plate was normal. A plate was safe. A plate had never come home from tactical training looking like it could ruin your life with one raised eyebrow and a vest buckle.

 Jack stepped farther into the kitchen. His boots sounded heavy on the tile.

You stared very hard at the plate. “Training was good?”

Jack hummed. “Mm-hm.”

“Good.” You croaked. 

“Long.”

“Right.” You nodded too quickly. “Yeah. Long is… training often is that.”

Jack went quiet. That was worse than if he had laughed. 

You lifted the plate toward the cabinet. Wrong cabinet. Again. You froze with your arm half-raised. 

Jack did not say anything. He did not have to.

You could feel him looking at the cabinet. Then at the plate. Then at you.

“Don’t,” you said.

“I didn’t.” Jack replied. 

You couldn’t look at him. “You were about to.” 

“No.”

Somehow, that was worse.

You lowered the plate slowly and opened the correct cabinet with all the dignity available to a person actively losing a fight with kitchen storage.

Jack leaned one shoulder against the doorway. Still in the gear. Still quiet. Still watching.

“You’re flustered.”

You laughed. It came out too high. “I am unloading the dishwasher.”

“Badly,” Jack murmured. 

You exhaled, “You’re welcome.”

His eyes dropped. Not crudely. Not obviously. Just enough. Bare legs. Soft lounge shorts. His T-shirt. Your bare feet on his kitchen tile. You, too comfortable in his house to have expected him like this.

When his gaze returned to your face, something had shifted. Still amused. Still warm.

But darker now. More certain. “Oh.”

Your stomach dropped. “No.”

Jack’s eyebrows rose. “I didn’t say anything.”

“You said ‘oh.’”

“I did.” 

You pressed your lips together, “Don’t.”

He pushed off the doorway and took one slow step closer. You looked at the vest.

Mistake.

Jack noticed. His hand rested briefly against the front of it, fingers brushing one of the buckles like he had all the time in the world and knew exactly where your eyes were.

You looked away so fast that your shin almost caught the open dishwasher door.

Jack’s mouth curved. “Careful.”

You gripped the counter. “I’m fine.”

“Sure?”

“Yep.” Too fast.

He came closer. Not too close. Close enough. The kitchen smelled like detergent, steam, and him now. Work and heat and Jack.

You picked up another mug. Then forgot why you were holding it.

His gaze flicked to it. Then back to you. “Need help?”

“No.”

“You sure?” He asked. 

“Yes.” You answered quickly. 

Jack glanced at the mug in your hand, “You’ve been holding that for a while.”

You looked down. You were, in fact, still holding the mug. 

“Oh my God,” you muttered.

Jack’s smile deepened. Small. Unbearably pleased.

You shoved the mug into the correct cabinet this time and immediately wished you had not looked proud of yourself for completing a task toddlers could master.

Jack caught that too. “Good job.”

Your face went instantly hot. The words were mild. Too mild.

That was the problem.

He had said them like he was talking about the mug, but his voice had gone just low enough to make your pulse stumble.

You turned to him. “Don’t do that.”

His expression stayed innocent. Too innocent. “Do what?”

You glared, “You know.”

“I don’t.” Jack shrugged a shoulder. 

“You absolutely do.”

A beat passed.

His eyes dropped to the way your hand curled around the counter edge.

When he looked back up, his voice was quieter. “You like the gear.”

Your mouth went dry. “I—what?”

Jack’s eyes held yours. “You heard me.”

You shook your head, “I do not.”

He raised a brow, “No?”

“No.” Your eyes betrayed you, straight to the vest.

Jack saw. The smugness sharpened.

You shut your eyes. “Damn it.”

A low sound left him. Almost a laugh. Not quite. “That’s what I thought.”

You opened your eyes.

He was close now. Close enough that you could see the dust on his boots, the tired edge around his eyes, the way the tan quarter-zip pulled across his shoulders beneath the vest.

You swallowed.

Jack watched your throat move. Said nothing.

Which was, frankly, rude.

“You’re enjoying this,” you said.

“A little.” Too honest. Too calm.

Your stomach flipped. “You’re supposed to deny it.”

“No.” The single word landed low.

Your hand slipped on the counter.

Jack’s gaze dropped to it. Then back to your face. His smile softened into something darker.

More focused. “Oh, baby.”

Your entire body went warm. “Don’t call me that right now.”

His head tilted. “Why?”

“Because I’m already—” You stopped.

Jack waited. His eyes stayed on your face, patient and pleased and quiet enough to make the silence feel like a touch.

You cleared your throat. “Because I’m unloading the dishwasher.”

He looked at the open dishwasher. Then, at the single spoon still sitting in the rack. Then back at you. “Almost done.”

You hated him.

You wanted him so badly your knees felt unreliable.

Jack stepped closer. Your back met the counter. He did not touch you.

Not yet.

His gaze moved over your face, taking in the blush, the uneven breathing, the way you kept trying not to look at the vest and failing every time.

Then his hand lifted. Slow enough that you could have moved away. You didn’t. His fingers brushed the loose collar of your T-shirt where it rested against your shoulder.

Barely. Not enough. Too much.

His voice dropped, “You want me to take it off?”

Your eyes jumped to his. “The shirt?” 

His mouth curved. “The vest.”

Oh. Right. The vest.

You looked at it again, because apparently, you had learned nothing.

Jack watched you look. Watched your breath catch. Watched your fingers tighten against the counter.

When you dragged your eyes back to his, he looked unbearably smug. Your voice came out smaller than planned. “Maybe don’t.”

Jack went very still. The kitchen went quiet around you.

His thumb brushed once against your shoulder. “Maybe don’t.”

You nodded.  

He waited. Right. Words.

“Yes,” you said softly. “Maybe don’t.”

Jack smiled then. Slow. Private. Absolutely lethal.

“Hands on the counter.”

Your breath left you. “What?”

Jack’s eyes held yours. “You heard me.”

The words were quiet. That was the problem. Jack did not raise his voice. He did not have to. The command settled into the kitchen with the same calm certainty he carried into rooms where people were used to listening when he spoke.

Your hand tightened around the edge of the counter.

Jack saw. His gaze dropped to your fingers, then came back to your face.

“You good?”

You nodded, then caught yourself because his eyebrow moved. Barely. Still enough.

“I’m good.”

Jack believed you. That was worse. Better. Both.

His mouth curved faintly, not quite a smile, not quite mercy.

“Then, hands on the counter.”

The kitchen seemed to shrink around the sentence.

The open dishwasher breathed out the last of its heat beside you. The single spoon still sat in the rack, ridiculous and bright beneath the kitchen light. Somewhere in the living room, the television murmured to itself, low enough to be forgotten but not low enough to let the house feel empty.

You turned because he told you to. That was the first thing. The second was that Jack noticed the exact moment you realized you liked it. 

Your palms met the counter. Cool stone. Smooth beneath your hands. You spread your fingers over it and tried not to think about how exposed the gesture made you feel. Tried not to think about the soft lounge shorts riding high on your thighs, the oversized T-shirt slipping loose at your shoulder, the fact that your back was to him now, and you could no longer use his face to prepare yourself for what he might do next.

Behind you, Jack did not move.

The silence was deliberate.

You felt it travel down the line of your spine.

Your skin prickled. “Jack.”

His boots sounded once on the tile. Then again. Slow. Measured. Not stalking. Not rushing.

Just coming closer because he had decided to, and because you had put your hands where he told you to put them.

He stopped behind you, close enough that the heat of him reached you before his hands did.

The vest touched you first.

A brush of hard tactical fabric between your shoulder blades. Warm from his body underneath, rough at the edges, practical in a way that made it feel more obscene than anything designed to be sexy ever could.

Your fingers curled against the counter.

Jack’s mouth came near your ear. “I didn’t tell you to move.”

You had not moved. Not really. But your hands had lifted by a fraction, your fingers starting to curl like they wanted to reach back for him before you remembered yourself.

You flattened them again. The counter was cold. Your skin was not.

Jack’s hand settled at your waist. Warm. Steady. A single touch, and your whole body went too aware of itself. The old cotton of his shirt against your skin. The loose waistband of your shorts. The bare line of your shoulder where the collar had slipped. The cool air in the kitchen. The hard vest behind you.

His thumb moved once against your side. “Good.”

One word. No flourish. No smirk you could see.

Still, your breath went uneven.

Jack heard it.

His hand stayed where it was, not moving higher, not moving lower, like he had all the time in the world and no interest in giving you anywhere to hide. “You like that.”

Your eyes shut. “I don’t know what you mean.”

His mouth brushed the side of your neck. Barely there. “Liar.”

It should not have sounded affectionate. It did. A shiver moved through you before you could stop it. Jack’s palm flexed at your waist, grounding you without letting you pretend he had missed it.

The kitchen smelled like detergent, fading steam, and him.

Cold air still clung to his clothes from outside. Beneath that was sweat, dust, soap, and the faint metallic edge of gear and training equipment. It was not cologne. It was not polished. It was Jack after a long day doing something physical and dangerous enough that your body had apparently decided common sense was optional.

His other hand came to your opposite hip. Now he had you between him and the counter. Not trapped. Held.

There was a difference. Jack knew it. Worse, he knew you knew it too.

His mouth touched your shoulder, a slow kiss just below the place where your shirt had slipped. The touch was soft enough to make your knees go weak. His hands tightened at your hips before you could sway.

Jack’s thumbs moved in slow arcs beneath the hem of your shirt, finding skin. Your breath caught. The refrigerator hummed. The dishwasher clicked softly as it cooled. Jack’s vest shifted against your back when he leaned closer, and the sound of it—fabric, buckles, the faint scrape of equipment—went straight through you.

His fingers skimmed your stomach. Not high enough. Not low enough. Just enough to make you feel the shape of his restraint. 

You started to turn your head toward him.

 His hand left your waist and came to your jaw, two fingers beneath your chin, guiding your face forward again. “No.”

Your pulse jumped. The word was quiet. Simple. Devastating.

You faced forward again.

Jack’s thumb brushed once along your jaw before his hand dropped back to your side. “Stay there.”

You pressed your palms more firmly to the counter. “That’s bossy.”

His mouth hovered near your ear. “You like bossy.”

Your face burned. “I did not say that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

A frustrated sound escaped you before you could swallow it down.

Jack stilled. Then, softly, “There.”

Your stomach flipped. “What?”

“That sound.” His lips touched the back of your shoulder. 

The hand beneath your shirt slid slowly up your stomach, then stopped at your ribs. Waiting. Teasing. Holding back exactly enough to make you feel the absence of everything he was not doing.

You went silent.

Jack’s mouth moved along your neck. Slow. Patient. Awful. Every touch felt measured. Not because he was hesitant, but because he had figured out that patience ruined you and was immediately putting that information to use.

His palm flattened over your stomach and drew you back against him. The vest pressed hard into your back. The duty belt brushed the back of your thigh. You felt him there, solid and warm and controlled, and your body gave one helpless little shift backward before your mind could stop it.

Jack’s grip tightened. Not a warning. A response. His breath changed against your neck. For the first time since he had walked through the door, the smug control slipped just enough for you to feel the man underneath it.

You caught it.

Your mouth curved despite yourself. “There he is.”

Jack went still. The air changed. His hand stayed flat over your stomach, but his thumb stopped moving. 

You had gotten him. Only a little. Only for a second. But enough.

His mouth came close to your ear. “Careful.”

Your smile widened, shaky but real. “With what?”

His hand slid to your hip and pulled you back into him again, slower this time.

Your smile disappeared. Every thought went with it.

“Thinking you’re in charge because I let you have one.”

You swallowed hard. “That was one?”

His mouth brushed your neck. “One.”

The word should not have undone you. It did. You were suddenly aware of your hands again, of how badly you wanted to take them off the counter. To reach back. To touch the vest. The straps. His belt. His hands. Anything. You wanted to turn around and get your mouth on his, wanted to make him stop sounding so calm when you could feel he was not.

Your fingers flexed.

Jack saw. “Hands.”

You flattened them. 

He kissed your shoulder. A reward. You hated how fast it worked. You loved how fast it worked.

Jack’s hand slipped beneath your shirt again, slower now, knuckles brushing bare skin on the way up. His touch stayed to the edges: waist, ribs, stomach, the underside of wanting without giving it a name. He was not rushing toward the places your body begged for. He was making you feel every inch before then.

You let your head tip to the side. More room. You did not say it.

Jack did not need you to. His mouth found the space you gave him. His lips were warm against your neck, then his teeth grazed just enough to make your breath catch, and your hands press flat again against the stone.

“That’s it,” he murmured.

The praise sank into you slowly like heat. You had been embarrassed before. Flustered. Mouthy because it was easier to be difficult than honest. But somewhere between the counter under your palms and his vest at your back, the fight in you had softened.

Not gone. Changed.

You were still aware of how ridiculous this should have been. The open dishwasher. The last spoon. The clean mug sitting in the bowl cabinet. His kitchen lit golden in the late afternoon while Jack stood behind you in tactical gear and touched you like he had all night and no intention of wasting a second.

But the embarrassment had started to dissolve into something heavier.

Relief, maybe. Relief at not having to hide how much you wanted him. Relief at being told exactly what to do by someone who would stop the moment you asked.

Relief at Jack’s quiet certainty, at the way he gave commands like promises and praise like reward. His hands slid down to the hem of your shirt. 

You tensed, not from fear. Anticipation moved through you so sharply that your breath caught in your throat.

Jack felt it. His mouth touched the back of your shoulder. “Still good?”

“Yes.”

He trusted it.

His thumbs hooked beneath the fabric. “Arms up.”

The command was simple. That made it worse. You had been told to keep your hands on the counter. Now he was telling you to move them. The shift itself felt intimate, as if he were changing the rules and trusting you to follow.

You lifted your hands slowly.

The counter disappeared from beneath your palms, leaving you briefly unanchored. Your arms rose above your head. The position pulled the shirt higher, exposing the line of your stomach, leaving you open to him in a way that made your face burn before he had even taken anything off.

Jack watched. You could feel him watching. His hands rested at your waist for one long second, as if he was taking in the fact that you were standing there because he had told you to.

The silence made your pulse beat harder.

Then he began to lift your shirt. Slowly. The cotton slid up your stomach. Over your ribs. Higher. He did not rush. Of course, he did not rush. Jack had learned that patience ruined you and had apparently decided to make it your problem.

You made a small, impatient sound before you could stop yourself.

The shirt stopped. You froze.

Jack’s mouth came near your ear. “Something you need?”

Your eyes closed. Terrible man. “No.”

His fingers held the shirt exactly where it was. Not up. Not down.

A strip of kitchen air cooled your skin. 

“No?”

Your pride made one final, useless attempt at survival. It failed immediately.

“Please.”

Jack’s breath changed. Only slightly. Enough.

His mouth touched your shoulder. “Please, what?”

The word sat on your tongue, embarrassing and simple, and exactly what he wanted.

“Take it off.”

A pause.

Then his lips curved against your skin. “That wasn’t so hard.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“You’re still listening.” He lifted the shirt the rest of the way. 

The fabric dragged over your chest, your shoulders, your raised arms. For a second, it covered your face, warm cotton and the faint smell of him, and then it was gone, dropped somewhere behind you onto the kitchen floor.

The air touched your bare skin.

Jack went still. Completely. Your arms were still raised. Your breathing had gone uneven. The vest pressed warm and hard against your back. And Jack, who had been so smug, so pleased, so devastatingly in control, did not say anything. For one second. Two. 

The silence reached your pulse before his voice did. “You weren’t wearing anything under this.”

Your face went hot. “I was comfortable.”

His hand came back to your waist. Slow. Firm. “In my kitchen.”

“You weren’t home.”

His fingers tightened once. “I am now.”

The words landed low and heavy between you.

You started to lower your arms.

Jack caught the movement immediately. “Ah.”

You froze.

His mouth brushed your shoulder. “I didn’t say you could move.”

Your whole body went hot. Slowly, you lifted your arms back into place.

Jack’s hand slid over your waist, controlled, almost reverent, like he was taking a second to recover and refusing to let you see how badly he needed it.

Unfortunately for him, you knew him too well.

Your mouth curved despite the heat in your face. “Oh.”

His fingers paused.

You smiled, breathless. “Oh, baby.”

Jack’s grip tightened at your waist. “Careful.”

You turned your head slightly, just enough for your cheek to almost brush his. “Did you not know?”

His mouth hovered near your ear. His voice was low. Still controlled. Barely. “I know now.”

A shiver moved through you.

Jack felt it.

His mouth touched the side of your neck. “There you go.”

Your arms ached faintly from being raised, but you did not lower them.

He had not told you to.

Jack noticed.

You felt the exact moment he noticed: the way his hand stilled, the way his breath went rough, the way his body pressed closer behind yours until the vest brushed your bare back again.

He leaned in, mouth at your ear. “You’re waiting.”

Your eyes fluttered. “You didn’t tell me I could move.”

For a second, he was silent.

Then his hand spread over your stomach and pulled you gently back into him. “That’s my girl.”

The praise hit harder than you expected.

Your breath shook.

Jack’s mouth moved along your neck, slower now, rewarding every second you kept your arms lifted. His hand stayed at your waist, then drifted over your stomach, then back to your hip. Teasing. Learning. Not attempt to hide how much he liked the way you were listening.

Finally, his voice came low against your skin. “Hands down.”

You lowered them slowly. Relief moved through your shoulders. 

