summary: loving Dean has never been easy but it's worth trying
pairing: dean dilaurentis x reader
content: romance, flashbacks, happy ending
inspiration: Red by Taylor Swift (preview of the song at the end of the story)
The autumn air in Boston didn’t just cool the skin; it bit into it, a sharp reminder that summer was definitively dead. I stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows of the coffee shop, watching the rain blur the streetlights into smudged halos of gold. My hands were wrapped around a mug that had long since lost its warmth.
I hadn’t seen Dean Di Laurentis in three months.
When you love someone like Dean—a man who moves through the world with the effortless grace of a natural-born athlete and the magnetic charm of a god—you don’t just date them. You collide with them. He was hockey royalty, the Golden Boy of Briar University, a guy used to winning everything he touched. And for a glorious, terrifying year, I had been the thing he wanted to win most.
But losing him? Losing him wasn’t a clean break. It was a slow, agonizing fade.
It was blue. Like the bruised, heavy sky right before a massive thunderstorm. Like the icy, unforgiving color of the rink where I used to watch him skate, missing him even when he was standing right in front of me, his mind miles away on a future that didn't seem to have room for us. It was lonely. A hollow, aching kind of sad that settled deep into my bones, a constant reminder that he was gone, and I was left trying to figure out how to breathe in a world that suddenly felt entirely too quiet.
My phone buzzed on the table. A text from a mutual friend. “Dean’s back in town for the charity gala tonight. Thought you should know.”
My heart did a violent, familiar flip. I stared at the screen, the blue light reflecting in my eyes, and for the first time in months, the coldness faded, replaced by a sudden, dangerous spark.
(...)
The charity gala was a sea of black ties, glittering diamonds, and polite, forced laughter. I shouldn’t have come. I knew it the second I walked through the doors of the ballroom. I was a ghost in a room full of living people, wearing a dress I’d bought hoping it would make me feel brave. It didn't.
I stood near the edge of the terrace, looking out over the city. This was the dark gray part of missing him. The phase where you aren't crying anymore, but you aren't really living either. It was the color of the pavement under a cloudy sky. It was trying to find his face in every crowd, knowing he wasn't there, and then, worse, realizing that even if he was there, things would never be the same.
"You always did know how to choose a dress that makes everything else in the room look monochromatic."
The voice was low, laced with a familiar, dangerous raspy warmth.
I froze. My breath hitched in my throat as I turned around.
Dean.
He was leaning against the stone railing, hands shoved casually into the pockets of his tailored tuxedo pants. His blonde hair was perfectly styled, but there was an intensity in his blue eyes that hadn't been there before. He looked older. Less like the carefree college playboy and more like a man carrying a weight he wasn't used to bearing.
"Dean," I breathed, the word a fragile thing between us.
"Hi," he said softly, stepping closer. The distance between us shrunk, and with it, the dark gray world I’d been living in began to fracture. "You didn't answer my calls."
"Because there was nothing left to say, Dean. We said it all three months ago."
"I didn't say everything," he countered, his voice dropping an octave, raw and heavy with a regret that shocked me. "I spent ninety days trying to convince myself that letting you go was the right thing for your sake, for my career, for everything. And I’ve never been more wrong about anything in my life."
The tension between us snapped like a high-voltage wire. Before I could protest, Dean reached out, his fingers brushing against my jawline, a touch so familiar it sent a jolt of pure electricity straight to my core.
Suddenly, the blue sadness and the gray isolation vanished, burned away by a sudden, blinding rush of color.
Red.
Loving Dean Di Laurentis was, and always would be, burning red. It was the color of a fast car driving down a dead-end street. It was reckless, passionate, and utterly consuming. It was the flush on my cheeks when he looked at me like I was the only person in a crowded room. It was the fierce, terrifying speed at which we fell into each other, defying logic, defying the rules, defying the fact that we were probably bad for each other.
"Come with me," he whispered, his eyes searching mine, desperate and burning. "Just for tonight. No hockey, no future plans, no expectations. Just us."
"Dean, we can't just go back—"
"I don't want to go back," he interrupted, his thumb tracing my lower lip. "I want to go forward. But I can't do it without you. I tried. I swear to God I tried, and it was killing me."
He pulled me into the shadow of the terrace curtains, away from the prying eyes of the gala, and kissed me.
It was a collision of lips and months of built-up agony. It tasted like rain and expensive whiskey and desperate longing. It was a beautiful, chaotic mess, a wildfire that threatened to consume everything we had tried so hard to rebuild apart. In his arms, surrounded by his scent, I knew I was lost. You can't fight a fire when you're standing right in the center of the flames.
The next morning, the sun broke through the Boston fog, casting a warm, golden light across the tangled sheets of Dean's apartment.
I lay awake, watching the rise and fall of his chest as he slept beside me, one of his arms thrown protectively over my waist. The dramatic storm of the night before had passed, leaving behind a quiet, fragile peace.
I knew the risks. I knew that loving a man like Dean meant living life at a volume that was sometimes too loud to bear. It meant handling the drama of his high-profile life, the distance of his travel, and the terrifying intensity of his devotion. It was a rollercoaster, a beautiful, spinning, dangerous ride.
Dean stirred, his eyelashes fluttering open. When he saw me looking at him, a slow, breathtaking smile spread across his face—the one he reserved only for me. He pulled me closer, burying his face in the crook of my neck, inhaling deeply.
"You're still here," he murmured, his voice thick with sleep.
"I'm still here," I whispered back, tangling my fingers in his hair.
We didn't have all the answers. The future was still an unpredictable, terrifying road. But as I looked at him, feeling the heat of his skin against mine, I realized I didn't want a safe, quiet life of blues and grays. I wanted the passion. I wanted the fight.
Our love story wasn't simple, and it certainly wasn't easy. It was a beautiful, chaotic masterpiece. And as Dean leaned up to kiss me, sealing our unspoken promise to try again, I knew that no matter how many times we burned, I would always choose to burn with him.
Because loving him was red. And I never wanted to see any other color again.
summary: you didn't think it was possible to fall in love again, until you met Dean
pairing: dean dilaurentis x reader
content: romance, a little angsty, flashbacks
inspiration: Begin again by Taylor Swift (preview of the song at the end of the story)
The rain in Boston always felt heavier when you were trying to outrun a memory. For eight months, my world had been a quiet, cautious place. Eight months since a relationship that had slowly chipped away at who I was finally ended. He had a way of making me feel small, of making my love for old movies, my tendency to overthink, and my choice of high heels feel like inconveniences. By the end, I had learned to hold my breath, to dress in neutrals, and to keep my thoughts to myself.
So, when a friend practically forced me to agree to a blind date, my immediate instinct was to find an excuse. But somehow, here I was, walking into a small, dimly lit café on a Wednesday, shaking off my umbrella.
I chose a table near the back, pulling my long coat tight around myself. I was early—a habit born from years of being told that making someone wait was a capital offense. I looked down at my hands, nervously spinning a ring on my index finger, wondering if I should just leave a twenty on the table and walk out before he arrived.
Then, the bell above the door chimed.
I looked up, and the air left my lungs. The guy walking in didn’t look like he belonged in a quiet, indie café. He was tall, broad-shouldered, with a sharp jawline and messy blonde hair that looked like he’d just run his hands through it. He wore a simple black henley that clung to a physique that screamed athlete. It was Dean Di Laurentis. Even if you didn't follow college hockey, you knew who Dean was—the charming, effortlessly confident star player of Briar University.
His eyes scanned the room and locked onto mine. A slow, easy smile spread across his face, and he started walking over. My heart did a sudden, violent flip. Great, I thought, a wave of panic washing over me. He’s gorgeous, he’s famous, and he’s going to think I’m incredibly boring.
"Hey," Dean said, his voice a low, warm rumble as he pulled out the chair opposite me. "You must be her. I'm Dean."
"I know," I breathed out before I could stop myself. I felt my cheeks flush. "I mean, yes. Hi. Nice to meet you."
He laughed, a rich, genuine sound that instantly cut through the tension in my shoulders. "Good to know my reputation precedes me. Hopefully the good parts." He slid into the seat, his large frame making the small wooden chair look tiny.
When the waitress came over, I ordered a black coffee, a habit from my ex, who always complained if I ordered something "too complicated" or expensive. Dean looked at me, then at the menu, and then back to me with a twinkle in his blue eyes.
"Just black?" Dean asked, raising an eyebrow. "Come on, we’re at a place that literally has a drink called the 'Chocolate Avalanche.' You’re telling me you don’t want a little sweetness in your life?"
"I... I usually just keep it simple," I stammered, unaccustomed to someone questioning my choices without a tone of judgment.
Dean smiled gently, leaning forward, resting his forearms on the table. "Two Chocolate Avalanches, please," he told the waitress, winking at her. When she walked away, he looked back at me. "Trust me. If we're going to suffer through a rainy Wednesday, we're doing it with whipped cream."
For the next hour, I waited for the other shoe to drop. I waited for him to take over the conversation, to talk only about himself, or to make me feel small for the things I liked. But he didn't. When I nervously mentioned my love for obscure, classic romantic comedies, I braced myself for a sarcastic comment. My ex used to tell me they were a waste of brain cells.
Instead, Dean’s eyes lit up. "Wait, are you talking about the ones with James Stewart? My mom makes us watch those every Christmas. You actually like those?"
"I love them," I said, my voice growing a little stronger.
"That’s amazing," he said, and the way he looked at me—completely focused, entirely present—made me feel like I was the only person in the crowded café. He didn't think I was weird. For the first time in almost a year, someone was actually listening to me.
By the time our extravagant, sugar-loaded drinks arrived, the rain outside had turned into a steady, soothing hum against the windowpane. I found myself talking more than I had in months. I told him about my classes, my art, and my terrible habit of laughing at my own jokes before I finished telling them.
"Show me," Dean suddenly said, leaning back and crossing his arms.
"Show you what?"
"Your art. I know you have pictures on your phone. Let's see."