Before you could decide what to do with your hands, Jack spoke again.

“Behind your back.”

Your pulse jumped. The kitchen blurred softly at the edges. You turned your head a fraction.

Jack was waiting there over your shoulder, eyes dark and steady, giving you time because he always gave you time.

Your hands slid behind you. Slowly. Obediently.

His mouth curved. “There she is.”

The words were soft. Too soft for what they did to you. Your hands stayed behind your back, fingers curling around your opposite wrist, because you had no idea what else to do with them. The position pulled your shoulders back and left you open to him, skin still warm where his mouth had been and cooler now beneath the kitchen air.

Jack did not touch you right away. He looked. You felt the weight of it move over you. Down the side of your neck. Across your shoulders. Along the line of your spine where the vest had been brushing you. The kitchen felt too ordinary amid the silence: the open dishwasher, the clean spoon still abandoned on the rack, the soft ticking of cooling metal, the fading detergent steam caught beneath the sharper scent of him.

Then he stepped closer. The vest touched your back first. Hard fabric. Warm underneath. A scrape of tactical gear against bare skin that made your stomach pull tight.

Your breath caught.

Jack heard it. His hand moved behind you, slow enough that you could have stepped away, and closed around both of your wrists. Not tight. Not rough. Just firm. Certain.

Your eyes fluttered shut.

His thumb moved once over the inside of your wrist, and the carefulness of it almost made the whole thing worse. He held you like he meant it. Like he knew exactly what you were giving him and had no intention of taking it lightly.

“You good?” he asked against your shoulder.

Your answer came out quieter than you expected. “I’m good.”

His grip settled.

His free hand came to your waist, palm spreading warm against your skin. Then he drew you back by degrees, not pulling hard, not forcing, just guiding until your spine met the vest and your hips met the solid line of him behind you.

Your lips parted.

The air left the room.

Jack’s mouth touched the side of your neck. Barely.

You felt it everywhere.

He kissed you slowly, once beneath your ear, then again lower, where your pulse had become embarrassingly easy to find. His hand slipped from your waist to your stomach, flat and steady, holding you against him while his mouth learned what made your breath change.

You tried to swallow. It came out as a sound instead.

Jack’s grip around your wrists tightened. Not a warning. A response.

He liked that.

You knew because his breath shifted against your neck. Because the calm line of him behind you went a little less calm. Because his hand pressed you more firmly back into him, making sure you felt exactly what listening to him had done.

Your eyes opened. The kitchen cabinets blurred in front of you. The cabinet with the mugs. The bowl cabinet with the green mug still sitting in the wrong place because neither of you had bothered to fix it.

You should have found that funny.

You would have, if Jack’s mouth had not opened against your shoulder. If his teeth had not skimmed just enough to make your knees loosen. If his free hand had not slid to your hip and pulled you back again, slower this time, letting you feel him through all that gear, all that restraint.

“Jack.” His name came out thin.

He hummed against your skin. Not a question. Not yet. He knew what you wanted. That was the problem. He knew, and he was taking his time with the knowledge. His hand dragged slowly over your stomach, then back to your waist, then lower to the band of your shorts. He did not go beneath it yet. He only rested there, fingers spread, the heel of his hand warm against the place where your body had gone tight with waiting.

You pulled against his grip without meaning to. His hand around your wrists did not move. The reminder went through you like a spark.

You were not trapped.

You were held.

There was a difference, and Jack knew exactly how to make you feel it.

His mouth came to your ear. “Tell me.” 

Only two words. Soft. Rough at the edges.

You closed your eyes.

The old instinct rose—joke, dodge, say something difficult enough to make the wanting less obvious. But your shirt was on the floor. His vest was against your back. His hand was at your waistband. And you were tired of pretending you were not shaking.

“Touch me,” you whispered.

Jack went still for half a second. Then his mouth pressed to your shoulder. A reward. His hand slipped lower into the waistband of your shorts. Slowly. The first real touch made your whole body lock. Jack held you through it. One hand around your wrists, the other moving with maddening patience, his mouth warm at your neck, his breath uneven now.

He did not ask again.

He trusted the way you leaned into him. He trusted the way your head tipped back against his shoulder. He trusted the way your fingers curled helplessly in his grip instead of pulling away.

And because he trusted you, you gave him more.

A breath. A sound. His name, softer this time.

Jack moved as if he were learning you by touch and already knew he would remember every answer. Every shiver. Every little hitch of breath. Every helpless attempt to chase his hand when he slowed down.

“Easy,” he murmured.

Your body listened before your pride could object.

A low sound moved out of him, almost a laugh, pleased and dark and far too close to your ear. He liked that too. He liked it when you listened.

You could feel it in the way his grip tightened around your wrists. In the way his mouth became less patient at your neck. In the way his body leaned heavier into yours for one second before he reined himself back in.

“You’re doing so good.” The praise sank into you, warm and devastating.

Your head fell back against him. The ceiling light caught in your vision. Soft gold. Too bright. Too ordinary for this. His kitchen. His counter. The open dishwasher still breathing out the last of its heat.

Jack’s hand moved again. The world narrowed. The hard vest. The radio is brushing your shoulder. The duty belt against the back of your thigh. His mouth at your throat. His breathing is no longer even.

He brought you closer slowly. So slowly, you almost did not recognize what he was doing until your hands tightened in his hold and your legs started to tremble.

Your breath broke. “Please.”

The word slipped out raw.

Jack stopped kissing your neck. Everything in him seemed to listen. His hand did not stop.

Not yet.

“Please what?”

You made a sound that was not quite an answer.

 He slowed. Cruel. Controlled. Patient enough to ruin you.

Your forehead nearly dipped into the counter in front of you. “Jack.”

His mouth touched your shoulder. “That’s not an answer.”

Your face burned. Not shame. Something warmer. Something that made the wanting sharper because he was making you stand inside it and speak.

“Please don’t stop.”

His breath left him rough against your neck. There. That got to him. 

The knowledge made your knees weaker.

Jack gave you what you had asked for, and your whole body went soft and tight at once. Your wrists strained in his hold. His grip steadied you immediately, keeping you exactly where he wanted you while his mouth returned to your neck and his fingers worked over you in slow, tight circles.

You were close enough now that the room started to slip.

The tile beneath your feet. The cabinet in front of you. The hum of the refrigerator.

All of it blurred around him. His hand. His vest. His voice in your ear. “That’s it.”

You shook against him.

He felt it. 

He gave you more. 

Then, just as your body started to tip toward the edge, just as your breath caught and stayed caught, just as your fingers curled helplessly behind your back—

Jack stopped. Completely. 

For one impossible second, you could not process the absence. Then you made a sound so desperate it should have embarrassed you.

It didn’t.

You were too far gone for that.

Your body tried to follow his hand.

Jack’s arm came around your waist immediately, holding you still, holding you up, his mouth pressing to your shoulder in something almost tender. “Easy.”

You let out a broken breath. “Jack.”

“I’ve got you.” He murmured.

“You stopped.” 

His mouth curved against your skin. “I did.”

You pulled at your wrists, helpless now, frustrated enough that your eyes burned. “Why?”

His hand rested flat over your stomach. Still. Warm. Maddening.

His lips brushed the shell of your ear. “Because you begged so pretty.”

Heat rushed through you, full-body and humiliating. 

“And I want to hear you do it again.”

For a second, you could not answer. You could only stand there with your hands still held behind your back, Jack’s vest pressed against your bare skin, his arm firm around your waist, his breath warm at your ear. The kitchen felt too bright for what he had done to you. Too normal. Cabinets. Counter. Open dishwasher. The last spoon was still sitting in the rack like neither of you had any intention of finishing what you started.

You whispered his name.

Jack’s mouth touched your shoulder. “Turn around.”

Your pulse jumped.

His grip loosened around your wrists. For a second, you did not move. Not because you did not want to. Because the absence of his hold made you feel strangely weightless, like your body had forgotten what to do without his hand telling it where to stay.

Jack noticed. His fingers brushed once over the inside of your wrist before he let go completely.

“Slow.”

One word. You obeyed. You turned carefully, bare feet shifting against the cool tile, counter at your back now, open dishwasher to your side, Jack in front of you.

He looked almost unfairly composed for a man whose breathing had gone rough against your neck moments ago.

Almost.

His vest was still half-unfastened. The tan shirt beneath it clung to his shoulders. His hair was mussed from the protective glasses shoved into it. There was dust on his boots. A shadow along his jaw. His eyes moved over your face first, then lower, and the effort it took him to bring them back up made your stomach twist.

“There,” he said softly.

Your fingers found the edge of the counter behind you. “What?”

Jack stepped closer. His hands settled at your waist. “I wanted to see your face.”

The sentence should have been tender. It was. That made it worse. His thumbs moved once over your skin, slow and warm. He watched you take the touch. Watched your lips part, your shoulders lift, the way your body could not decide whether to lean into him or brace against the counter.

Then he bent slightly.

“Jack—”

His hands tightened at your waist. A warning. A promise.

Then he lifted you.

The counter was cold beneath you.

You gasped at the sudden shock of it, the stone pressing against the backs of your thighs, cool enough to make your whole body jolt. Jack stepped between your legs before you could close them, his gear brushing you, his hands still steady at your waist.

The house was quiet around you. Too quiet. The television in the living room had gone to some muted commercial you could not place. The refrigerator hummed. The dishwasher clicked again, cooling metal, soft and domestic and absurd.

Jack stood between your knees like he belonged there. Like he had always intended to put you there.

Your hands moved toward him before you thought better of it.

He caught your wrists. Fast.

Your breath stopped.

Jack looked down at your hands, then back at your face. “Not yet.”

You made a soft, frustrated sound.

His mouth curved. “Hands on the counter.”

You stared at him. “You just let me turn around.”

“And now I’m telling you where to put them.”

Heat crawled up your neck. “You’re very bossy.”

Jack guided your hands to the edge of the counter on either side of your hips.

His fingers pressed over yours until you gripped it. “Hold here.”

Your hands curled around the counter. The stone was cold under your palms.

Jack waited until he saw your fingers tighten. Then he let go. “Good.”

The word went through you with humiliating ease.

Jack saw that too. His gaze sharpened. “You’re going to be a problem now.”

You tried to breathe normally. “You already knew I was a problem.”

“I knew you were mouthy.” His hands slid to your knees. Slow. Firm. “This is different.”

Your heart kicked hard against your ribs as he eased your legs wider. Not rushed. Not rough. Just certain. Every inch of space he made felt deliberate.

Your fingers tightened around the edge of the counter. “You love my mouth,” you said.

Jack stopped. For half a second, the entire kitchen went still.

Then his eyes lifted to yours. Dark. Amused. Worse than amused. “Yes.”

The answer was immediate. Too immediate. Your pulse stumbled.

Jack’s thumbs moved once over the inside of your knees. “But right now,” he said, voice low, “I’m interested in what it does when I tell you to be quiet.”

Oh.

Your mouth parted. Nothing came out.

Jack’s expression warmed with satisfaction. “There she is.”

Your face burned. “That was mean.”

“No.” His hands moved higher on your thighs, slow enough to make your thoughts scatter. “That was honest.”

The kitchen air felt cool against your bare skin. Jack felt warm everywhere he touched you. The vest shifted when he leaned down, hard fabric brushing the inside of your leg before he caught himself and adjusted.

Still controlled. Still careful. Still somehow making every careful thing feel worse.

His fingers found the waistband of your shorts. You went still. Jack noticed. His gaze lifted to your face. “You good?”

Your throat worked. “I’m good.”

His thumbs slipped beneath the soft fabric. “Hands stay.”

Your fingers curled harder around the counter.

Jack drew your shorts down slowly. Not because they were difficult. Because he wanted you to feel every second of it, the fabric dragged over your hips, your thighs, catching briefly beneath you until he lifted you just enough to ease it free. The movement was smooth and effortless, one hand at your waist, one at your thigh, his body still between your knees, the vest brushing your skin whenever he leaned close.

You stared at the ceiling because looking at him felt impossible. That did not help. The ceiling was too ordinary. The kitchen light was too warm. The dishwasher was still open. Your shorts slid down your legs and fell somewhere near his boots.

Jack did not move for a moment. He just looked. 

The quiet of it made your pulse beat everywhere. “Jack.”

His hands settled back on your thighs. “I’m here.”

The answer came immediately. Grounding. Ruinous. His thumbs moved slowly over your skin, and he eased your knees apart again, reclaiming the space he had made before.

Your breath caught.

Jack’s mouth curved. “Still with me?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” He lowered his head and kissed the inside of your knee.

Soft. Patient. A beginning.

Your head tipped back against the cabinet.

Jack’s voice came low against your skin. “You asked so nicely before.”

Your eyes fluttered shut. “I was desperate.”

“I know.” The smile was in his voice.

You hated that. You loved that.

His mouth moved higher. Still not enough. Your hands twitched on the counter.

Jack noticed without looking up. “Hands stay.”

Your grip tightened immediately.

The reward came as another kiss, slow and warm, higher than the last.

You let out a shaking breath. 

Jack looked up at you. Focused. The kind of focus that made rooms go quiet around him. “Then take it.”

The words emptied your lungs.

Jack lowered his mouth. 

The first touch made your whole body jerk. Your fingers clamped around the counter. The cold stone bit into your palms. Your shoulders hit the cabinet behind you with a soft thud, and Jack’s hands tightened on your thighs to keep you there, open and still and absolutely nowhere near in control. 

“Oh, my God.” The words broke out of you before you could stop them.

Jack paused. Barely.

You felt the shape of his smile against you. “Quiet.”

You inhaled sharply.  

Then he did it again. Slower this time. Like he wanted to feel the exact second you lost the fight with yourself. Your head tipped back against the cabinet. The kitchen light went soft and gold behind your closed eyes. Everything narrowed to Jack between your thighs, the rough brush of his vest against your leg, the pressure of his hands, the heat of his mouth, the way he seemed to listen with his entire body.

You tried to move.

Jack held you still. Not harsh. Firm enough. A reminder.

Your hands stayed on the counter. Barely.

His thumb stroked once over your thigh, approval without words, and the gentleness of it almost made you unravel faster than the rest. You made another sound. Smaller. More helpless.

Jack hummed low, pleased, and the vibration went through you like a spark.

Your eyes flew open.

He looked up. That was worse. His mouth was still close. His eyes were dark and steady, watching your face like he was reading every answer you gave him. “You like that?”

Your voice had vanished. You nodded.

Jack’s hands stilled.

 The silence pressed hot against your skin. Right. Words.

“Yes.”

His mouth curved. “Tell me.”

Your fingers dug into the counter. “I like that.”

He rewarded you immediately.

Your breath broke.

Jack’s hands slid beneath your thighs, adjusting you closer to the edge, and the movement made the counter colder, him warmer, the room smaller. You wanted to touch him so badly your hands ached around the stone. 

One hand slipped. Only an inch.

Jack lifted his head. “No.”

The word was quiet. Your hand froze.

He did not look angry. He looked pleased. Terribly pleased. “Where do your hands stay?”

Your face burned. “On the counter.”

His thumb stroked the inside of your thigh. “That’s right.”

He waited until your hand curled back around the edge.

Then his tongue found you again. A reward. A ruin. You were a mess within seconds. Not gracefully. Not prettily. Completely. Breath snagging. Thighs trembling. Shoulders pressed against the cabinet. Hands locked around the counter because Jack had told you to keep them there, and somehow that command had become the last solid thing in the room.

Jack took his time. Of course he did. He had learned that patience ruined you, and now he was proving it. Every time you thought you knew the rhythm, he changed it. Every time your body started to rise toward something, he softened. Every time you whispered his name, he gave you enough to make you do it again.

“Jack.”

His hands tightened. You heard his breath change. Felt it. He liked his name like that. You knew it now. 

You used it. “Jack, please.”

He lifted his mouth just enough to speak against your skin. “Please what?”

You let out a broken little laugh, almost angry with how badly you needed him. “You know.”

“I do.” His mouth brushed higher. Not enough. Not yet. “I want to hear you.”

Your head fell back. The cabinet was cool against your shoulder blades. Your own breathing sounded too loud in the small kitchen. “Please don’t stop.”

Jack’s hands flexed. There. He liked that. The knowledge made you ache.

 He gave you more. The room slipped sideways. The hum of the refrigerator disappeared. The TV disappeared. The open dishwasher, the cooling spoon, the late afternoon light across the tile — all of it blurred into sensation.

Jack’s mouth. Jack’s hands. Jack’s voice, when he murmured, “Good girl,” like praise, was another way to touch you.

Your hands started to loosen from the counter. You caught yourself.

Jack saw anyway. “That’s it,” he said, voice rougher now. “Hold on.”

You did. Your fingers curled around the edge until your knuckles ached. Your thighs trembled under his hands.

He brought you close slowly. Too slowly. You could feel it building, feel yourself tipping toward that bright, impossible edge he had denied you once already. Your breath came in pieces. Your body tried to move with him, tried to chase, tried to close around him.

Jack held you open. Held you still. Kept you there.

“Jack,” you whispered.

He lifted his eyes to yours. The sight almost ended you by itself. Still in gear. Still composed enough to look up like he knew exactly what he was doing to you. Not composed enough to hide the roughness in his breathing. 

“What do you need?” The question was quiet. Devastating.

You swallowed. The begging came easier this time. Too easy. “Please.”

His mouth touched your thigh. “Please what?”