With hesitant fingers, I pulled up my portfolio. I handed the phone over, my chest tight with apprehension. My ex had always called my paintings a "cute little hobby."
Dean took the phone. His expression softened as he scrolled through the images of vibrant landscapes and abstract emotions captured in oil. He didn't look at them for just a second; he studied them.
"Wow," he murmured, his voice laced with genuine awe. "You did this? The colors in this one... it’s like you can actually feel the wind moving through the trees." He looked up, his gaze locking onto mine with an intensity that made my breath catch. "You're incredibly talented. Seriously."
A sudden, sharp memory pierced through me—a memory of sitting across a different table, being told to put my phone away and stop showing off. My eyes stung with a sudden rush of unshed tears, a mix of old grief and new shock.
Dean noticed the shift instantly. His brow furrowed with concern. "Hey, did I say something wrong?"
"No," I said quickly, swallowing the lump in my throat. I looked down at my hands, then back up at him, forcing a smile. "No, you didn't. It's just... my ex used to think my art was a waste of time."
Dean’s face hardened for a fraction of a second, a flash of protective anger crossing his features before it smoothed out into something incredibly tender. He reached across the table, his large, warm hand covering mine. His touch was electric, sending a wave of warmth straight to my heart.
"Then your ex was a fool," Dean said softly, his thumb gently brushing against the back of my hand. "And he clearly didn't deserve to have someone like you in his life."
I looked at him, at the sincerity in his eyes, and a laugh bubbled up from my chest. It wasn't a polite, guarded laugh. It was a real, loud, head-thrown-back kind of laugh. Dean grinned, his own laughter joining mine, and in that moment, the ghost of my past felt a little less solid.
The café was closing by the time we finally stood up to leave. The rain had cleared, leaving the Boston streets glittering under the glow of the streetlights. The air was crisp and smelled of wet pavement and turning leaves.
Dean walked me to my car, his hands tucked casually into his pockets, keeping his stride slow to match mine. We stopped by the driver’s side door. The silence between us wasn't awkward; it was charged with a sweet, lingering anticipation.
"I had a really great time tonight," I said, looking up at him. For the first time in eight months, I didn't feel the urge to apologize for taking up space.
"Me too," Dean said. He stepped a little closer, breaking the boundary of casual acquaintance. He reached out, his fingers gently tucking a stray lock of hair behind my ear. His touch lingered on my cheek, his skin warm against the cool night air. "You're kind of incredible, you know that?"
I felt a beautiful, terrifying flutter in my chest. "I think you might be biased."
"I am," he admitted with a smirk, his eyes dropping to my lips for a brief second before returning to my eyes. "Which is why I'm going to need to see you again. To confirm my theories. How does Friday sound? I'll pick you up. We can get dinner at a place that doesn't serve drinks with the word 'avalanche' in the title."
I smiled, a real, bright smile that reached my eyes. The weight that had been sitting on my chest for eight long months suddenly felt lighter, almost gone. The memory of the boy who broke me didn't hurt as much anymore. It was fading, replaced by the warmth of Dean's hand, the sound of his laughter, and the promise of Friday night.
"Friday sounds perfect," I said.
Dean smiled, a brilliant, heart-stopping expression, and leaned down to press a soft, lingering kiss to my cheek. "It's a date."
As I watched him walk away, his long strides taking him down the sidewalk under the streetlamps, I unlocked my car and got in. I turned the key, and as the radio came to life, I leaned my head back against the seat.
On a Wednesday, in a café, I had watched it begin again.
summary: routine and everything else gets in the way of your relationship with Dean.
pairing: dean dilaurentis x reader
content: angst, drama, heartbreak, romance
inspiration: Close As Strangers by 5 seconds of summer (preview of the song at the end of the story)
N/A: I’ve been having lots of ideas lately and I just wanted to do something short after listening to 5sos on repeat, hope u guys like it <3
The hum of the tour bus tires against the asphalt felt like a slow, rhythmic drilling into your skull. Across the narrow aisle, Dean was sprawled on the faux-leather couch, his broad shoulders framing a space that felt miles away. A laptop was balanced on his thighs, footage of his last hockey game looping silently.
He was right there. You could reach out, brush your fingers against the sleeve of his hoodie, and feel the solid reality of him. But you didn't. Because lately, looking at Dean felt like looking at a photograph of someone you used to know.
"Dean?" your voice was barely a whisper, swallowed by the low rumble of the engine.
He didn't look up, his eyes tracked the digital puck on the screen. "Yeah, babe? Hang on, just checking this defensive line."
Babe. It was a reflex now. A placeholder for a intimacy that was leaking out of the cracks of your lives. Ever since Dean had been scouted for the pros, his world had expanded into a whirlwind of press, training camps, and relentless travel. You had tagged along for this summer stretch, desperate to bridge the gap, but the road had only highlighted the chasm. You both were living in the same twenty-foot radius, yet you hadn't truly spoken in weeks.
Dean finally closed the laptop, rubbing his eyes. He caught you staring and offered a tired, handsome smile—the kind that used to melt you completely but now just felt heavy with exhaustion. "You okay?"
"We're stopping in Chicago tomorrow," You said softly, your heart hammering against your ribs. "We used to talk about living there. Remember?"
Dean blinked, a flicker of something passing over his face before it was replaced by professional distraction. "Right. Yeah. Hey, actually, my agent called. I’ve got a breakfast meeting there at eight. Then media drills." He reached over, squeezing your knee briefly before standing up. "I'm going to crash in the bunk. Long day tomorrow."
He left a kiss on the top of your head—fleeting, routine, and utterly devoid of the fire that used to define you two.
Chicago was cold, even for the tail end of the season. The wind whipped through the city streets, mirroring the turbulence brewing in your chest. You both had a rare three hours of downtime before Dean’s evening flight, and he had suggested a walk-through Millennium Park.
It felt like a date on paper, but the execution was tragic.
Dean walked a half-step ahead of you, his phone practically glued to his ear. He was arguing with his publicist about a brand endorsement, his tone sharp and decisive. He looked every bit the rising star—sharp jawline, impeccably styled, radiating a magnetic energy that drew glances from passersby.
You walked beside him like a ghost. You wore his old college sweater, the one that used to smell like him but now just smelled like hotel laundry detergent.
"Look," Dean snapped into the phone, "just schedule it for Tuesday. I don't care." He hung up with a heavy sigh, finally shoving the phone into his pocket. He looked at you, noticing the distance between you two on the sidewalk. "Sorry. It’s just crazy right now."
"It's always crazy now, Dean," you said, stopping by the railing overlooking the plaza.
Dean stopped too, his brow furrowing. "What is that supposed to mean? I'm doing this for us. For the future."
"Is it for us?" your voice cracked, the raw angst of the past few months finally bleeding through your composure. "Because I feel like I'm drowning in your shadow. We don't talk, Dean. We don't even look at each other. We’re just... running on autopilot."
Dean sighed, running a hand through his hair. The casual, playful Dean Di Laurentis from Briar U was gone, replaced by a man carrying the weight of a multi-million-dollar career. "Babe, I’m tired. I’m doing my best here. You wanted to come on this trip."
"I came to be with my boyfriend," you whispered, tears pricking your eyes. "But I'm more alone here than I am when you're across the country. We’re standing right next to each other, and we're as close as strangers."
The words hung in the bitter air between them, sharp and undeniable. Dean flinched, the truth of it striking a nerve he had been trying hard to ignore.
The confrontation in the park followed them back to the hotel room. The tension was suffocating, a physical presence in the room as you began packing your bags.
"What are you doing?" Dean demanded, his voice dropping into a dangerous, quiet register. He stood by the door, watching you fold your clothes with trembling hands.
"I'm going home, Dean. Back to Boston," you said, refusing to look at him because you knew if you did, you’d crumble. "I can't do this tour anymore. I can't watch you forget me in real-time."
"Forget you?" Dean strode across the room, grabbing your wrists gently but firmly to stop your pacing. The sudden proximity was dizzying. His blue eyes were fierce, cracked wide open with a vulnerability he hadn’t shown in months. "Do you have any idea how hard I'm working to keep my head above water? I'm trying to build a life so we can be secure, so we can have everything."
"I don't want everything! I want you!" you cried out, the dam finally breaking. Tears streamed down your cheeks as you pulled your hands from his grip to press them against his chest. "I want the guy who used to make me pancakes at 2 AM. I want the guy who listened to me talk about nothing for hours. I don't care about the contracts, Dean. I'm losing you, and you're letting it happen!"
Dean stared at you, the fight draining out of him all at once. He looked at your tear-stained face, at the suitcase open on the bed, and the reality of what he was sacrificing hit him like a body check on the ice. He had been so focused on the destination that he had completely abandoned the person riding beside him.
"Baby..." he breathed, reaching out to cup your face, his thumbs wiping away your tears. His touch was trembling. "Don't leave. Please."
"We're broken, Dean," you whispered, your heart aching at the desperation in his eyes. "We need to figure out who we are before we completely destroy what we were."
That night, you took a cab to O'Hare. Dean didn't stop you, because for the first time, he realized that keeping you close was the very thing tearing the both of you apart.
Six months later.
The Boston air was crisp, the leaves turning brilliant shades of amber and gold. You sat in a quiet corner of a local café, a warm mug of tea between your hands. You had spent the last half-year healing, focusing on your own career, and learning how to breathe without the suffocating weight of an unraveling relationship. You still thought of Dean every day. You still saw his face on sports networks, looking standardly brilliant, but you had stopped looking for the ghost of your past.
The bell above the café door jingled.
You didn't look up until a shadow fell across your table. When you raised your eyes, your breath caught in your throat.
It was Dean.
He wasn't wearing a designer suit or a team track jacket. He was wearing an old, faded Briar Hockey hoodie and jeans. He looked a little tired, but his eyes were clearer than you had seen them in years. There was no phone in his hand.
"Hey," Dean said, his voice a low, familiar rumble that sent a shiver down your spine.
"Dean," you breathed. "What are you doing here? Don't you have a game tomorrow?"