Your cheeks burned.

You did not hide. Not this time. “Please let me.”

Jack went still. His eyes darkened. For one breath, all the smugness slipped, and what was left underneath was hunger so sharp it made your fingers tighten on the counter.

Then his mouth curved slowly. “There it is.”

He kissed your thigh. A reward. “Again.”

You shook your head once, breathless. “Jack.”

“Again.” His voice was rougher now. Less teasing. More affected.

And because you could hear what it did to him, because you could feel that he was not nearly as untouched as he pretended, you gave him the words.

“Please,” you whispered. “Please let me come.”

Jack’s eyes held yours. Then he lowered his mouth again. This time, he did not stop. Your whole body went tight. The counter edge cut into your palms. Your breath caught and stayed caught. Jack’s hands held you through the first shudder, then the next, one arm pressing over your hips to keep you exactly where he wanted you while the rest of you broke apart around him.

You heard yourself say his name. Once. Twice. Too soft to be a scream. Too ruined to be anything else.

Jack stayed with you through all of it. Not rushing. Not moving away. His mouth is softer now, his hands gentler, easing you down instead of dropping you.

Your body went heavy. Boneless. Your head fell back against the cabinet, and the kitchen came back in pieces.

The hum of the refrigerator. The detergent smell. The cool counter under your palms. The sound of Jack breathing. He kissed the inside of your knee. Then the lower part of your thigh.

Then he looked up at you. His hair was mussed. His mouth was wet. His vest was still on. And he looked unbearably pleased with himself. “You still good?”

You stared at him, chest rising and falling hard. “I think you know I’m not.”

His mouth curved. Warm. Smug.

So comepletely Jack, you almost laughed.

 “Yeah,” he said softly. “I do.”

He rose slowly, stepping back between your thighs.

His hands settled on the counter on either side of you, caging you in without touching you. He leaned close enough that the vest brushed your bare skin again, and you shivered even now.

Jack noticed. His smile deepened. 

You closed your eyes. “I hate the vest.”

“No, you don’t.”

Your laugh came out weak. “No,” you admitted. “I really don’t.”

Jack’s mouth brushed yours. Slow. Deep. A reward and a promise. When he pulled back, his eyes had gone dark again.

Your hands slid from the counter toward him. This time, he let you touch the vest.

For one second.

Only one.

Then his hand closed gently around your wrist. “Not yet.”

Your breath caught.

Jack’s thumb moved over your pulse. “I’m not done with you.”

The words landed low.

Your hand was still caught in his. Your fingers had barely touched the vest before he stopped you, and somehow that single second had made the wanting worse. Rough fabric beneath your palm. The hard line of the strap. Heat beneath it. Jack beneath all of it.

You stared at him.

Jack stared back. His thumb moved once over your pulse. Not soothing. Not really.

A reminder.

The kitchen still felt tilted around you. Your body was loose and shaking from what he had already done, your thighs still bracketed around him, the counter cold beneath you, the cabinet cool against your back. Everything smelled like detergent and sweat and Jack. The open dishwasher had stopped steaming now, but the clean scent lingered beneath the sharper edge of his gear.

Your voice came out thin. “You’re not?”

Jack’s mouth curved faintly. “No.”

Your fingers flexed in his hold.

He looked down at the movement. Then back at your face. “You want to touch me.”

It was not a question.

You swallowed. “Yes.”

His eyes darkened.

For a second, the smugness softened into something heavier. Hungrier. The kind of look that made you realize he had been holding himself together too. Not unaffected. Not even close. Just disciplined enough to make you think the ruin had been one-sided.

It had not.

The proof was in the tension along his jaw. The roughness of his breathing. The way his hand tightened around your wrist before easing again, like he had to remind himself not to rush just because he wanted to.

Jack leaned in. His vest brushed your bare skin.

Your breath caught.

He noticed. “Soon,” he said.

Your eyes fluttered. That one word felt like a promise and a punishment. “Jack.”

His mouth touched yours. Not a kiss. Almost. “Hands up.”

Your pulse kicked. “What?”

Jack’s gaze held yours. “Above your head.”

The kitchen seemed to go quieter.

You were still sitting on the counter, still trembling, still trying to recover from him, and now he wanted your hands where he could see them. Where you could not reach for him. Where he could take that final inch of control before giving anything back.

Your fingers curled once against his.

Then you lifted your hands.

Slowly.

Jack guided them the rest of the way, his palm firm around your wrists as he pinned them above your head against the cabinet.

The wood was cool behind your knuckles.

Jack’s body filled the space between your thighs. His gear brushed you everywhere. The hard vest. The duty belt. The heavy weight of him still mostly dressed while you were bare and breathless on his kitchen counter.

He looked at you like that did something to him. Like he had meant to keep the upper hand and had not accounted for the sight of you listening this well.

His mouth moved against your jaw. “Still good?”

You nodded once. “I’m good.”

His grip settled around your wrists. “Stay there.”

Your answer came out as a breath. “Okay.”

Jack kissed you then. Slow at first. Deep enough to make your hands flex above your head, your wrists pressing into his palm, your body shifting toward him before he had given you permission to move. His mouth tasted like heat and restraint and the ruin he had pulled out of you minutes ago.

Then the kiss changed. Something in him shifted. The edge of all that careful patience wore thin. His free hand slid down your side, over your hip, beneath your thigh, drawing you closer to the edge of the counter with one controlled pull. Your breath broke against his mouth. The counter dragged cool beneath you. His gear scraped softly, buckles and fabric and belt, the sound rough in the quiet kitchen.

Jack’s forehead touched yours. His breathing was no longer even. Not even close.

 “You sure?” The question was rougher now. Less composed.

 You looked at him. Really looked.

At the dark focus in his eyes, the strain in his jaw, the way he was still holding himself back because your answer mattered more than his urgency.

Your chest tightened. “Yes.”

His hand tightened around your wrists. “You want this?”

“Yes.”

Jack’s eyes closed for half a second. Like the answer hit him somewhere deep. When he opened them again, the smugness was gone. What remained was worse.

Need, disciplined down to a blade. “Say it.”

Your breath caught.

His mouth hovered over yours. “Tell me.”

You swallowed. The words felt different now. Less like begging. More like choosing.

“I want you to fuck me.”

Jack went still. The whole kitchen held its breath with him. Then he kissed you hard. Not careless. Never that. But harder than before, deeper, the last of his patience burning down to something urgent and raw. His hand stayed around your wrists, keeping them above your head while his other hand moved between you.

You heard the shift of his belt. 

The low rasp of a zipper.

Your whole body went tight.

Jack felt it immediately.

His mouth brushed your cheek. “I’ve got you.”

“I know.”

He pushed his pants and boxers down only as much as he needed. No more. The gear stayed. The vest stayed. The boots, the belt, the tan fabric pulled tight across his shoulders. He was still dressed like he had walked in from training and found you in his kitchen, and that fact made everything feel sharper. More desperate. Less polished.

Jack’s hand came back to your hip.

He looked at you. Waited.

Your wrists flexed above your head. “I’m good,” you whispered.

His gaze softened for one breath. Then he moved closer. He pushed into you slowly, stealing the air from your lungs. Your head fell back against the cabinet.

Jack stopped. Completely.

Every muscle in him seemed locked with the effort of it. “You okay?”

“Yes.” The answer came immediately. Breathless. Certain.

Jack’s mouth brushed the corner of yours. “Good.”

Then he moved. Slowly at first. Controlled even now. He gave you time to feel every inch of the change, the stretch of being held open to him, the pressure of his body against yours, the hard edge of his vest against your chest every time he leaned in to kiss you. You tried to move your hands down on instinct, needing to touch him, needing something to hold onto besides the cool cabinet and his command.

His grip tightened around your wrists. “Not yet.”

A sound left you. Frustrated. Needy.

Jack’s mouth found your neck. “I know.”

He moved again, deeper this time, harder, and the whole room tilted. Your legs tightened around him. His breathing broke. A real break. Low and rough against your throat.

You caught it even through the haze. “There,” you whispered.

Jack lifted his head enough to look at you. His eyes were dark. “What?”

Your lips parted around a shaky breath. “Right there, Jack. Please.”

He drove into you again, harder, and the words disappeared from both of you. The counter creaked softly beneath you. The cabinet knocked once against your wrists. The spoon in the dishwasher shifted with a tiny metallic sound that should have been funny and was not, because Jack was moving now like the control he had used to wreck you had finally turned on him. 

Still measured. Still focused. But rougher. More urgent. His mouth found yours again, catching the sounds you could not swallow. His hand kept your wrists pinned above your head. His other hand gripped your hip, dragging you closer, holding you exactly where he wanted you while the vest brushed and pressed and turned every thrust into another reminder of how this had started.

You were shaking again.

Already.

Jack felt it. His mouth curved against yours, a flash of smugness cutting through the roughness. “Already?”

You would have snapped at him if you could breathe. Instead, you made a broken sound and pulled against his grip.

He held you there.

“You did that on purpose,” you managed. 

“I did.” His voice was rough. Pleased. Not nearly as steady as he wanted it to be.

That made you smile despite yourself. “You’re not as calm as you think.”

Jack’s eyes lifted to yours. For a second, the room narrowed to that look.

Then his hand released your wrists. “Touch me.”

You did not need to be told twice. Your hands came down fast. One grabbed the edge of the vest. The other slid to the back of his neck, fingers pushing into his hair, finally, finally holding on to him the way your whole body had been begging to since he walked through the door.

Jack groaned.  A real sound. Low. Uncontrolled. The sound ruined you.

Your fingers tightened in his hair. “There he is.” 

Jack caught your mouth with his. The kiss turned messy. Hotter. Less careful around the edges. His hand slid beneath your thigh and hitched you higher on the counter, changing the angle until your nails dug into the back of his neck and your whole body jolted against him.

The gear scraped against your skin.

His vest. His belt. The rough line of fabric and equipment. The hard, practical pieces of him still on while his control came apart under your hands. He was still dominant. Still the one setting the pace. But now you could feel what it cost him. Every breath. Every rough sound against your mouth. Every time his rhythm faltered because your hands found another strap, another edge, another place where his body was warm beneath the gear.

“Jack.”

His forehead pressed to yours. “I’ve got you.” The words came rough. Almost broken.

“You keep saying that.”

His hand tightened on your hip. “Because I do.”

Your chest pulled tight. For one second, the heat went soft at the center. Then he moved again, and you lost the thought completely. The kitchen blurred. Your hands clutched at him, one fisted in the vest, one at his neck, holding him close as he drove you higher. The refrigerator hummed somewhere far away. The counter was cold beneath you. His mouth was hot against yours. His breathing filled your ears.

 His praise came low and rough, no longer polished, no longer smug in the same way. “That’s it.”

Your eyes closed.

“Good girl.”

Your fingers tightened.

“Just like that.”

Your body answered every word.

Jack knew it. He used it. He kept one hand at your hip and brought the other to your jaw, making you look at him when your head started to fall back.

“Stay with me.”

Your eyes opened.

He was close. You could see it now. In the tension around his mouth. In the way his breath caught every time you pulled him harder against you. In the way the rhythm turned rougher, less perfect, more honest.

“Jack,” you whispered.

His thumb brushed your cheek. “I know.”

“I’m—” You tried. 

“I know.” His mouth touched yours. “Let me feel it.”

The words tipped you over. Your whole body went tight around him, hands clutching at the vest, mouth open against his, his name breaking somewhere in your throat as the room disappeared in a rush of heat and sound and Jack holding you through it.

Jack’s forehead dropped to yours, his breath breaking hot against your mouth.

“Oh, fuck.”

Your hands tightened in the front of his vest. “Jack.”

His grip dug into your hip, not hard enough to hurt, just enough to tell you he was there with you, right there, as gone as you were.

“I’m gonna come,” he said, voice wrecked now. “Oh—fu-fuck.”

The sound of him losing control almost tipped you over again.

His mouth brushed yours, messy and barely there.

“God, you’re doing so good,” he breathed. “So good for me.”

You clung to him, his vest rough beneath your hands, his body tense and shaking against yours.

“Jack,” you whispered again.

That was what did it.

His eyes closed. His breath caught. His whole body went tight, and then he buried his face against your neck with a rough, broken sound.

“Fuck,” he whispered against your skin. “Good girl. Good—God, baby.”

His hand tightened once at your waist. Then loosened. His body stayed pressed to yours, still shaking in small aftershocks he could not quite hide. For a moment, there was no command. No teasing. No smugness. Just Jack breathing hard against your throat, vest rough beneath your hands, his body warm and heavy and finally, completely undone.

His mouth pressed to your skin. His body went still.

For a long moment, there was only breathing.

Yours. His.

The hum of the refrigerator returning slowly. The cooling dishwasher. The ordinary kitchen gathering itself around the wreckage of what had just happened on the counter.

Your hands stayed on him. One in his hair. One curled into the vest.

Neither of you moved. Then Jack laughed once. Soft. Rough. Disbelieving.

His forehead stayed against your shoulder. “You okay?”

Your laugh came out weak. “I think my soul left my body.”

His shoulders moved with a quiet laugh. The sound warmed your skin. “Still good?”

You nodded against him. “I’m good.”

His hand, no longer commanding, slid slowly up your back.

Gentle now. Careful.

The dominance loosening into care before you could fully come down from it.

He lifted his head and looked at you.

His face had softened. His hair was a mess. His mouth was warm and swollen from kissing you. The vest was still on, crooked now, one strap half-loose, the POLICE patch no longer centered.

You reached up and touched it with two fingers.

Jack looked down. Then back at you. His mouth curved. Smug again. Barely. “You still hate the vest?”

You stared at him. Then at the vest. Then back at him. “I need you to understand that I am currently too vulnerable to answer questions.”

Jack laughed, low and warm. His thumb brushed your cheek. “That bad?”

You let your head fall back against the cabinet. “Worse.”

His smile softened. “Come here.”

“You are already kind of in my personal space.” You exhaled a laugh. 

“Come here anyway.”

This time, there was no command in it. Just him. You leaned into him, and Jack gathered you carefully against the front of all that gear, one arm around your waist, one hand cradling the back of your head. The vest was still hard against your skin.

Somehow, in his arms, it felt softer.

He kissed your temple. Then your cheek. Then the corner of your mouth.

“You did so good,” he said quietly.

Your eyes closed. That praise hit differently now. Not sharp. Not dangerous. Warm.

You let out a slow breath against his neck. “Don’t be smug.”

Jack’s mouth brushed your hair. “I’m not.”

“You are.”

“A little.”

You laughed, boneless and breathless.

He held you tighter for a second, like the laugh mattered.

Behind you, the dishwasher clicked one last time.

Your eyes opened.

“The spoon,” you whispered.

Jack went still. Then he started laughing against your shoulder.

You felt it more than heard it. Deep. Quiet. Helpless.

You smiled into the side of his neck. “Your dishwasher is still open.”

“I know.”

“You’re breaking kitchen safety rules.”

Jack lifted his head enough to look at you.

His eyes were still dark, but softer now. “You want to finish unloading it?”

You looked down at yourself. Then at him. Then at the vest. “Absolutely not.”

His smile came slow. Warm. Entirely too pleased. “Good answer.”

You ended up in Jack’s bed after. 

Not right away. 

There was the shower first, warm water and his hands gentler than they had been in the kitchen. He washed the places where the counter had pressed into your skin. He kissed your shoulder under the spray. He wrapped you in a towel without making a joke about how unsteady your legs still were, which you appreciated enough not to mention how smug he looked about it.

Then one of his shirts.

Then water.

Then bed.

The room was dim by then, the late afternoon light gone blue at the edges of the blinds. You were curled against his side, cheek resting over his heart, one leg tangled with his beneath the sheet. Jack’s hand moved slowly over your back, up and down, steady enough that your breathing had started to match his without you meaning for it to.

He had been quiet for a while. Not distant quiet. Jack had different kinds of quiet. You knew them now.

This one was warm. Settled.

His fingers paused at the center of your back. “Hey.”

You lifted your head enough to look at him.

His face was softer than it had been in the kitchen. Hair damp. Jaw relaxed. No gear. No vest. No command in his voice now.

Just Jack.

“Hey,” you said.

His thumb moved once against your side. “You okay?”

You smiled faintly. “I’m good.”

He nodded. No hovering. No second-guessing. Just belief. Then his gaze dropped to where his hand rested against your back. For a second, you thought he might make a joke. Something about the vest. Something about the spoon. Something dry enough to pull you both back onto safer ground.

He didn’t.

His voice was low when he spoke. “Thank you.”

Your brow softened. “For what?”

Jack’s hand stilled. His eyes came back to yours. “For trusting me like that.”

The room went quiet around the words. Not empty. Full.

Your throat tightened before you could stop it.

Jack looked almost careful now, like the sentence had cost him more than any command he had given you downstairs. Like this was the part where he had less armor. No tactical vest. No smugness. No easy way to turn the weight of it into heat.

Just him, telling you he knew what you had handed him.

You shifted closer, your hand settling over his chest. “I do trust you.”

His jaw moved once. “I know.”

His fingers resumed their slow path over your back, but his voice stayed rougher than before. “I just don’t want to ever take it lightly.”

Oh.

That landed deeper than you expected.

You pressed your cheek back against his chest, listening to the steady beat beneath your ear.

“You don’t.”

Jack’s arm tightened around you.

Not much.

Enough.

You felt his mouth touch your hair. “Good.”

You closed your eyes.

For a while, neither of you said anything.

The house was quiet. The kitchen was downstairs with its open dishwasher and its abandoned spoon and the counter you were still not emotionally prepared to think about. The vest was somewhere else now. The boots. The belt. All the hard edges stripped away.

But Jack’s hand stayed warm on your back.

And when he kissed the top of your head again, it felt like the softest part of everything he had meant all along.

@nosebeers, @moonz33, @littlewolfbird, @tubby23, @gandalfthegoatsblog, @melslavalampapp, @marauvderss, @supernaturalcat7,@jennataurus, @itwas-maroon16 , @nizzasspot, @meadow0434, @chezze-its, @callmefatherr, @amacphet, @imabapical, @offsavingtheworld, @ifyoubewooedingoodtime, @justreadinghere7, @rabbotseatcarrots, @vicky066, @manly-man-whore, @rosiepoise88, @alittlerayof-pitchblack,@woodxtock, @mafercita101, @kiatjuddae, @lacy1986, @cajunebugg76, @kittenmittensssworld, @generation-zero, @taniamiller, @countryandsweetbabygirl, @fantasyreader130, @thehockeynerd30 @angelryex, @michasia24,

[liafieldnotes-03]

[thinkabtyah]

She has me bent over the bathroom counter, completely naked, forcing me to watch myself in the big mirror. Three of her fingers are buried deep in my dripping cunt, pounding me hard and fast while her other hand chokes my throat. Every brutal thrust makes my tits bounce shamelessly.

“Look at yourself,” she growls in my ear, tightening her grip. “Look how fucking nasty you look getting ruined.”

My eyes are glassy, mouth open, drooling as she finger-fucks me even harder. I can hear how wet and sloppy my pussy is with every thrust. My legs start shaking uncontrollably. She doesn’t stop. She just keeps choking me and slamming her fingers deep until I squirt all over her hand and the floor, screaming and twitching while I stare at my own pathetic, ruined face in the mirror.

[kittennextdoor]

18+ She loves the faces you make when you take her strap. ۶ৎ

You’re on your back in the middle of her soft bed, legs spread wide around her hips, while she hovers above you. The mirror on the ceiling reflects everything back down at you: your flushed chest, the way your thighs tremble, the desperate little twist of your mouth every time she rolls her hips. “Look up, baby,” she whispers, voice low and enticing against your ear. “Watch yourself for me.”

You tilt your head back. The sight makes your stomach flutter: her body moving over yours, the thick strap disappearing inside you with every smooth thrust, your own face twisted in pleasure, lips parted, eyes glassy, cheeks burning. She smiles when she sees you looking. “There she is,” she murmurs, almost fondly. “My pretty girl. Look how fucked out you get for me, baby.”

Her pace stays steady but filthy, hips rolling in that perfect rhythm that hits deep every single time. One of her hands slides up to cup your jaw, gently turning your face so you can’t look away from the mirror. “See that?” she breathes, pressing a kiss just below your ear. “See how your mouth falls open when I go deep? How your eyes get all hazy when I grind against your clit like this?”

You whimper, unable to stop the soft, broken sounds spilling from your lips. She watches your reflection with dark, loving eyes, like she’s memorizing every twitch of your face, every flutter of your lashes.

“You’re so beautiful when you let go,” she says softly, almost a whisper. She leans down to kiss you, slowly, while still fucking you in that same steady rhythm. When she pulls back, her thumb brushes your bottom lip. “I could watch you for hours.” Your thighs start shaking harder around her waist. She feels it and smiles, grinding deeper, slower, making sure you feel every inch.

“Come for me, sweetheart,” she whispers, eyes locked on your reflection. “Let me see that pretty face when you fall apart.” You do — back arching, mouth open in a silent cry as pleasure crashes through you. She keeps moving through it, murmuring soft praises against your skin, completely captivated by the way you look coming on her strap.

When you finally go limp beneath her, she leans down and kisses you again, slow and tender, like she’s thanking you for letting her see you like this. She pulls out gently, then wraps you up in her arms, pressing soft kisses to your forehead while you catch your breath. “My perfect girl,” she whispers, still watching your face in the mirror above. “I love every face you make for me.”

[yourleogf]

[liafieldnotes-03]

[thceseus]

neighborly favors. ⨾ Clark Kent ¹⁸⁺

pairing: Clark Kent x reader

summary: Clark Kent is the perfect neighbor and the ultimate gentleman. Baking cookies, fixing stuff around your apartment, always there with his reliable smile. So who's he to say no when you ask him to help build your new couch and… break it???

tags/warnings: 18+ MDNI, neighbors to friends to lovers, whipped clark kent, he is a gentleman, clark and reader are horny for each other, oral (f receiving). clark has a BIG DICK, unprotected p in v sex, creampie.

wc: 3.4k words.

a/n: first of all... thank you so much to @tw1sters for managing and giving me the chance to take part in this SEXY event! i had so much fine writing it ahhh. second, hugeeeee thanks to @theworstwolvie and @clarknsun for being the first one to read and comment on this one, i am truly grateful. third, @sparklingsin!!!!!!!!! YOU AND YOUR TALENT HELLO i love the header sooo much thank you for making time to make it for me. i love all of you (and you readers too) very dearly <3

KENT masterlist | masterlist

You live in a humble apartment located in the heart of Metropolis. With a good amount of room for one person, every night, the sound of the traffic around you would hum like white noise, the high floor-to-ceiling window showing you the perfect view of the city’s nightlife—you mostly never closed the curtains in your living room—hell, you could even view Superman fighting one of his weekly villain fights through it.

Yet the thing that made you love it even more—to the point where you would rather be inside all day than go out with your friends, declining their offers—was not those.

It was your perfect neighbor: Clark Kent.

You pegged him as the ultimate neighbor since the first day you moved in. As the moment he saw you struggling with your boxes of too much stuff, he immediately offered to help.

Lifting up three heavy objects that were filled with your heavy kitchen appliances and bathroom necessities too easily, you can’t help but stare at those bulging biceps as he moved around. Quickly looking away every time you feel like he’d almost catch you.

And let’s just say your moving-in process was finished in just an hour, rather than the whole afternoon, with his help.

“I’m Clark, by the way,” mentioned the broad and tall man as he brushed his palm against his jeans, with his thick rimmed glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose and his deep dimples and boyish smile that you were sure would make you do a double take if you saw him on the streets.

“I live next door,” he pointed to the unit next to you.

So– you have a good view of the city AND a hot neighbor too? You really felt like you hit the jackpot with this one.

You smiled and offered him your name. “Nice to meet you, neighbor. I hope we could be good friends then.”

He nodded, lips curling up even more. “Just knock if you need anything. I’ll leave you to it?”

Humming, you then lead him out of your boxes-filled apartment, thanking him one last time.

You thought it would stop with him acting like a decent person—just helping a girl out with her things, but it didn’t. Later that night, you heard a knock on the door.

Looking up from your kitchen floor, you fixed up your shirt before padding down the hall. Checking the peephole to see the same new neighbor—Clark—carrying a plate filled with what you presume were freshly baked cookies.

Your eyes widened as you opened the door and saw exactly that. His soft smile, the scent of sweetness and the warmth emanating from the cookies almost made your heartbeat quicken.

“Sorry to bother you,” he fixes up his glasses with his free hand, then offers the plate out.

“Housewarming gift. Freshly made– though please do not mind if it’s not that good.”

You looked down at the plate, taking it, then up at him again. “Clark– wow, you didn’t have to…”

His smile softened immediately. “I wanted to. Hope you enjoy it.”

You breathed out a small thanks before he left you to continue your organizing.

The next day, you knocked on his door. His once-filled plate with cookies was now replaced with chocolate muffins you made all morning.

His surprise was evident, soft red hues creeping up his cheeks to the tips of his ears. “I didn’t make those cookies just so you could bake me something as well,” his brows knitted.

“Well, consider it as a thank you for helping me out yesterday.”

He sighed softly. “Thank you,” with his classic, shy smile.

Then it continued. Always using the “I cooked too much” as a reason.

You’d give him your signature pasta recipe, and he’d return it the next day with a pan of freshly baked pie. He’d give you some homemade chicken dish he told you he learned to make from his Ma, you’d return it with a pint full of ice cream you made (just for him).

Though it went on and didn’t stop with the both of you casually exchanging meals.

Your kitchen pipes weren’t working? He’d be there in seconds with a wrench in his hand after you asked for help. Your eyes zeroed the moment his shirt went damp, making it practically transparent. You gulped as you stared at how his back muscles shifted with every move.

You didn’t know he could hear the way your breath hitched, though. His own body reacting the same as he could feel that you were also being affected by the closeness of the moment.

“Just need it to be tightened up,” he hummed, looking up at you from his knees just before the under-sink cabinet.

“Oh–” you straightened up, his voice breaking the trance you were in. “All fixed then?”

“Yeah…” he murmured as he stood up, his tall figure towering over you.

You felt your neck straining. “Thank you, Clark.”

“No worries. I’m open to help you with whatever, okay?”

Whatever, huh?

You almost choked at your own spit with the thought of him helping you with whatever. Immediately pushing those… thoughts down.

“Okay,” you managed to rasp out.

He smiled again before he continued with his day.

“Fuck…” you muttered to yourself the moment you closed your door, your forehead thudded against the wood.

More happened.

You were cooking, realized you were out of some ingredients, and went to him.

“Hey, sorry to bother you… but I’m cooking something, and I just realized that I’m out of onions. Do you potentially have any spare ones?” you asked him sheepishly.

Clark cursed to himself because he didn’t have any. He wanted to keep being the one you go to with every struggle you have; he wanted to keep being your lifeline and salvation, so what did he do?

“I’m sorry I don’t… though I’m gonna go out,” a lie. “Soap’s running short,” another lie. Clark literally just bought a full bottle yesterday.

“Really? Would you help me get some onions then?” your eyes gleaming with anticipation, but not wanting to burden him.

“Of course,” he smiled. “I’ll go get some for you.”

He returned less than 30 minutes later with a bag of onions and some snacks you mentioned you liked weeks ago.

You flushed, thanked him, and he nodded before leaving.

Week after week, it kept happening. It was like the both of you were trying to make excuses to see each other even more.

Purposefully switching up your mails with each other. When he saw your balcony railing wobbled just below an inch, he’d offer to fix it immediately. He heard you struggling with your shopping bags after a day out? He would take it from your hands, letting you carry nothing in your hands.

The both of you started to get closer. Unprompted movie nights in his unit, baking and cooking together, even doing nothing but enjoying a warm cup of tea as you both sit on the lounge chairs on your balcony, sharing childhood stories and laughing together.

Oh, both of you were falling deep.

The gaze held longer, smile now softer—deeper in a way—nothing like you ever shared with other people. You told him about your day, your stressful work, your family—and he told you about his life.

It was sweet, really. Clark Kent was sweet.

At this point, he knew everything about you. How you take your coffee, how your nose scrunched before you let out his favorite free laugh every time he made one of his stupid jokes, how sweet you smell whenever his touch lingered just on your thighs whenever you whispered a secret to him, how your pulse thrummed so evidently the moment he tucked a stray hair behind your ear.

And you knew everything about him as well. How his eyes would crinkle with amusement when you rolled your eyes and acted all annoyed, how his hand would linger around you as you both worked around the kitchen, how his body would tense, how his breath would hitch every time you told him something about yourself. Every time you draped yourself on his lap while watching one of the romcoms you forced him to see.

You felt it. The palpable tension, so thick you could cut it with a dull knife, through the not-so-innocent touches, the whispered words—He felt it too. The problem was, Clark Kent is too much of a gentleman to break those boundaries first, and there’s no way you’re the one who’d tear the bandaid off.

So the both of you didn’t advance into anything more than his arm around your shoulder as you both relaxed, or your arms around him as you let out your stress through the feeling of his warmth and scent wrapped around you.

Until one day.

You told him you were buying a couch, and even made him help you pick the color and measure your space. So the moment it arrived, he was at his feet instantly. Going down to carry the box filled with the parts.

It should be normal now; he’s helping you make furniture and fixing around your place, though he usually didn’t use this thin, figure-hugging compression shirt that made all of his muscles look swollen.

He made you stay out of it completely, just like always, not wanting you to do the work at all—yet you can’t help but linger.

You can’t help but ogle him—practically sexualizing him inside of your head.

The way his bicep would flex with every twist of the screwdriver, his veins popping under his sleeves through his forearm, making you wonder if those blood vessels would also look this enticing around his cock.

Your thighs clench the moment he lay under the couch as he tightened the bolts there. His shirt was riding up to reveal a patch of his skin, covered with soft hairs leading down to his crotch.

And he knew. He could practically smell the heavy, sweet smell of your arousal. He could hear the soft breaths you didn’t even know you let out every time he shifted, and his shirt went up even more.

His own body starts to heat up, flushing even though all of his blood was going south. He was thankful that he opted to wear his baggy sweats rather than his tight jeans.

Nevertheless, you saw his bulge start to thicken under the grey fabric. Eyes widening, you immediately looked away.

Clearing your throat. “Do you want some water?”

He looked up, noting the way that you were more fidgety than usual. “Yeah. Sure, thanks.”

You gave him a tight-lipped smile before walking through the kitchen.

Clark couldn’t help but fixate his eyes on your form. Your soft curves swaying with every step, ass peeking out of those short shorts that—the fact that it was always shorter than the last made it obvious that you want him to see. But he can’t. He can’t lose his control–

Gods, you were bending over the freezer now.

He shut his eyes, sucking a deep breath and letting it out shakily. He felt it wavering—his self-control thinning with every quiet hum you let out of your lips.

His fingers tightened around the whatever tool he was holding instantly. His cock throbbing inside his boxers, wanting—needing to be freed from the confinement and the pressure.

You knelt beside him, handing him the cold water. “All good?”

He cleared his throat, hand brushing over the couch’s fresh cushion to distract himself. “All good.”

You then helped him, fingers brushing his palm, lingering on his forearms whenever he asked you for a tool, and you’d give it. You also made it more obvious now that you saw him get hard.

You would blatantly eye him up and down, bare thighs brushing against his hands– you were horny.

Clark Kent made you horny, and he was the only one who could fix it.

His fingers would tighten around the wooden foot, and you imagined it was you instead. He’d let out grunts, and you imagined that it was you pulling it out of him, how he would probably praise you instead of dirty talking just because he was so respectful—too respectful.

He gulped as he watched how your breath starts to quicken, mirroring it unconsciously.

Then– Click.

The last bolt—the last piece of the couch was put in place. Dragging you back into reality.

“You’re done?” you asked.

He nodded, and you immediately sank down onto the new couch. Shifting around to feel the soft padding underneath you.

He joins, and your thighs grazed immediately, making you almost jolt—the neediness heightening back up inside you.

“It feels solid…” he murmured.

You finally glance at him, eyes low and half-lidded with lust. “Wanna test it?”

He eyed you, the way your chest heaved, pupils blown out before rushing forward and kissing the life out of you.

You stumbled with your lips, before wrapping your arms around him and pulling him flush on top of you as you sank against the armrest. Lips parting, swiping your tongue along his lower lip before nipping it, making him groan out your name.

His fingers brushed along the hem of your shirt, lips separating from yours so he could kiss down your jaw and neck.

“Ask me to stop and I will, sweetheart,” he whispered against your skin.

You shook your head profusely.

“I need words…” as he pulled away to study your face, the way your eyes glossed with want.

“Please– I need you, Clark, please…” You whined.

“Of course,” giving a soft kiss on your cheek. “Anything for you, sweet girl,” another on your lips. The nicknames and his gentleness burned you inside out, making you fall deeply towards him more and more.

He finally lifted your shirt off gently, kissing every inch of your skin revealed. Unclasping your bra, groaning at the sight of your breasts bare before him.

You squirmed underneath him the moment he wrapped his soft pink lips around your hardened nipple. Back arching as your hands found his shoulder and squeezed it.

“You’re so beautiful…” he murmured, kissing further down till his lips made contact with the waistband of your shorts. “Can I?”

“Yes– Clark, yes…” his hips lifting instantly as he hooked his fingers around it, pulling it and your panties with such softness and gentleness that no other man could give other than him.

He let out a shuddered breath as he spread your thighs open. The delicious scent of you hits all of his senses immediately.

He hummed as he saw how your folds glistened—borderline dripping. “Don’t wanna make a mess on the new couch, don’t we, sweetheart?” he whispered, before hooking your legs over your shoulder and diving right into it. Collecting all of your wetness—dragging his tongue on your hole up to your clit, making you let out a quiet cry.

“Clark–!” fingers snaking through his curls, tugging them as you held yourself back from grinding your hips against his mouth.

He looped his arms around your thighs, mouth expertly working you out—all the while his gaze stayed on you. Watching every bit of your reactions, the way you threw your head back against the armrest, eyes rolled, lower lip stuck between your teeth as you hold back your sounds.

It was a sight he could never forget now. He was sure to etch it into the deepest crook of his brain.

You whined out his name the moment he pulled back, though. “I know… I’m gonna give you something better, okay?”

You nodded reluctantly, too weak, too drunk with pleasure to deny and fight him over it. You kept your eyes as he stripped out of his clothes. Hole fluttering and tightening around nothing the moment he was bare before you.