"I took a personal day," he said simply. He pointed to the empty chair opposite you. "Can I?"
You nodded slowly. He sat down, folding his large hands on the table. For a moment, the silence between you two was heavy, fraught with the memories of how you had parted. But it wasn't the suffocating silence of the tour bus; it was a simple pause, waiting for a spark.
"I've been going to therapy," Dean said bluntly, breaking the ice. "And I talked to my coach. I downsized my PR team. I realized... I was running so fast because I was terrified of failing. And in the process, I failed the only thing that actually mattered."
You kept your eyes on your mug, your heart hammering against your ribs. "Dean..."
"Just let me say it, please," he interrupted softly, reaching across the table. He didn't grab your hand, just left his open, an invitation. "I spent six months looking at pictures of us, wondering how we got so lost. We were strangers. And it was my fault. I let the noise drown you out."
He looked directly into your eyes, the familiar, devastatingly romantic intensity of Dean Di Laurentis returning in full force. "I don't want to go back to how we were on that bus. But I want to know you again. I want to learn your favorite coffee order now, what music you're listening to, what makes you laugh. I want to start over. If you'll let me."
You looked from his open hand up to his eyes. The hurt was still a memory, but the love—deep, enduring, and painfully real—was vibrating in the space between you two.
Slowly, you slid your hand into his. His fingers immediately intertwined with yours, warm and solid.
"Hi," you said, a small, tearful but genuine smile breaking across your face. "Nice to meet you."
Dean’s smile was breathtaking, relief washing over his features as he squeezed your hand. "Hi. I'm Dean. It's really, really good to meet you."
pairing: dean dilaurentis x reader
content: enemies to lovers, brother's best friend, fluff, romance, slightly angst
inspiration: Volcanic love by The Aces (preview of the song at the end of the story)
"Hey..." I murmured when I had her right in front of me, her pink lips so close to mine.
"I couldn't sleep," she said. "I'm sorry."
I didn't answer. Instead, I tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. She smiled at the gesture.
"Do you mind?" she asked, sitting down on my bed.
"No," I said, before adding, "But Garrett might."
She fell silent, and I could see her eyes glittering in the dim light. "Garrett has nothing to do with this."
"Yes, he does," I said, sighing. "I'm his best friend. And you're his sister."
"And I'm also an adult who can do whatever she damn well pleases."
I smiled and shook my head. She was so feisty. "I just think what happened between us isn't right."
"Do... do you regret it?" she asked, her voice trembling.
"I never said that," I replied.
She moved closer to me and sat right next to me on the bed. "Then..." she said, "can I do it again?"
I looked down, my eyes locking onto her parted lips, which looked even softer than before. I had to say no—it was what I should do. But instead, I took her by the chin and brought our lips together. I started kissing her slowly, but the kiss began to turn into something much more passionate. A soft gasp escaped her lips, and I lost whatever common sense I had left. With the help of my hands on her waist, she climbed onto my lap, making the kiss even more intense. I had to stop now, or I didn't even want to imagine what might happen. I pulled away by a few inches, and she gasped in annoyance, making me laugh. I kissed the tip of her nose as she began to wrinkle it.
"If you tell me you stopped because of Garrett, I'm going to punch you in the face," she said, sounding annoyed.
I smiled and shook my head. "I'm stopping for you."
"For me?" she asked, confused.
"Yes," I said. "You're younger than me, and you've never had a boyfriend. I don't want to take advantage of that."
She burst out laughing and nudged my chest. "Oh, come on, are you serious?"
"Yes," I murmured. She stopped laughing when she realized I wasn't joking.
"Oh," she said. "That's..."
"Stupid?" I interrupted.
"Pretty sweet, actually," she said, caressing my cheek. "Who would've thought that underneath all that swearing was such a sweet guy?"
We both laughed, and she rested her head against my chest.
"Everything okay?" I asked.
She nodded, but I knew she wasn't.
"It's just..." she sighed, "it's just that I've never felt this way before."
My heart hammered loudly against my ribs, and I prayed she wouldn't notice.
"Felt like what?"
"I don't know," she said. "I don't know how to explain it." Her eyes lingered on me, and I wanted to kiss her again. I needed to control myself. "Forget it," she said, shaking her head.
I raised an eyebrow. "Seriously, it's stupid."
"It's not," I said. "Come on, tell me."
"It's like..." she whispered, "like we're one of those obnoxious couples who can't stop kissing and touching each other."
I let out a laugh, and she blushed.
"And what's wrong with that?" I said. "They seemed pretty happy."
"And in love," she whispered.
Silence fell between us. She wasn't in love with me, obviously. We had barely spoken to each other in all the years I'd been friends with Garrett. I had actually thought she detested me this whole time.
"I'm going to sleep," she said, climbing off my lap and turning around to sleep on her side. With my arms, I caught her waist and turned her body around to face me. From this angle, she looked even prettier than usual.
"Talk to me" I said. Her eyes welled up with tears. I frowned but pulled her close to my chest.