His cock—full of girth and length, was straining and slapping against his stomach. His tip red, glistening with his pre. “You’re– huge, holy shit…”

He let out a soft chuckle. “I’ll make it fit. Don’t worry,” as his fingers brushed your hair back, grazing along your cheekbones.

You hummed softly, parting your legs even more to accommodate his broad figure.

Clark lets out a moan as he begins to slowly slide his tip against your folds. “So wet… you’ve been wanting this, hm?”

The silent nod in your response made his heart bloom, because he had wanted this too. He imagined this happening too many times before—whether when he was with you or alone in his bedroom whispering your name as he stroked himself to the thoughts of you—and really, the reality was so much better for him.

The moment he finally pushed himself inside you? He broke. Letting out a deep guttural sound to the feeling of your velvet walls wrapped so perfectly around him—it was as if you were made for him, no– he was made for you.

And you felt the burn, the stretch, splitting you open from your inside. Your hands find his arms immediately. Making imprints of your nails as you dug into his skin from the feeling of the pleasurable pain.

“Clark–”

“Shh… open up for me, sweetheart. I know you can.”

He stayed still the moment he was buried deep inside you, fingers softly brushing along your bare skin as you began to relax.

You nodded, eyes looking up at him with adoration the moment the burn dissipates.

“All ready?” he asked softly.

“Yeah…”

The both of you let out choruses of moans as he began moving, slowly at first. He pulled your arms so you could wrap them around his neck, his own snaking around your back just to keep you close to him.

His forehead pressed against yours. “You feel so good…” he whispered, pulling you into a deep kiss filled with passion. He kept his easy pace, but it was like he was holding back.

“More…” you moaned against his lips.

Who was he to deny you, his sweet, sweet girl, from pleasure?

He picked up his pace. Still deep, reaching to every inch of your walls, but it was more punishing now.

The couch starts to squeak underneath you—but you both didn’t care. Too captivated by the feeling of each other’s bodies to even notice the foot of the couch.

“Fuck–!” you moaned the moment he angled your hips. Your fingers now sprawled on the span of his back, raking it. Your walls began to clench around him tightly, making him fuck you deeper and faster.

“More!” you cried. And he served. His thrusts now punishing, both your chests panting. Your gasps and his moans echo around your apartment.

Clark swore that you were like an angel before him. With your body wrapped around a thin sheet of sweat that made it seem like you're glowing, hair messily draped everywhere yet still beautiful, your breasts bouncing like an invitation, and your face… gods, your face. He could die peacefully thinking about it alone.

So utterly beautiful and broken, and he was the one who did it.

His hips are working like an animal now, brutal, feral.

You finally realized that the couch underneath you was shaking, but you didn’t care. All you could think about was him, him, and him.

He noticed the way the couch was groaning in protest with the amount of pressure it was being given, but the way your cunt was tightening around him meant that he couldn’t stop. “Gonna break this–” before your walls gripped his cock even further.

“Gonna come–!” you cried.

“Give it to me, sweetheart. Come on.”

And you obeyed. Letting out a sharp cry of his name as your body jolts—convulsing as the waves after waves of orgasm hit your senses—burning your body with the amount of pleasure.

“Fuck–” he cursed, fucking you deeper as he chased his own climax. At last, with a final and intense thrust–

Craaack.

The foot snapped completely, making you yelp out and scrambling to hold onto him.

Clark didn’t even realize that he had already came and spilled inside you, too stunned, too focused on making sure you’re not hurt.

“Are you okay? Are you hurt anywhere?” his eyes widened, doing a one-overlook look at you to make sure no blood came out of you.

Your arms tightened, before you burst out laughing. “I am–” you wheezed. “The couch though…”

He blinked, then huffing out a small and relieved chuckle. “Guess it’s not strong enough, huh?”

Before pulling you onto his lap, shifting you on the floor carefully—still seethed deep inside you, and tugging you closer into a soft kiss. Fingers cuping your cheeks gently.

“Help me order another one?”

༘⋆ 🏷 clark’s : @pinksplace @tw1sters @kryptidfiles @theworstwolvie @anon-188

© thceseus, 2026 ༝ likes, comments, and reblogs are appreciated. thank you for reading! ᢉ𐭩

[cryptictongues]

CLARK GIVE ME BACKSHOTS ON THIS BROKEN COUCH NEOOOOOOOW

[unificsation]

exposition, rising action, climax ✒

⋆.𐙚 ̊. an interrobang oneshot ⋆.𐙚 ̊.

au · editor!clark kent x author!reader, 9.5k

when Planet Publishing’s editor Clark Kent was given a steamy romance for his next project, he vowed to treat it like any other assignment: professionally. a sentiment he shared with the author herself—except it wasn’t the only thing they had in common…

🖊️ WARNINGS & TAGS: coworkers to friends with benefits?; virgins; mutual yearning; some jealousy; drunken confessions; SMUT (mentions of masturbation, oral, they're both switches, big dick clark, fingering, dirty talk, praise, size kink, tummy bulge, virginity loss, unprotected sex, creampie)

📓 READER NOTES: afab!reader; no use of y/n; reader drinks alcohol and eats meat... not clark's meat, although she does that too

☕️ AUTHOR'S NOTES: @theworstwolvie @pinksplace @tw1sters thank you for giving this a quick read while it was still a fetus—your encouragement carried me here to the post button <3

i hope everyone likes this fic because between this and another in july i don't think i'll be working on anything else... alexa play see you again by charlie puth wiz khalifa

1

Cassius traced a line with his darkened eyes. It dragged heat down Vesra’s body: first her lips, then her throat, then her naked, heaving chest. The corset that damned him all night was tugged loose, but not off, instead supporting her flesh in a way more salacious than it was designed to.

“Look at you,” he growled, the rumble reverberating in the inches between their bodies. “Better than I’ve dreamed.”

Vesra had a tease at the tip of her tongue—something about Cassius having dreamt of her—but the words evaporated the moment his lips took a pert nipple between them. She gasped instead, fingers finding his dark locks, tugging gently at them in a plea for more. If he was bothered by the touch, he didn’t show it: the first kisses turned quickly into suckles and testing bites.

The warmth of Cassius’s mouth bled into her veins. It spiked into a fever when he ground his hips into hers.

“Cass,” she cried, unbidden.

He groaned, mouth still on her tit. “Feel what you do to me? That’s all your fault.”

The question was rhetorical. Vesra felt it more than enough to answer: the outline of his shaft pressed against—

Someone clears their throat.

Clark Kent looks up. So do you from the book you’re reciting.

A waiter is there: young and blonde with a face that spelled jadedness earned from countless shifts toiling in this restaurant. He’s clearly walked into worse in his career.

“More water?” he offers, tone deadpan.

“I’m good, thanks,” you smile sweetly in response, “but please get me another bottle of soju.”

“One soju, then,” he repeats, before stepping away from your table.

Meanwhile, Clark sits across you with his face on fire. He manages an apologetic look at the waiter before throwing his gaze up, silently thanking the company for booking you a private room.

A warm pendant light looks back at him.

The Korean barbecue dinner is billable to Planet Publishing for two reasons: your birthday, and the success of your second novel under the house’s wing.

It’s the book you have open in your hands: Owls on a Moonlit Marsh, a gateway drug to fantasy for romance readers, and a steamy page-turner for fantasy readers.

Now Clark didn’t edit that book. He’s just invited to this company-expensed dinner because the two of you were in Gotham for a creative writing event, in which you were one of the panelists.

And you certainly didn’t let his politeness deter you from dragging him along, pushing past his insistence that you should spend Planet Publishing’s money with someone special—maybe a boyfriend.

(Was it rude to feel relief when you told him you didn’t have one?)

So, here he is. With you. Slightly full from an extremely delicious assortment of meats and banchan, listening to you complain about the pain in writing pleasure.

Clark Kent convinces himself that you brought him along because it’s the kind thing to do. The convenient thing, even. For once, you’re in Gotham, and this place has crossed your socials too many times. He just happened to be on a business trip with you.

That dress you are wearing isn’t low-cut to seduce him so much as to make yourself look beautiful. (And God, do you look beautiful.) It’s not flirtation that flashes in your eyes, just everyday mischief. Maybe soju-induced intoxication.

But that smile… The curl of it is so dangerously familiar, he finds his eyes averting from it to not provoke any untoward ideas—because the only ideas he’s getting are rather untoward.

Between the thoughts Clark Kent thinks to avoid heartbreak, there’s no way to misinterpret that smile.

Six months of working with someone is enough time to figure out whether you’re into them. Except Clark—if he were to admit at gunpoint—would say that being ‘into’ you is a massively understated way of expressing the specific feeling he’s dealing with.

You’re under his skin like an influence.

“Now where was I…?” you hum, scanning the page of an open book.

You point at the page. “Oh, right. His shaft.”

Once again, thank God and Perry White for the private room. Otherwise, saying the word ‘shaft’ while you read smut out loud might get you kicked out of this sleek restaurant.

“That scene was good,” Clark coughs. And he doesn’t just say that because he likes you, but in all honesty. “It’s sexy. And vulnerable.”

The main characters have gone through a literal book-load of feelings, which culminated into what has been described by Tumblr users as a “clit-throbbing” smut scene. In working with you for half a year, he deeply understands—the first part about going through a lot of feelings, that is.

The latter part? He can only dream.

“Thanks, Clark. Flattery gets you everywhere,” you beam. “I have a praise kink.”

Gosh, it’s so darn warm in here. (The charcoal’s been dead for a while now.)

“I was being serious.”

“Really? You think it was good?” you reply so earnestly he sits up straighter at the attention. “I was worried we were getting repetitive—M and I could only substitute the word ‘cock’ so many times.”

Clark nearly chokes on his rice wine.

If the publishing house let you loose with your word choices, people will get ID’ed at the counter for wanting to buy your books.

And M? She’s the reason he’s working with you: the editor for your first two novels, now on maternity leave.

M stands for Mary, but only those closest to her would know that her full given name is Mary Magdalene.

Alanis Morissette would like a word.

“I’m sure ‘thrust’ is the same,” Clark murmurs, fixing his glasses.

You give the comment a thought. “Actually, not really.”

“Yeah?”

“Mm-hmm,” you nod. The green soju bottle glints in the dim as you swirl it around. “I suppose… it’s the sensation that I find difficult to write.”

Clark tries to school his heartbeat. Be professional. That’s the one thing he vowed when taking up this job: you can’t edit a critically acclaimed romantasy if you don’t take it seriously.

And the two of you haven’t gotten there. Writing the sex, he means, not having sex. There’s nowhere for you and him to go on that part. And he definitely has not thought about it. Not in the slightest.

Professional, Clark scolds himself internally.

“How so?” he asks.

Your gaze shifts away from his. That’s rare.

“Well,” you begin, tone light as a feather, “it’s hard to write about something I haven’t felt before.”

A beat of silence. Then two.

“Sorry, what?” he pipes up, voice comically tiny. “I don’t think I heard you right.”

There’s nothing for him to be nervous about, though, because you’re grinning back at him like that wasn’t a dropped bomb. He’d blame it on the alcohol in your veins, but even while sober, you’re the kind of woman who just… shoots it straight.

God knows he loves it—his heart blooms in secret joy with every flash of honesty.

Like right now.

“I think you did, Clark,” you giggle, “and now you’re getting shy about it.”

“It’s the makgeolli,” he defends, though feebly.

“I’m a virgin,” you announce.

As if it’s the Declaration of Independence.

As if the waiter didn’t just enter and place another bottle of soju on your table.

You throw him a thank you with a pretty smile, to which the young man nodded. He leaves the room without asking if you need anything else.

You have the decency to continue after the door slides shut.

“And I mean that in the PIV sense. Not that the notion of virginity makes any sense, let alone penetrative virginity.”

“No, yes, of course,” Clark stammers in reply, all while his mind asks what have you done, then, and how do I stop picturing you doing it?

Because you did things with someone else. At some point in time, you were doing things with someone else. That makes him jealous.

Clark Kent doesn’t like feeling that green thing.

He’s jolted out of his slightly bitter reverie by a nudge on his calf.

It’s the tip of your high-heeled shoe. He doesn’t need to peek under the table to see, he can picture it just fine: maroon patent leather with a pointed tip brushing short, playful strokes over the fabric of his dress pants.

His heartbeat snags. The pulse floods south.

“But with your experience, Mr. Editor,” you smile coyly, “you’ll ensure my written work is as accurate as possible, yes?”

Call it in vino veritas, or call it Ma and Pa’s education, but Clark Kent can’t lie. Not well, anyway. The truth stumbles out of his lips soon as you stop talking.

He tries to make it sound casual.

“You know, I haven’t done it, either.”

Your eyes widen, gasping out in drunken surprise.

“Really. A catch like you? The world truly is ending.”

There are many graces offered to Clark Kent tonight, and maybe the small kindnesses he did in the past are paid back in this exact moment: the waiter saunters in again to announce that the restaurant is closing soon, giving Clark a second or two to collect himself after your remark.

A catch, you called him, while he catches his breath and gathers your coats from their hangers, while his heart flies away on wings of joy. You think he’s a catch.

Or maybe you’re just being nice.

You stand and turn around. He helps you with your sleeves.

“The meal was fantastic,” you tell the waiter on your way out, appearing completely sober—save for the warm lilt in your voice.

The subject is dropped just like that.

Meanwhile, on the short walk back to the hotel, Clark Kent can only think of how you’ve never.

And how you know he’s never, either.

୨୧

When you reach the hotel, he’s not sure if you’ll even remember anything in the morning, because you’re giggling in the elevator up when the height pops your ears.

He’s not just walking you to your room, but walking himself inside your room—to make sure you’re safe, of course.

The bedroom is a mirrored layout of his just next door. He watches as you cross the threshold, dump your coat on the floor, and kick your heels off before jumping face-first onto the queen bed.

He shakes his head, but everything he does bleeds affection: he hangs up your coat and places your shoes neatly onto the side.

Then you sigh into the cold sheets, as if laying there is the best feeling in the world, and Clark tenses.

You’re safe. He isn’t.

Because that sigh reminds him of another sound.

A moan—airy, short.

Yours.

It happened last night. He could only hear it because the hotel walls aren’t as thick as he thought, or maybe because your beds were pressed up on the same side. It wasn’t loud—just him being really cognizant that your private existence and his are separated by one slab.

A concrete slab, sure, but still.

And his mind got the better of him, as it always does when you’re involved. The little noise was enough to make him think about you touching yourself. The image alone inspired him to do the same in the shower.

He’d spent a long time after feeling guilty for morphing that beautiful sound into something that resembled his name—that’s how inconceivable it is, a person like you being into a person like him.

Still, if he has a character flaw, it would be the endless hope that pours out of him. It’s in the way he tucks you under the covers and fixes a strand of your hair after.

He’s about to leave when you grab his hand.

“Don’t go,” you murmur, eyes half-closed. Even so, he sees them glazed—with both alcohol and a brand of loneliness he can’t bare to subject you to—and he folds easily.

The smile you smile when he slips under the covers is just about worth the torture of holding you in your bed.

You snuggle up into him, face buried in his chest.

But then you go and make things even harder for him. Something you keep doing even while drunk.

“Clark?” you slur.

“Hm?”

“You know I’d give it to you, right?”

“Give me what?”

“My virginity.”

Oh.

How cruel, he thinks to himself. The things people say under the influence.

“Go to sleep,” he says softly, stroking the top of your head. She doesn’t know what she’s talking about, is what he tells himself to keep the feelings at bay.

But his mind recalls the shape of your moan, and how perhaps he didn’t make it sound like his name.

You murmur something unintelligible. He wonders if you can hear the wild bang of his heart. Your prolonged silence and even breaths mean no.

He drifts off soon after.

2

You wake up feeling like a person in a daytime pad commercial who just slept like a person in a nighttime pad commercial.

That is to say: you wake up comfortable because you slept amazing. The only minor complaint would be the lack of bodily warmth on your sheets.

On the other side of the bed are wrinkled sheets, suspiciously Clark-shaped. Flashes of last night play in your head: the Korean barbecue, alcohol burning your throat, the smell of him under your sheets…

…and the things you told him.

Oh.

Well, you said what you said. It certainly isn’t the first time you embarrassed yourself just to make him look your way. The dress last night is another recent example.

Life goes on, and you figure your colleague-slash-friend probably returned to his room right after he woke, most likely flustered even with no one looking.

On the nightstand is a tall glass of water and Advil. Must be Clark’s doing.

You drink the medicine down despite 1) feeling in perfect health and 2) knowing that the water won’t quench the thirst you have for the man who poured the glass for you.

And boy, does Clark look like a tall glass of water when you see him again in the lobby, seated in one of the plush armchairs. You keep telling yourself it’s the suit, but the hotel receptionist is wearing the same color and cut—yet you’re not salivating at the sight.

“Good morning,” you chirp, wheeling your small suitcase while you walk towards Clark.

He stands. He always does when you enter a room. Those manners and looks in one person would incur panic upon suburban mothers everywhere.

“Thanks for the Advil.”

“It’s no problem.” He smiles back at you. You sense immense politeness—more than usual. “How did you sleep?”

“Really well. You?”

“Yup, out like a light.”

“Must be the alcohol,” you reply.

It would’ve been a decent lie, if not for the whole beat that passed silently before Clark coughs out a response equally weak to yours.

“Yes, it was… really good alcohol.”

You agree that the soju was excellent, but the better the booze, the worse the sleep.