"It's..." she sobbed, "Garrett told me I was an idiot for falling for you because you guys were friends, and you were a womanizer who would never settle down with anyone—much less with me. He said we didn't even talk, and that you always had a different girl around, and..." Her voice broke, and she couldn't stop crying.
What the hell was going on?
"Hey..." I said. She looked at me with her tear-filled eyes, and I felt my heart break. "Are you...?" I didn't finish the question, but she nodded slowly.
"But..." I said, confused. "Since when?"
"A few months, I don't remember," she said, sniffing. "It all started that time you helped me clean up the morning after one of Garrett's massive parties. You were cracking jokes and actually paid attention to me. And when I started throwing insults and throwing a tantrum, you just put up with it."
I fell silent, remembering her words from back then: “If a guy makes me laugh and can handle my attitude, then that's enough for me.”
"It's stupid, I know," she said. "To you, I'm just Garrett's little sister, and besides, I'm not your type." She wrinkled her nose, and I took her hand, intertwining our fingers and kissing the back of it.
"And what is my type supposed to be?"
"Girls with nice, short clothes who wear makeup," she said, rolling her eyes.
I laughed, but she didn't seem to find it funny, as she just stared at me with her nose wrinkled.
"That's not my type," I replied.
"If it's not that, then what is it?" she asked.
I pulled her even closer to me, feeling my breath hitch every time I was near her. "My type is girls who can't seem to shut up, who don't understand that I hate it when people touch my stereo, and who also love onion rings just as much as or more than I do."
She looked at me, her eyes wide open and her mouth slightly parted. "You're playing with me."
I shook my head and wrapped my arms around her.
"No way," she said. "You don't like me."
For the first time, I felt my cheeks grow warm. She laughed and hugged me. "When did that happen?"
I smiled and stroked her hair. "Probably somewhere between the ketchup stain and the bar fight."
She gave me a huge smile, and suddenly we were holding each other in bed, with no intention of letting go anytime soon. Knowing that she had felt something for me for so long made me happy in a way, but it also hurt. I had gone out with several girls after that moment we shared while cleaning. The truth was, I had felt a connection that day too, but I dismissed it entirely for obvious reasons.
"Are you overwhelmed or something?" she whispered.
"No," I replied. "I just have a lot of questions."
"You can start by asking me one," she said with a charming giggle.
"Why did you tell Garrett?"
She sighed. "It wasn't my intention. Eventually, he figured it out, and we had a confrontation over it. I hoped what he said about you was a lie, but it wasn't." Her gaze dropped. "You started bringing around different girls, and Garrett kept repeating, 'I told you so.' Let's just say I started to hate you."
I fought back a smile. I remembered how annoyed she always looked whenever she saw me—always trying to pick a fight or ignoring me. Now it all made sense.
"You're probably wondering how I felt knowing I'd be road-tripping with you all the way to New York," she said, and I nodded. "Well, it was like someone dumped a bucket of ice water over me. I wanted to die when Garrett told me you were the one taking me, but at the same time, something inside me was excited to spend time with you." She sighed and sat up. "I feel silly telling you all this."
I grabbed her by the arm and pulled her back to me. "You're not."
She shifted in my arms, and her fruity scent lingered on my t-shirt.
"So..." she said, looking at her hands.
"So?"
"What's going to happen after this trip ends?"
I sighed. I had thought about that too, but I didn't think I was capable of talking about it. "What do you want to happen?"
I caught her by surprise.
"I... I don't know," she said. "I'll be in New York, and you'll be in Oregon. It's never going to work. And that's not even counting my annoying brother."
I bit back a laugh, since this seemed to be a serious conversation, and stroked her hair. "Garrett is an idiot, but we can make him come to his senses," I said. "After he cuts my balls off, of course."
She laughed and blushed. "And what about the distance?"
"That's something that can be fixed," I answered. "But for now, we need to get some sleep if we want to reach New York before your first day."
Her huge eyes made me feel like a lovesick fool. There was something about her that had driven me crazy since the day I met her, but now it was on a whole different level. She leaned against my chest, and I wrapped my arms around her. Within minutes, I felt her breathing steady, and I knew she was asleep, while I couldn't stop tossing the matter around in my head.
Did I like her? Damn right. I had to admit I was starting to feel something for her—something so sudden it felt like a jolt to my system. But I wasn't sure how Garrett would react. Besides, she was right about one thing: I hadn't planned on settling down anytime soon. I looked down at her, who had her eyes closed, her eyelashes practically brushing her cheeks. She was beautiful. She had the worst temper, but underneath it all, she was sweet. She was also younger than me, and we fought most of the time. I didn't know how we could make something like this work. I kissed her cheek, and she stirred in her sleep. I was confused—very confused. So, I decided to close my eyes and hold her tight right before drifting off.
The next morning, I woke up to a tickling sensation all over my face. I opened my eyes, squinting against the light, and saw her hovering close, leaving tiny kisses all over my face. When she realized I'd caught her in the act, her face turned a bright shade of pink.
"I'm sorry," she said, laughing. "I didn't mean to wake you up."
I raised an eyebrow, and she giggled.
"Okay, fine, I did want to wake you," she admitted. "We only have today to get to New York." As she said this, her expression dimmed a bit, and it felt like a crack ran through my heart.
"You're right," I said, catching her by surprise as I kissed her on the lips.
I sat up in bed, and Josephine sat on my lap. I smiled seeing her like this—so sweet and calm. It was a stark contrast to how she usually spent every hour throwing a temper tantrum.
"What do you want to do now?" I asked her.
"Aside from having breakfast and spending time with you?" she countered. "I don't know."
I laughed, and she did too. After discussing what we could do on our last day of the trip, she went to take a shower. While I was waiting for her, I got a call from Garrett.
"Hey, idiot," he greeted as soon as I picked up. "How's everything? Are you both still alive?"
I laughed. "All good, we'll be in Cleveland soon."
"So soon?" he said. "I thought it would take you longer because of your constant fighting and all that."
I let out a laugh, and Garrett kept talking.
"How has my little sister been behaving?" Hearing this brought a pang of guilt, reminding me that everything that had happened with his sister over the last few hours was technically crossing a line.
"Fine, I guess."
"Just fine?" he teased, laughing. "I thought you'd unleash a flood of insults about her."
"Of course not," I said, forcing a chuckle. "She might be unbearable, but she's your sister."
Garrett laughed at that, but I felt like I had just swallowed something bitter. I didn't feel comfortable talking about her like that anymore, especially since I didn't mean it.
"Good," he said. "I'm glad things are fine between you two, and especially that you agreed to take her."
"No need to thank me," I said. "I know you'd do the same for me if I asked."
"Without a doubt," he replied. "By the way, I'll be in New York in a few hours. Don't tell her, I want it to be a surprise."
"Sure," I answered.
When the call ended, I couldn't hear the water running anymore and figured she was done. Seconds later, she walked out of the bathroom with wet hair and a fresh face. She looked beautiful, but I wasn't sure if I should tell her. Just a few minutes ago, I had been talking to her brother.
"Ready?"
She nodded, but I noticed she seemed distant. When we got into the car, she didn't try to hold my hand or say anything. She just stared straight ahead, exactly the way she had at the beginning of the trip.
"Hey," I said abruptly. "What's wrong?"
"Am I really that unbearable?"
I froze. She had overheard me talking to Garrett.
"Well, I can't exactly tell your brother that you're adorable and look gorgeous when you wake up, can I?"
She pressed her lips together to fight off a smile, but she couldn't help it, ultimately flashing me a beautiful grin.
"You drive me crazy," she laughed, and I took her hand.
I drove toward Cleveland, Ohio, and things were definitively different now. We laughed and joked; we didn't fight over the radio, but most of all, my feelings began to deepen. She was driving me crazy—completely crazy about her. After stopping for breakfast and driving for a few more hours, our stomachs began to growl again, and I had to pull over at a pizzeria on the outskirts of Mercer County, Pennsylvania. When I ordered and walked back to the table, I could see that her demeanor had shifted again. She looked sad.
"What's wrong?" I asked, taking her hand.
"We're getting close to New York," she said, sighing.
"I know," I said. "But that was the goal of this trip, wasn't it?" I tried to cheer her up, but it didn't work. She just gave me a sad smile.
"And besides, there are plenty of places around campus," I added. "It'll be hard to choose which ones we'll visit first, but we'll figure it out."
Her eyes widened, and my heart swelled with happiness just looking at her. "Are you serious, Dean?"
"Yes," I said. "Unless you don't want me to."
She bit her lower lip. "Are we really going to do this then?"
I looked into her eyes. Was I really going to do this? Was I really going to settle down with my best friend's younger sister? She blinked in a way that captured my full attention, and I realized the only answer was yes. I did want to be with her.
"Yes," I answered.
She leaped out of her seat and threw herself at me, locking her lips with mine. For the rest of our time at the pizzeria, we talked about college, about that funny bar fight, and above all, about us. It was weird to think of an 'us' and talk about it, but I liked it.
"Are we almost there?" She asked while I drove with one hand and held hers with the other.
I nodded as I saw us approaching the sign that read, "Welcome to New Jersey." The moment was drawing near; it wouldn't be long before we finally reached our destination. She turned on the radio, and a song by The Fray was playing. I turned up the volume, and she smiled. She loved that band.
"How do you think Garrett is going to take it?"
I swallowed hard. "He's probably going to murder me."
She gasped in surprise, then laughed, leaned over, and kissed my cheek. "Just in case," she said as she slid back into her seat.
We both laughed, but then she sighed. "Seriously," she said, "do you think he'll be upset?"
"Most likely," I said. "But I don't blame him. It's not every day your best friend and your sister end up together."
I heard her chuckle softly, and it hit me that this was actually happening. Garrett's sister and me.
"Hey," I said, catching her attention. "I'll talk to him. I'll explain what happened." A smile crossed my face. "Without mentioning the bars we visited and the jail, of course."
She laughed, and I felt like I could listen to her laugh all day. She had a truly beautiful, contagious laugh.