You know you slept well because he was in your bed. You just don’t know if this is his normal display of shyness or if he’d rather die than admit it.

Either way, it’s just who he is: Clark is too kind to turn you down and too professional to ever address what you told him last night.

Lucky for you, there’s plenty of time to lick your wounds.

The two of you drive back to Metropolis. Clark sits behind the wheel of his car. The traffic leading up to the Interstate is egregiously heavy, just like the air inside the vehicle.

Small talk makes it worse—and for the record, the two of you usually converse just fine. His mindless distraction is changing radio stations as if he knows what he wants to listen to. Meanwhile, you pretend to do something productive on your laptop: developments for your third novel, the last of the installment.

Developments. Psh. All you have are bullet points.

ves forced into divine deal with zalrythar god of secrets

she can’t tell anyone including cass

figure out b plot

cass thinks ves is pulling away and confronts her

she obv stonewalls

angst haha

resolve b plot

cass and ves both end up in god-mandated sex

That takes you less than a minute to type out. The car hasn’t moved for the last seven.

You spend the next three staring at his hands on the steering wheel.

୨୧

Even when traffic eases as you reach Metropolis, the tension doesn’t. It thickens the closer he gets to your destination, palpable by the time Clark turns into your street. The GPS lady shuts up at this point, leaving you and him to stew in silence.

Your apartment is just up ahead. He’s slowing the car down and you internally curse yourself.

There’s no way you can take any more of this, the tip-toeing a shared truth like it’s a secret. There’s no way he isn’t aware—he wouldn’t be so quiet otherwise. And you’ve seen him truly oblivious: someone would ask him out to dinner and he’d think it’s because they want to talk business.

If you do this, he’s probably going to think you’re even more shameless than he initially thought.

What he doesn’t know is that you want to be an honest person around him. Just your luck that, in your case, being honest means shamelessly wanting him.

“Clark?” you call out as he tugs at the handbrake. Your voice isn’t fully gathered, underused in the silence of the ride back, and you sound a little less sure than you’re used to.

“Hm?” he hums back, looking over at you. The car hums, too.

You shift your body to face his, seatbelt clicked free, like that’s going to help you breathe in better.

“Something happened yesterday.”

His jaws clench once. Eyes widen a fraction. You aren’t asking a question.

“Yes. We slept toge—I mean, I fell asleep on your bed.”

Clark Kent isn’t a good liar by nature, but you’d be lying, too, if you said you didn’t pay special attention to his voice. The words come out too fast, and there’s a slight pinched quality to his voice that clues you in on his farce. You’ve known him long enough to learn his tells.

“And?” you ask.

He thrums his fingers on the steering wheel.

“You also told me… you’re a virgin.”

You don’t spare a beat, lest he finds a way to escape this situation.

“And so are you.”

He nods. “Yep.” There’s a pop on the ‘p’, heavy with an acceptance of his fate.

Your lip twitches up in amusement—he looks so close to spontaneous combustion, the tapping of his fingers like a ticking time bomb.

“Gosh,” Clark smiles, the shaky, worried kind, “you don’t think that’s funny, do you?”

That catches you off-guard and a little offended. “Why would I? We’re in the same boat.”

“No, yes, of course,” he stammers. “I'm sorry, I just—"

“—thought an erotic novelist can’t possibly be a virgin?"

There’s a pause.

" Yes,” he admits. “I mean, it’s my fault. I assumed. From your books, of course! Not from anything else.”

You laugh a little at his jitteriness, and funnily enough, he seems to relax.

“It’s okay. I was just—” you search for the right word, “tickled. Two virgins writing and editing paperback smut.”

He laughs this time. You take in the dimples of his cheeks, and suddenly the totally silent car ride home fizzles out like a distant memory.

“Not that I think sex is a prerequisite, by the way,” you add, just to make sure you’re not staring at him too much. “You’re a good editor, Clark.”

He seems to be taken aback, eyes locked on yours.

“That’s because you’re a great writer.”

He ends that sentence with your name, spoken it’s holy. Something in you cracks open.

The reality is that writing comes easy because he fuels your dreams. All you do is extend them. You take every little thing he gives you in real life, surgically pluck it out of context, and blow it out of proportion. The lingering brush of his hand after a hug. A touch on your lower back in a crowded room. Him leaning down to hear you better.

He’s the fire that kindles your prose. Inspires your imagination until he’s shaped like a man who wants you.

Writing is the highest form of wishful thinking, after all.

You used to think Clark Kent wanting you is an impossible thing, but now? Maybe it’s not.

Because his face takes on a kind of expression you’ve only written about.

His eyes darken.

“Clark?”

“Yes?” he replies, a microsecond too fast. He’s scared. Or nervous. Or both.

Either way, you are too—because there’s no turning back after this.

“That’s not all I told you, was it?”

You catch his throat bob. When he speaks, his voice is taut, like the air in the car.

“No.”

Your fingers twitch from seeing his jaw clench.

The urge to touch him wins out, and you find yourself moving both hands to cradle his face, thumbing at the tense spot. His breath visibly hitches: you can tell from the rise of his chest when you bridge the gap between your seats.

“I meant what I said, you know,” you murmur, not even looking him in the eye anymore. Your gaze lands lower.

His lips are parted so beautifully… but you make sure to stare straight into him when you nail your own coffin shut.

“I’d give it to you.”

He needs to know you mean it.

As if those words were permission, he leaned down and closed the gap entirely, kissing you.

He’s more sure than you thought he’d be—and God, that’s past tense, because you now know how he kisses: slow, deep, with the rumbly beginning of a groan brewing in his chest. You melt into his body as much as the car will allow, the hand on his face slipping back to card through dark locks.

That’s when he feeds the sound straight into your mouth.

The groan isn’t the only thing that travels. His hands do too. One drags a path up your side to tug you closer. Another snakes to your nape, as if the kiss could get any deeper.

Your tongues dance and you moan at his taste.

“Fuck,” you breathe, lips still on his. You nip at his bottom lip in between words. “You want it? Want me to give it to you?”

His reply is hazy above all yes, like he just woke from a dream or is drifting into one.

“Yes. Please. I want it—want you.”

“Good,” you smile, releasing his lip with a pop, “wanna take yours, too.”

The look on his face is something you wish you could photograph.

He’s red—just from kissing—lips swollen and rosy, a tiny, faint pool of drool out one corner. His glasses are askew.

You fix it with a smile.

“Come upstairs.”

3

Upstairs takes an elevator ride where he stands behind you to hide his boner—just in case someone walks in, he reasons—but you make it through your door soon enough.

Not without you fumbling with your keys and giggling into his mouth.

By the time Clark tumbles into your bed, bringing you down with him, he’s already painfully hard under his slacks.

Everything smells like you.

Your hand on his chest draws a cheeky line down his stomach past his belt, and he sighs in relief. You sit back on your haunches, still straddling him, finally palming the tent that’s formed in his pants.

He gasps at the touch, mouth open, already missing your lips on his.

“So hard already,” you murmur. “Take this belt off.”

He obeys, quiet except for the clink of metal. The belt drops somewhere on the floor with a thunk. Your pretty hands work his zip, tugging just enough to reveal a dark blue pair of boxer-briefs.

Then he feels your weight shift on the bed. Watches you move down until you’re face-to-cock with his still-clothed erection.

“How far have you gone, Clark?” you ask, light as a feather, breath warm against the fibers of his underwear. The sight of you smiling between his legs is so dizzying, he grips the sheets for anchor. “Did you at least get blown?”

“Yea—ah,” he pants, because your hand is on his cock again. Palming. Squeezing.

You hum. Fingertips playfully stroke down his length from over the boxer-briefs, fondling his balls. “When was the last time?”

“Don’t know,” is his immediate, husked-out answer. There’s no past in his mind. Just the present, as unbelievable as it is—your bed, you, your hand, your pretty face… “Don’t care, just, please—”

As if triggered by his begging, you sit back up, leaving his cock completely touch-starved.

He sighs, because you’re thumbing his bottom lip. The touch isn’t kind. As a matter of fact, it’s a little mean: your finger is pushing his lip to the side, teasing the plush of it, pulling it down just a bit before letting it bounce back.

He likes it.

You chuckle when he takes your thumb in his mouth, even before you push it past his lips.

“So eager,” you drone, your other hand stroking his hair. “You want it that bad?”

“Yes,” he says, except it sounds more like mmph with his mouth occupied.

He lets your thumb go, only to kiss at your open palm. One quiet sound after the other, he presses his lips into your hand more—until very soon, he’s literally making out with it. His own hand is gripping yours close to his face, keeping you still.

“What exactly do you want, Clark?” Your words carry more breath than voice, and his blood sings.

“Anything you’d give to me,” he answers.

It’s at that point you choose to wrest your hand away, settling back down between his legs. You lean down to peck on his hard-on—it jumps excitedly under the fabric. You laugh, thumbing at the waistband.

Then you pull his boxer-briefs down, and there he is.

All of his inches, eight or nine, you’re not sure, but the exact measurement doesn’t matter—not when he’s relatively equal to the length of your forearm.

Surprise, surprise. Your big sloppy crush has a big fucking dick.

A dick so pretty you might cry—especially because it’s already crying a pearly bead at the tip. You trace a prominent vein that runs on the underside, lick your lips as he bucks into your hand.

You look at his face and a cruel amusement takes over you: Clark is propped on his elbows, cheeks bathed red, jaw slack like he’s just ran up fifty flights of stairs.

And you haven’t even done anything.

Rising up to your knees, you move to his face. A kiss on his lips, slow and deep. Then ten more light ones all over his cheekbone, jaw, neck, throat, up to his ears, at which point he’s stuttering out the beginnings of your name.

Your hands part his legs wider, letting you situate yourself more comfortably between them. He gulps. You move back down to the center of his expanse. Your head tilts, mouth a dangerous distance from where he’s most sensitive.

“Can I kiss you here?”

Your fingerpad teases the tip. Pre meets your skin, warm and sticky. You smear it on his fat head.

“Yes.”

Christ, was that a whine? Your little smile turns devious, nose nudging his cock. It twitches again, as if autonomous from the rest of him—like it’s developed its own mind and is begging you greedily to give it more.

“You’re so big, Clark. Will you even fit?” you muse, fingers curling around him, pumping once, twice. He throws his head back with a grunt, the movement so sharp you think he might be pulled at with a leash.

Well. You’ll figure out the answer to that later. For now, you should play with your meal.

You slip the tip into his mouth and watch shivers wrack his body. After swirling your tongue on it once, you let go with a pop, purring.

“So sensitive. What am I gonna do with you?”

Meanwhile, Clark is losing his mind.

“Your—f-fuhh—fault,” comes his raspy reply just as you descend one, two, three inches more. Gosh, your mouth is so warm, so tight…

You chuckle, and the vibrations rattle him up to his ribcage. It occurs to him that he might’ve said those things about your mouth out loud. Rather than mortification, he feels elation, because even when you move up and the warmth is gone, you’re teasing his tip with your tongue again, and it feels so good he might cry.

The circles in his vision must be mimicking your wet heat drawing patterns on him.

One of his hand sinks into a pillow, the other cards digits through your hair.

An expletive escapes the moment you hollow your cheeks, far too sudden for him to take back.

“Fuck,” he gasps, the sound tailing off with dumb, repeated attempts of forming your name. Most of his brain is in his hips now as they swivel in hopes to get more of him in your mouth, but your fingers splay beautifully on the rippling muscles of his abdomen.

“Uh-uh. Stay still.”

Following orders is usually a thing he’s good at. Just not today. Not now.

Now, all he can think of is how good it feels—his mouth echoes those thoughts with babbles of “so good, feels so g-good, you’re perfect”—and how if you keep this up, he’ll come in an embarrassing amount of time.

It’s already taking everything in him not to let that happen.

But then he catches you look up at him.

The sun’s still out, bathing the room with enough light to show him exactly what makes him nearly crumble:

Your pretty lips, wrapped around his thick cock, head bobbing up and down to reveal the glisten on him—a mix of precum and spit—your hair messy around his hand.

“Stop,” he groans, holding your skull still so he can gently pull himself out of you. There’s a line of drool that connects your mouth and his cock. “Stop, don’t wanna come—”

The surprised tinge in your reply almost breaks his heart. “You don’t want to?”

He shakes his head, reconstructing his breaths. “Not until I’m inside you.”

For once in his life, you don’t talk back, and he’d be damned to let the opportunity slip.

Clark Kent grew up learning how to take things into his own hands. He puts that into practice with you, grabbing you up by the waist, laying you down on the bed. He takes your clothes off: slowly, because every inch of bare skin is the closest he’s been to heaven, because he wants to savor this, because he thinks you’re beautiful.

Says it too, even if it’s whispered.

He has you in your underwear, teasing the strap of your bra. “Can I take this off, sweetheart?”

You nod instead of giving him mouth. A rarity.

He’ll give you mouth, instead: by kissing you as he unclasps your bra with one hand (still no comment from you). Once it’s off, he drags his lips down your throat, then collarbone, then your heaving chest, where he lets himself stare for once. His warm breath caresses your skin, while heat pours out from his gaze.

He finally leans down, laving at a nipple. Polite first, hungry just two seconds later. His entire mouth is involved: sucking at your chest, a large hand squeezing around your flesh to feed more into him. Your hand digs into his curls when he hums, teeth grazing playfully as you arch for more.

He looks up.

You’re a dream. He’s sure he’s dreamed of this once—except instead of blurred images and hazy glows that tortures him at night, the scene is crystal. He sees everything through his glasses: each strand of lashes on your pretty eyes, the color of your skin against the sheets, how your hair splays on the pillows.

Actually, speaking of pillows—and dreams…

“Here,” he wrests one from under your head and taps the side of your hips, “lift your hips up for me.”

You do it, but it seems you’ve found your voice again. The cheeky retort comes out breathless.

“Really, Clark? You’re gonna use that line on me?”

He adjusts you on the pillow, lips pursed—both from your tease and the sight of you, naked, save for the cute underwear raised up to meet him.

It’s already wet at the gusset. There isn’t much for him left to imagine.

“Just because you’re a writer doesn’t mean you’re immune to it,” he hums, peeling the material off of you. You instantly fall silent.

He groans at the sight of you clenching around nothing, slick threatening to dirty the pillowcase you’re resting on.

Two fingers drag a path down your mound to your wet entrance. Two moans erupt when he circles there—yours higher pitched than his, because he touches like it’s payback for some unseen grudge. Surely you don’t know how long he’s thought of you like this, how long he’s struggled with the guilt of fantasizing about his hot colleague, only to find this.

Your soaked cunt winking at him.

“You’re so wet,” his digits dip, collecting your juices. Your hips buck. “Is this from sucking me off?”

“No, I was thinking about winning the lottery,” you moan, betraying your impatience, “yes, it’s because of you, stupid!”

He laughs. He’s wanted you way too long—you can wait a little longer.

“Need to prep you,” a thumb pushes the hood off your clit, only for him to do nothing but look at it.

You shiver under his gaze, tease audibly lacking the bite. “Is this how you do it—stare?”

His eyes meet yours, blue eyes almost burning. Your throat bobs. That’s what fuels him.

“You tell me,” he murmurs, “you’re the erotic novelist.”

Fingers explore again, barely touching, always circling, and he bites back a moan at the sight of you arched like that, like your hips are hungry for more. His touch doesn’t relent, although it’s taking everything in him not to take every part of you right then and there.

“Clark—”

“You wrote something like this before,” his thumb swipes your clit. His name on your lips breaks, but those eyes on your face never does. “Page 347 of Owls. ‘When his finger sinks inside her, she gasps like she’s never breathed air’…”

Just then, he does as he says. His middle finger stretches you, one knuckle deep at first, then two, then all the way in. You writhe, stuttering a moan at how slow he is, before the sound dies in your throat with a gasp.

The base of his palm presses against your clit.

Clark catalogs your reactions with the precision of a machine. The warmth of his touch is anything but. So is the slight crinkle between his brows: signs that he’s testing his own boundaries by stretching yours so slowly.

“Or is it the next page? ‘The rhythm he sets replaces the beat of her heart—except nothing about the slow scrape of his fingers echoes the relentless thumping in her chest.’”

When he moves his fingers, the dimples on his cheeks begin to show. He smiles down at you, free from the pretense of professionalism:

He doesn’t commit your lines to memory because he’s a dedicated editor. He does it because he thinks about doing those things with you—so, so often.

“Fuck—Clark—” you whimper, the syllables choked out as his other hand pins your hip.

One finger becomes two, but the pace doesn’t change. Still arduous, still torture. Clark’s eyes are glazed: in watching you lose your mind underneath him, he loses his in trying to erase true words laced with alcohol. Your voice floats in his memory:

And I mean that in the PIV sense.

Does that mean you’ve done this before, with men who aren’t him? Were they any good? Did you like them, or did you let them in your bed just to use them? Doesn’t make a difference, Clark decides, because they still got to be with you. Were they the reason you wrote passion so well, or was it because they were so shit at it you had to take matters into your own hands?

Speaking of taking matters into your own hands, your voice floats in his memory again. Not words this time.

“You touched yourself, didn’t you?” Clark grunts, fingertips kissing your cervix at the word touched, “Two nights ago. In the hotel.”

You don’t answer, but your widened eyes said enough.

He leans down. Presses his forehead against yours.

“Heard you through the wall. Sound so sweet. Wanna hear it again.”

He kisses your lips once before moving down the expanse of you, flat on the bed between your very open legs—thanks to his gentle grip around one ankle, spreading you out for him to see.

But before you can shiver at the loss of his warm shadow, his lips closes around your clit, and you give him what he wants.

An open moan, loud enough to bounce off the walls.

Clark moans, too. The sound vibrates directly onto your cunt, you can’t help but spasm. He doesn’t stop. The flat of his tongue presses entirely on you, never really still: soon, he starts sucking and licking and teasing your poor clit. He tastes you, and a steady stream of muffled groans leak from his mouth—the same way your pussy leaks juices around his thrusting fingers, the squelch squelch squelch growing faster and louder in the room.

“You wrote about this so many times,” he murmurs against your slick, “d’you like it that much?”

Your answer is an unintelligibly keen noise.

“I love it,” Clark is purring now, hazy with your taste, “I’ll help you write lines later, m’kay? Want you to soak my hand, my tongue—”

Your body must’ve mistook that as an order, because the orgasm hits you out of nowhere, hot-white and sparking off your every nerve. You arch, convulse, slurring his name like you can’t speak while your pussy gushes around his fingers as they thrust through your spasms, unrelenting.

He breathes out a blasphemy, the first “oh my God” you’ve ever heard coming out of his mouth. Your senses are only starting to come back, but he replaces his fingers with his tongue, and you can’t hear anything past your own scream.

He fucks you just like that, lapping at your juices like he hasn’t drank in ages.

Something within you unstitches, and you feel your body leaping past overstimulation to overwhelming pleasure. You don’t tell him to stop—how can you, when he’s so clearly drunk on your pussy? He moans words into you like it’s a pet, coos of “You’re so pretty when you come”, “Tastes so good for me” vibrating against your core.

The cool frame of his glasses bumping against your inner thigh only makes everything feel better.

“Clark,” you cry, and he already knows. Already mumbling encouragements into your cunt.

“Want you to come again, honey, c’mon, you can do it, yeah?”

You do. The crest tugs at your spine like a string, and your hips seek his mouth as if looking for a place to give.

He takes it—slurping, licking, kissing.

When your white-edged vision comes back from the dappled blurs, he’s already shirtless and sitting on his heels, looking down at something.

You follow his gaze.

It stops at his cock resting on your stomach—the exact measure of how deep he’ll be.

There’s a smile on Clark’s face. Kind, but not kind enough that he won’t fuck you into the mattress.

“See that, sweetheart?” he leans down, feeding the words straight into your ear. “We’ll make sure you take everything, m’kay?”

When you whimper and close your eyes—because how is that thing going inside you?—he tuts once. Cups your jaw with a broad palm, still sticky with your juices. Another time and place, you’d scold him, but now?

“You need to watch,” he says, “so you can write about it.”

Your eyes blink open, only to find his pupils blown out black.

Now you’re screwed—or just about to be.

The fat head of his cock rubs against your hole, hot, smearing precum on your cunt. You mewl, eyes fluttering shut again, but he tightens his hold on your jaw, whispering “c’mon, honey, look at me” like his voice doesn’t make things worse.

Like he’s not just as wrecked.

Lips slick, parted, and a little swollen, hazy eyes half-lidded, Clark Kent is the picture they put next to the definition of lust.

But you’re the same, because his cock nudges your clit again and you melt, stammering your truest wish into his mouth:

“Please, Clark, please fuck me, need you to fuck me—”

How he isn’t already cumming all over you is beyond his comprehension.

“Oh, attagirl,” he breathes, before finally sinking in.

The stretch isn’t as painful as you thought it’d be, but maybe that’s just how desperate you are for him. Clark doesn’t seem to be holding up so well, though: he’s panting just a breath away from your lips, exhales shaky at the tightness that wraps around him, holding back the need to just slam into your perfect heat.

Inch by excruciating inch, he sinks into you, then stops. You gasp at the feeling: full. How you managed to take him all so easily is a mystery.

You call his name, clenching around him. His answer is strained, brows knitted.

“I’m only halfway in, baby.”

A wave of desire and dread washes over you at the realization. Those blue eyes, though black now from dilated pupils, drift momentarily down, before they lock onto yours again.

He pushes in.

Your jaw falls slack in disbelief, walls stretched by the veiny ridges of him. His girth bullies your cunt to take his shape. He watches as he thrusts the thickest part of him inside you, studying each twitch and blink and stutter, looking out for pain, but finding pleasure above all else.

This time, you know he’s all the way in. Your vision blacks out a little at the heft.

“There we go, good girl, so good for me, you’re perfect…”

Those words come tumbling out, both a reassurance for you and a distraction for Clark—because you’re so warm and tight and wet around him, he might lose himself if he doesn’t focus.

“Breathe for me,” he hums, but he’s not breathing right either.

This is it. His cock is inside of you—the first one to ruin you, if he doesn’t mess this up and ruin himself first.

Meanwhile, you watch Clark pant above you, his forearms flexing as they bracket your head, face red from restraint.

The sight makes you clench and he moans.

“D-Don’t—a—ah,” his chest heaves.

That pulls a grin out of you, weak as it is. You clench again, this time intentionally.

He grits your name out between teeth. “I said, don’t.”

“Why?” you husk, even though you know the answer.

“Gonna make me c-come.”

You stroke his cheek to guise the fact that you’re not doing much better yourself—not with all eight, nine inches of his hard cock pulsing directly against your walls like that.

The thought strikes you then: this is the closest you’ve ever been to someone—quite literally speaking.

And it’s Clark who’s holding you right now. Clark. Endlessly polite and often sweet Clark. Easily ragebaited into a rant Clark. Charming without meaning to, helps with the best of intentions Clark.

It’s precisely because you’re with him that your mouth decides to say something stupid. Call it a defense mechanism—from what, you’re not sure, because he’s already inside you, what the fuck are you defending yourself from?—but the words slither out anyway.

Playful. Teasing. You say it right by his lips, the exact opposite of what you had in mind.

“You can cum, Clark. I’ll just find someone else to help me write my book.”

When in fact you’ll never let anyone else between your legs ever again.

Something in Clark shifts. His throat bobs with it, eyes sharpening past the haze of lust.

Then he’s on his knees, gripping your hips with both hands, before thrusting up without pulling out even an inch—like deeper is possible. You feel him in your lungs. He does it again.

This time, both your eyes and his snap down to the faint bulge near your stomach.

The view doesn’t stay for long. He drags his inches out of you, slowly, all the way to the tip, before plunging deep once more.

“Fuck—!”

You’re busy crying out when he leans back down. His hand gathers your wrists above your head, the other firm on the side of your hip—both anchors to the slow pace he builds.

“‘s this what you need?” he rasps, voice broken between lazy thrusts that ring loud, “Writing—nmm—material?”

“Aah—”

“You gonna write about how,” thrust, “he’s so deep, she can see him in her stomach?”

Your eyes widen, first at the bulge on your lower belly, then at him.

“About how she cries out for him?” Thrust.

“—a-nghh—”

“How she’s clenching around him,” he mouths against your ear, words slurred, “like she doesn’t want him to leave?”

The cant of his hips pick up speed, and soon there are plap plap plaps of his balls slapping your ass under your moans and his. His hand on your wrists becomes a lever from which he thrusts.

The air hangs heavy with sweat and a heady scent. The bed begins to creak.

You’re rutting up into him, the swivel of your hips growing more and more desperate with each murmur of his name—he watches you the entire time, entranced by the roll of your bodies.

“Fuck, look at you,” he whines at the sight, eyes glazed over.

“Wanna touch,” you mumble, drool beginning to pool on one side of your lip. Your fingers claw the air. “Please, let me touch—”

He lets go of your hands. You drag him into a kiss that tangles your moans together, all while his hipbone bumps into yours again and again.

The freedom he gives you damns him: your hands raking down his chest makes him shiver, so do your nails digging into his bicep. The worst part happens when you tug at his hair: a response to one particular slam that hits a spot in you, in turn drawing a garbled moan out of him.

You can’t stop touching him, and he’s all the worse for it.

With each fuse of your hips and his, your walls clutch him like you’re trying to keep him inside. Out to the tip, in to the hilt, splitting you open with each store, coating his cock with you while he bullies that spot that makes you beg so beautifully: “yes, Clark, please!”

It’s clear you’re close. It hasn’t been long since Clark got acquainted with your pretty pussy, but the way she clenches is enough to clue him in.

He’s not doing any better: eyes dark behind glasses that sit askew, swollen lips parted. His only hope now is to pound into that gummy spot in you again and again and again while he spews praise in your ear—make you come before he does, because it’s too good for him not too: he’s so hard and you’re squeezing him so tight, rubbing delicious friction that’s all at once too much and not enough.

You respond with nails raked down his naked back, the mantra of ‘Clark Clark Clark’ shooting ecstasy straight to his head, fueling the piston of his hips.

The sounds of your bodies aren’t helping him hold on: wet slaps betray the mess he’s making out of your pussy. Every thrust makes him yours. Make you his.

He groans at the thought. Depraved as it is, his cock being the first to ruin your pussy does something indescribable to him. At the tail end of that thought is something sweeter:

The same way that he’s your first, you’re his. He doesn’t want any other.

He paraphrases professions of love into everything else but the words he loves working with. Instead he employs a language said by the body: through his hips now ramming deep strokes into you, the way his arms wrap around you until you can’t see anything except him. Your heels drag on his back now—he spares a second to hook one over his shoulder before plunging back into you, deepening the angle.

He glances down. Your nails sink into his arms. They look pretty.

You look pretty: eyes blank, hair a mess, skin misted with sweat as you lay arched underneath him…

“God, you’re perfect,” he breathes.

Meanwhile, you're so full your brain decides to empty itself. Its only care right now is your basest of needs.

“So good,” you whimper, “Clark you feel so good, gonna cum…”

“Yeah? Me too, honey,” he pants, voice reedy, “where do you want me?”

“Inside, p-please, need you inside—”

That answer unspools all restraint in him, and he lets his hips go of their very last bit of restraint: he pistons into you with abandon as he siphons groans into your lips in exchange for your climbing moans, the two of you feeding into each other’s lust until your heat is too much.

“I can’t, honey, I—”

It’s too late: he’s spurting all the way inside you, breathlessly gasping your name.

“Gah—nggh—”

The flooding sensation of his orgasm, hot and sticky, triggers your own. The tension shatters in your body: your legs quiver on his shoulder and around his waist, voice broken as your nerves turn into livewires that burn bright at the edges of your vision, electrifying everything to white.

He’s on you the entire time you come, breath warming your ear. The spurts don’t stop. You’ve never been fuller—until he pulls out of you and you moan, not just from the loss of his cock, but also the messy splatter of him on your stomach and tits.

The thought is faint, but the sensations are real: he’s still fucking cumming.

Now you’re just not quivering, you’re a quivering mess. Even with your senses flashbanged, slowly reconstructing themselves from that orgasm, you register the warmth that drips down your hole and onto the bedsheets.

Then the quiet lands. Your breaths even. He still hovers over you, glasses fully fogged up and crooked. The sight is stupidly hot, but you don’t like that you can’t see him.

You slowly take them off.

Blue eyes look back at you. His pupils aren’t so dilated now, and you see a different emotion in them as they widen.

Concern.

“Gosh—I—are you okay? did I hurt you? ”

He thumbs at your cheek. It’s wet. When did you start crying?

“No, no,” you stammer, “I’m fine. It’s just… that was—”

You stare, wordless. He stares back.

“It’s perfect. You’re perfect, Clark.”

His shoulders drop with heavy relief, warm breath fanning your face as he leans over you again.

“Thank goodness.”

That makes you giggle.

“Don’t laugh. I’ve wanted you for so long, I can’t possibly mess this up.”

A beat. You blink up at him. “You have?”

He doesn’t answer. Just buries his face in your neck, undoubtedly redder than before. His voice is muffled against your skin.

“I just—I like you so much it hurts.”

You huff in amusement, raking your fingers through his hair. A silent plea for him to look up at you.

He obeys. You smile, thumbing the fat of his cheek.

“When I touched myself two nights ago, I was thinking about you.”

His eyes widen, though just a fraction. Maybe it’s not so unbelievable, after all—but he allows himself to expend the last ounce of his surprise.

You raise your brow. “Is it really that unexpected?”

He kisses your fingers. Sweetly this time. “I… It’s an outcome I’ve never considered.”

You lean up. The peck lands on his chin. “Why else would I invite you to an expensive Korean barbecue, silly?”

Clark smiles so earnestly it almost blinds you. Thank God he hides in your neck again.

“So you like me, too?”

“Yep. Like, a lot.”

୨୧

Ten minutes later, you’re in the bathtub, back pressed against his chest.

The sun is setting outside, the drawn blinds creating light serrations that spill across your bathroom tiles. Metropolis is strangely quiet. The only thing you perceive is the lazy drip of the faucet into the water’s surface.

Maybe you’re just preoccupied by the replaying of your memories. Every little detail collects in the forefront like the soap suds Clark massages into your shoulders—before you know it, you’re stringing together words in your head, a momentum you can’t stop even if you wanted to.

Huh. You’re… inspired.

Maybe you should do this more often.

Clark kisses the nape of your neck as you bask in the silence. The sensation grounds you back to reality, and a realization dawns. You sit up straighter in the water.

He notices.

You turn to face him.

“What’s wrong, honey?”

“My suitcase,” you say, “it’s still in your car.”

He smiles so warmly you think you might melt and be one with the bath water. The expression looks so sweet and innocent on him… except you feel his cock hardening against your ass.

“Sweetheart, I don’t think you’ll be needing clothes for a while.” 

THREE MONTHS LATER 

“C’mon, write something,” Clark pants playfully, hands on your hips, driving his cock into your weeping cunt as he watches the fat of your ass bounce with each thrust, “You can do it—you’re a smart girl, aren’t you?”

Time doesn’t make any sense, not when he’s rubbing against your walls so good, but you do know you’ve been at this for a while. Your body can’t even hold itself up: chest glued to the damp sheets, ass held up by his hands, arms limp in front of you.

Your hands rest above the keypad of a laptop. On its screen is a word processor, its typing cursor blinking back at you tauntingly. The page’s contents are measly, only about halfway filled—unlike your cunt that’s full with his length.

It’s your fault for planning so many sex scenes. But it’s the final installment of your trilogy, the perfect breeding ground for emotional sex.

You’re guessing that breeding ground is what Clark thinks about you, too, aside from his undying respect for you: because his thrusts are getting messier the way you know he’s about to cum, and sure enough, with his chest against your back and his mouth sputtering “that’s it, take it, gonna fill you up, sweetheart, you’ll let me?” in your ear.

He waits for your pathetic mewl of an okay to spill inside you.

His orgasm pulls a weak one out of you, because God knows how many times he’s made you. You shake underneath him, gasping for air while he does the same.

Then it begins: the delicious replay your mind does after every tangle with him. While the shivers ebb, your memory picks up the details…

Your feeble fingers begin to type. Slowly, as if each key ignites a thing he said not ten minutes ago.

You can hear Clark smile in his voice. He buries his lips in your hair.

“One week till the manuscript deadline,” he husks. “Let’s work hard together, yeah?”

Then his hand drifts down to play with your clit and you lose your train of thought.

Oh, well. Surely Planet Publishing can extend a deadline for their bestselling writer.

BONUS

Herons Under Sycamore Shade — Author Interview with Cat Grant

Q: Speaking of sex, there’s a lot more this time around.

A: Well, it’s the last book. I wanted it to go out with a bang, so to speak.

Q: This is a personal opinion of mine, having read all three, but you should also know that many reviewers thought the quality of erotica was somehow better in this one. To quote the Gotham Gazette: “…breathtakingly real while making you forget about reality.”

A: That’s such high praise. Thank you!

Q: What changed (between the first two installments)?

At this point, the author smiles in a way that I can only describe as coy. Don’t believe me? Ask the photographer.

A: Let’s just say I have good source material.

taglist: @ultimatewolverine @singulartoast @sparklingsin

[cryptictongues]

Genuinely could not believe the confidence and filth coming out of Clark’s mouth jfc.

Him reciting the lines and then predicting what she would right and he acts it out was CRAAAAZY

[talesofanemerald]

Idc, normalize kink shaming. Cause y'all be using “don’t kink shame” and “it’s fiction” to excuse being into incest, pedophilia, cannibalism, etc. Like, be so fr, you ship a 14 year old with a 30 year, want to get railed by your dad and want to see two brothers f*ck each other. I don’t engage with things fictionally that I don’t like/wouldn’t want to do in real life. Yes, I’m judging you.

[girlontheruin]

Save a horse, ride a cowboy

18+ MDNI

John Tucker who has a cowboy hat hung above his bed, because if you’re gonna ride a cowboy he might as well dress the part.

John Tucker x Fem!reader

There’s three games you play one of you wearing the cowboy hat…under no circumstances can you let it fall off your head whilst you ride John.

“Don’t fall off the bull, sweet thing” he says, bucking his hips and slamming his dick into your cunt. You squeal, not expecting the sudden fullness, but you’re bouncing on top of him chasing his movements in hopes of meeting his thrusts and taking him deeper.

You might be on top riding the waves, but John Tucker has all of the control. One of his hands are wrapped around your wrists and anchored to his chest, his heart beat drumming against your palm all so he can show how much you get him going. The cowboy hats askew, his finger flicking the rim and his dick slips out of you, slick with your mixed arousal between your legs and his body beneath you. Your stomach tightens, thighs squeezing around his hips in a bid to keep yourself on top on him as if you haven’t got a weight on his chest.

“Be careful there,” he smirks, the usual kind nickname going unsaid as you rock back and forth over his shaft. A groan breaks free from his parted lips and he arches his back off the mattress, eyes fluttering shut for a breath. His other hand trails down the column of your throat, fingers tracing your collar bone and the valley between your breasts. He detours his wanted path, rolling your nipple and twisting it between the pads of his fingers. He mimics your moan, gaze flitting to your lips. Your chest’s sweaty, sticky, but his touch trails after the bead of sweat rolling down your stomach. A shiver trembling down your spine. His palm cups your pussy, smiling as you grind down on his hand for a bit of friction.

John’s already coaxed two orgasms out of you. He pulls you back down on his cock, warmth burning between your legs and your stomach tightening. The hat’s still on, barely. Your boys close, his movements slow and timed, both of his hands now settling on your hips. You keep your palms on his chest not wanting to break your connection with him. John’s fingers press into the soft flesh of your hips, but your mind’s a haze, thighs trembling as you let him guide you. Let him take care of both of your releases, your forehead resting on his shoulder as he rides out his own.

He slips out of you as soon as you remove the cowboy hat, arm stretched over the mattress as he you curl into his side. Your ear listening to his steady heartbeat, his lips pressing to your hairline. He smoothes his palm up and down your leg, hooking it over his hip so he can massage the tender and sore aches of being on top of him. All whilst you eye the hat on the floor.

The second game is can John eat you out with the hat still on? If it falls off his head, he don’t get no head.

The third being your favourite though. How long before the cowboy hat can fall off the bedpost?? You’ve still not beat your best time yet, but you’re more than game to try again. Might even drag it out to do over and over again…

[liafieldnotes-03]

[abbycoded]

request for john tucker😛😛

so reader works with the athletic training/sport medicine department and there’s one game where tucker gets hit HARD on the ice and passes out or smth and the trainers have to go out and check on him. reader is the first person he sees when he wakes up still on the ice and then he gets obsessed and starts stopping by the training room whenever he can just to see her

JOHN TUCKER REQUEST, I PRAYED FOR TIMES LIKE THIS SO YES YES YES I LOVE

Pain Observations

John Tucker X fem!reader (med student)

you had been interested in the medical department since you were a kid, anything interested you so when the coach for the hockey team came to you asking if you would be interested in being the teams medic to get a little ahead in the field. you said yes, you couldn't stop yourself and if you were being honest, you didn't hate seeing john tucker on the ice.

you had always thought he was attractive, while everyone else was interested in dean or garrett or logan, you were always in tucker so you jumped at the chance. the boys quickly became attached to you when you patch up their cuts or bruises, remind them to be safe or tell them you would kick their ass if they didn't listen. you couldn't stop yourself.

tucker always found it admirable that you would take time to remind them they were only human, he liked that about you. in truth, he liked alot about you and knowing you cared about hockey just as much as the next person made his attraction grow even bigger. today was their match against their rival team and as promised you would be there.

you stood with their coach off to the side, in case anything happened and you needed to handle it. you always hated seeing them get hurt but it was apart of the game, thats why you were there. the hits and bruises and cuts didn't scare you, but the falling and the punching and the potential of a skate gone wrong did not leave your mind ever.

"you're staring like you're waiting for something to happen" their coach said to you and you knew he was right because you were waiting for something to happen, it felt like you were always waiting for something to happen and in the next two minutes, something did.

you were watching when tucker got side-checked by one guy and someone came up on the other side, side-checking him again. tucker was stuck between two guys and it only got worse, the next thing you knew they moved on impact and slammed into him at the same time. you froze as you watched tucker fall to the ground and you turned to the coach

"go get him" he told you and you nodded as the ref blew the whistle, you rushed out with the trainers to tucker. they all stood above him watching, the two guys got shoved into the penalty box with smug smirks on their faces and you glared at them as they stared

"fucking assholes" you said outloud before you kneeled down and shook tucker. he was out like a light and you couldn't leave him on the ice, the trainers helped him up and as a group, you brought him to the medical room. you stayed with him until he woke up. he groaned and sat up but you were right there

"woah, careful, you got hurt pretty bad out there" you said as you pushed his shoulder and he let you as he stared at you

"what...what happened?" he asked

"fuckface champion and larkey thought it would be funny to put you in the middle of them, they attacked you at the same time. you were out like a light but you're okay, no signs of a concussion, just some light bruising in a few places but you should be okay" you reassured him

"thats embarassing"

"for them, maybe. they needed two of them to take you out, says more about them than it says about you" you said and he nodded as he stared at you. he had never seen your eyes up close and he knew if he said anything right now, it would ruin everything

"thanks for taking care of me, doc" he teased

"its my job, tucker. try to not get hurt so much" you said and he nodded before he stood up and left. the game was finished by now and he was back at the frat house with the other guys and he kept thinking about you, how gentle you were. how kind you were and how much you cared to make sure he was safe.

he needed to show his appreciation somehow, so he started doing it in small ways at first. leaving notes at your desk, buying your drinks in the morning, making sure to not get hurt as bad but then he realized if he wasn't getting hurt, he couldn't see you and he hated that.

so he just started showing up to talk to you, about random shit, things that didn't matter or make sense. it was nice in a way to know that he cared enough to be there when he didn't have to. the others started to notice it too, he would stop by the medical room to see you or talk to you. logan, dean and garrett took bets on how long it would take for him to confess.

the closest they got was logan, with three weeks and two days. tucker had gotten tired of dancing around you and he needed to do something so right before the match, his nerves were spiked. what if he got hurt again? he needed to talk to you and he knew where you were.

"doc? you in here?" he called out, voice shaky

"tucker? hey, whats wrong? whats going on?" you asked and he sighed as he walked over to you, his arms wrapped around you and he rested his head on your shoulder with a sigh. you froze before you wrapped your arms around him and held him okay

"im terrified, what if i get hurt again? what if something happens and i can't come back from it? what will i do? i can't lose this, if i lose hockey, i lose my future and if i lose my future i lose you" he said and you shook your head

"tuck, you could never lose me. you're going to get hurt, its hockey but you can come back from it. you'll always be able to come back from it, thats who you are and i have faith in you, so have faith in yourself" you said and he nodded as he stared at you

"i think im in love with you" he exclaimed, your eyes widened before you laughed and pulled him in to kiss him. he smiled as his hands moved to your waist and he pulled you closer, kissing you back. it was perfect, until you heard the voices of logan, dean and garrett

"I WAS RIGHT, PAY UP BITCHES" logan said and you pulled away to turn to them

"you bet on us?" tucker asked

"well she does pain observations, we do love observations. and as much as we love a love fest, we've got a game to play. you can make out with her later" dean said as he led tucker away and you laughed with a shake of your head as you waved at them

thank god for pain observations

A/N: i actually adored writing this so thank you so so much for the request! feel free to send anymore you may have

[p1stach-io]

cranberries, flour & panic

summary: even on friendsgiving in a house full of chaos, you and tucker are the one thing that never cracks. (2.1k)

pairing: john tucker x reader

content warning: established relationship, friendsgiving madness, soft tucker, stress, fluff, very mild explicit content.

authors note: i could never ever ever write anything but fluff for my favourite. also this is my spin on the thanksgiving episode (it doesn’t necessarily follow the plot of the episode but hey that’s fiction baby)

tucker was frantically running a hand through his dark curls. it was a dead giveaway to anyone who knew him that he was seconds away from completely losing his mind.

usually, he was the definition of charm and unbothered grace, the rock of his friend group who could handle a chaotic locker room or a brutal third period without ever breaking a sweat. but right now, his jaw was set in a tight, rigid line.

the kitchen of the house had devolved into an absolute war zone of flour, half-peeled potatoes, and rising panic.

the text messages had been rolling in for the last three hours. excuse after excuse from the people who were supposed to be the backbone of this dinner.

garrett and dean had texted at the last minute saying they wouldn't be around at all, caught up in their own holiday chaos, leaving a massive void in the planning.

to make matters worse, the front door kept opening, welcoming unexpected guests whom tucker hadn't accounted for in his initial headcount, while the people who were supposed to help were nowhere to be found.

instead, it was just the two of you trying to hold the line.

"hey," you murmured, stepping up beside him at the island.

you were leaning against the counter, a peeler in your hand, feeling the exhaustion of trying to salvage friendsgiving settling deep into your bones.

you had tried to dress up a little for the holiday, wearing an oversized, off-the-shoulder cream sweater that kept slipping down your arm, paired with dark fitted jeans.

now, you had the sleeves pushed up past your elbows, trying desperately to keep the knit out of the turkey grease.

"logan just walked in with like three guys from the junior varsity line. i don't think we have enough stuffing for this at all."

tucker let out a low, rough sigh, not looking up from the turkey he was meticulously basting.

the tension in his broad shoulders was palpable, a rare sight for a guy who usually let everything roll off his back. "we'll make it work," he said, his voice a little tighter and deeper than usual. "i just don't understand how a dinner for eight turned into a buffet for twenty, with zero notice. i planned this out to the ounce."

he stared down at the roasting pan, his knuckles gripping the handle of baster. "my mom gave me her exact timeline," he admitted, his voice dropping into a rare, vulnerable register. "down to the minute. i called her three times yesterday just to make sure i had the seasoning right. it's... it's the first time i haven't been home for it. i just wanted it to be right."

the irritation you had been feeling about the chaotic house evaporated instantly, replaced by a sharp pang of sympathy. tucker was always everyone else's rock, but right now, he was just a guy missing his mom's kitchen.

you tossed a peeled potato into the pot with a little more force than necessary, your own irritation flaring turning into gentle reassurance. "it will be perfect but i'm about two minutes away from locking the front door, turning off the oven, and letting everyone fight over the raw cranberries."

a faint, genuine smile finally broke through tucker's frustrated expression. the hard line of his jaw softened, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he looked at you.

he set the baster down, wiped his hands on a kitchen towel, and stepped directly into your space, cutting off the rest of the chaotic kitchen from view.

before you could say anything else, he leaned down. his lips pressed warmly against your cheek, lingering just long enough to make the noise of the crowded house fade into static.

he slid his hand down to find yours, his large, calloused fingers intertwining with yours, his thumb rubbing soothing, slow circles over the back of your knuckles.

"thank you," he whispered near your ear, his breath warm against your skin. "i would be losing my mind right now if you weren't here."

"you are losing your mind," you teased softly, turning your head just enough so your nose brushed against his jawline. "but i've got your back. always have."

"always have," he repeated, his voice softening with an undercurrent of fierce affection.

that was the thing about the two of you. anyone in your orbit knew that you and tucker were the blueprint.

you had been together since middle school, navigating the messy transition from kids to adults.

out of all the chaotic, fast-moving couples in your friend group, you and tucker were the stable foundation.

the absolute constants.

you had had your ups and downs, of course.

a couple of explosive, passionate arguments over the years that led to "breaks" that never actually lasted more than a week because neither of you could stand being away from each other.

looking at him now, you couldn't help but think about how far you had come.

your mind drifted back to the seventh grade, when a scrawny, blushing tucker had cornered you by the middle school lockers.

he had practically choked on his own spit asking you to go to the movies with him, shoved a crumpled pack of your favorite candy into your hand, and bolted before you could even say yes.

you had had to chase him down the hallway just to tell him you would have to ask your mom.

then there was the time you both turned sixteen.

after a brief, dramatic three-day breakup over something so stupid neither of you could even remember it now, he had showed up on your porch in the pouring rain.

he didn't just ask for you back.

he had asked you out properly. he had held a bouquet of actual flowers, his curls soaking wet and flattened to his forehead, and looked you dead in the eye with a seriousness that took your breath away.

"i don't want to just be your middle school boyfriend anymore," he had said, his voice steady and completely sure. "i want to be your real boyfriend."

and he meant it.

and to this day the love between you was an unspoken and unshakeable law.

tucker gave your hand one last squeeze before releasing it, the frustration completely melting out of his posture. "alright. let's execute a new game plan."

instead of letting the evening devolve into a disaster, the two of you shifted into a seamless, practiced rhythm born from years of knowing how the other worked.

you grabbed the potato pot and walked out into the living room to recruit some actual help.

your friends were currently being completely useless.

mila was sitting on the armchair with her legs tucked under her, scrolling through her phone, while her girlfriend aoife was standing by the window chatting with a couple of the cheerleaders.

across the room, your other friend rowan was sitting on the coffee table, looking thoroughly amused but completely lost as logan attempted to explain a hockey play to him.

they were all hanging out, but you knew they would step up the second you asked.

"i need you guys," you said, intercepting the room's separate pockets of energy.

aoife looked over immediately, offering a sympathetic smile as she stepped away from the conversation by the window. "is tucker finally cracking?"

"he's running his hands through his hair, so yes, we are at code red," you joked, setting the pot down on the counter by the pass-through window. "can you two take over peeling the rest of the potatoes? we have an army to feed now."

"on it," mila said, tossing her phone onto the chair and stretching as she stood up. "we'll save tucker from himself."

you turned to rowan, who was already raising his hands in mock surrender. "and what's my mission, captain?"

"you are in charge of muscle," you told him, pointing toward logan and the junior varsity players who were hovering by the tv.

"take logan and the freshmen downstairs and drag up every folding chair we own. we're going to be packed in like sardines."

"consider it done," rowan said, giving your shoulder a reassuring squeeze as he passed. "don't stress. the food smells amazing, you guys got this."

with your friends successfully deployed, the chaotic house turned into a well-oiled machine.

mila and aoife kept up a steady stream of banter in the kitchen, keeping the mood light while they helped tucker finish the sides, and devon successfully organized a makeshift seating arrangement that somehow fit everyone.

by the time everyone finally sat down, the table was packed shoulder-to-shoulder.

the noise level was deafening, filled with loud laughter, clinking glasses, and the chaotic, booming energy of a hockey team left to their own devices, mixed with the sharp wit of your own friends.

but against all odds, the food was absolutely perfect.

tucker sat beside you, finally completely relaxed. underneath the cover of the heavy, holiday tablecloth, his hand found your thigh.

his fingers squeezed gently, a heavy, warm weight that grounded you instantly.

it was a silent, private thank-you that only you could feel.

across the table, rowan was loading up his plate while aoife laughed at something jules said, and mila chuckled at one of logan's ridiculous stories.

everyone was mingling perfectly.

you caught tucker looking at you, his brown eyes soft.

while logan was distracted yelling across the table to rowan about a play from last week's game, tucker leaned in close.

his shoulder pressed firmly against yours, his scent of cedar and warm spices enveloping you as he stole a quick, quiet kiss from the side of your neck, his lips lingering against your skin.

it wasn't the quiet, perfectly orchestrated friendsgiving he had meticulously planned in his head.

but looking around at the full plates, all your laughing friends, and feeling tucker's hand steady against your leg, it was exactly what it was supposed to be.

stable and entirely yours.

hours later, the house was finally silent. the last of the guests had stumbled out, rowan had helped carry the heavy trash bags to the curb, and mila and aoife had kissed your cheeks goodbye after helping load the dishwasher.

upstairs in tucker's bedroom, the frantic energy of the day completely dissolved.

the door was locked, leaving the remnants of the party far behind.

you stood by the edge of the bed, finally tugging your sweater over your head, leaving you in just a soft lace bralette and your jeans.

before you could reach for one of tucker's oversized t-shirts, a pair of strong arms wrapped around your waist from behind.

tucker pulled you back against his chest, burying his face into the crook of your neck. he had already changed into low-slung sweatpants, his bare skin warm against your back. he let out a long, heavy exhale, the last of his residual tension melting away as he held you.

"i mean it," he murmured, his voice a low, gravelly rumble against your skin that sent a shiver straight down your spine.

his lips pressed a slow, deliberate kiss to your shoulder, his hands sliding up your ribs, fingers lightly trailing over the exposed skin of your waist. "i don't know what i would've done today without you."

you turned around in his embrace, looping your arms around his neck, your fingers immediately tangling into his damp, post-shower hair. "you would have fed them raw cranberries and stared blankly at the oven."

tucker chuckled, the vibration thrumming through his chest against yours. his eyes darkened, softening with a deep, familiar heat that was reserved entirely for you. "probably," he admitted softly.

he leaned down, his mouth finding yours in a kiss that was a stark contrast to the quick, stolen touches from earlier.

this one was slow, deep, and heavy with years of unspoken promises.

his hands moved down to the small of your back, pulling you flush against him until there was no space left between you.

the intensity of it made your breath hitch, your heart hammering against your ribs as his tongue slid past your lips, claiming you completely.

when he finally pulled back, just an inch, his forehead rested against yours. his thumb traced the line of your lower lip, his gaze dropping to watch the movement before rising back to meet your eyes.

"middle school, high school, college," tucker whispered, his voice thick with emotion as he guided you backward onto the mattress, his body following yours until he was hovering over you, his weight a comforting, familiar presence.

"i'm never letting you go. you know that, right?"

you smiled up at him, your hands sliding down his broad shoulders, feeling the solid, unshakeable reality of him. "i count on it."

he kissed you again, his hands sliding under the waistband of your jeans as the rest of the world faded into nothing but the quiet warmth of his room and the steady, unbreakable rhythm of the two of you.