As we kept moving forward, I started to feel nervous, and a hollow feeling began to form inside me. She would be leaving this car, and there would be no one messing with my radio, offering me Funyuns, or holding my hand. I felt her squeeze my hand, and I turned to look at her with a smile. She was so pretty and so smart that just thinking about her made my heart race.
My palms were sweating, and out of the corner of my eye, I spotted the sign with the massive letters: "New York." We had arrived. That had been the plan all along—to make it to New York. But neither of us had counted on everything that would happen to us during the trip. I noticed her shifting nervously in her seat.
"I can't believe we're already here," she said, a hint of sadness trailing through her voice.
"Yeah," I murmured. "Me neither."
I drove on, feeling my entire body tense up at the realization that in just a few minutes, I'd be helping her unload her things. It was way too soon. When I stopped at a red light, I grabbed her hand, catching her off guard.
"I'm glad..." I said, feeling the nerves kicking in. "I'm glad it was me who brought you all the way out here."
She smiled. "And I'm glad my brother didn't give you any other choice."
We both laughed, and she sighed.
"I could have refused," I noted. "But if I had, none of this would have happened." I pointed to our intertwined hands.
"Thank you for not doing it."
The light turned green, and I drove a few more blocks before pulling up in front of NYU. The campus was massive and crawling with cars. Thousands of freshmen were walking around, and we watched them with curiosity. I parked the car near the entrance and turned off the engine.
"We're here," I said, trying to sound upbeat, but she looked discouraged.
"Great," she said, her voice hollow.
I got out of the car and opened the trunk. While I was taking down her luggage, I noticed she still hadn't stepped out of the vehicle. Frowning, I walked over to the passenger side, opened the door, and crouched down to eye level.
"Nervous?"
She shook her head.
"What's wrong?"
"I don't want to get out," she said. "I don't want to leave this car."
"Why?" I whispered.
"Because once I leave this car, everything will go back to the way it was. I'll go back to being Garrett's sister, and you'll be his best friend. And you know that's true, because Garrett is never going to accept us being together, and you won't be able to handle a long-distance relationship because they suck, and I'm going to get depressed, and..." Before she could finish, I kissed her on the lips, blending her cherry-candy breath with mine. I had wanted to kiss her since the moment I opened the door. I wanted to kiss her every single day we had left.
"What the hell is going on here?"
We both froze, looking up to find Garrett standing right behind us, staring at us with a mix of fury and shock. She lets out a gasp, and I felt the color drain from my face.
"Garrett..." I managed, just before he lunged at me.
"You were kissing my sister!" he yelled. "You bastard, you were kissing her!"
She scrambled out of the car and tried to hold him back. "Garrett, stop!"
"You stay out of this!" he snapped. "I told you to stay away from him!"
"I can't!" she shouted back. "I don't want to!"
"What part of 'Dean is never going to settle down' didn't click with you?!" Garrett spat.
"Maybe the part where I never actually said that?" I interjected.
"Oh, please, Dean," he said, letting out a humorless laugh. "You're my damn best friend—or at least you were before you kissed my sister. I know you better than anyone."
"Dean isn't who you think he is!" she argued, her eyes welling with tears.
"What lies did you feed my sister?"
"None," I replied, feeling offended. Sure, I was a flirt, but I wasn't a womanizer like Garrett claimed, and I definitely wasn't a liar.
"I knew this was a bad idea," he said, shaking his head. "I thought you were the one person I could trust. I see I was wrong," he spat.
"Enough!" she cried. "Why can't you just accept that Dean and I like each other?"
Garrett's eyes widened, completely stunned. "What did you just say?"
"That Dean and I like each other."
Garrett snapped his gaze to me, and I felt like he was going to kick my ass at any second.
"You don't like my sister," he said, glaring at me. "Tell me you don't like my sister."
"I like her," I answered, surprising even myself. Garrett lost his breath for a second.
"No," he said, shaking his head. "I can't let you date my sister."
"You are no one to decide who I date or don't date, Garrett," she countered. "So just drop it."
"Do you want him to break your heart again like the last time?"
She flinched. "That wasn't Dean's fault, it was mine! I started having feelings for him, and he had absolutely no idea."
Listening to them argue, I realized the reason she seemed to hate love so much was because I had broken her heart months ago without even realizing it. I felt suffocated. I wanted to turn back time and fix it all.
"Whatever," Garrett said, grabbing her by the hand. "You two are not dating, period. Let's go."
"No," she said, breaking away to take my hand instead. "Could you please just be happy for me? It's Dean. We've known him our whole lives."
Garrett seemed to be fighting an internal battle as he glared at us with his piercing hazel eyes—the exact same eyes as his sister's.
"Whatever," he huffed. "Let's see what Dad has to say about this." He stormed down the steps and disappeared among the parked cars.
I turned to look at her with a mix of terror and relief, but she was laughing.
"How can you laugh after that?" I asked. "Your father is going to murder me."
She giggled. "Dad knows how I feel about you. Trust me, the last thing he'll do is murder you. Unless you give him a good reason to."
"I think I'm going to throw up."
She let out a loud laugh and wrapped her arms around my waist. "I adore you," she said, squeezing me tight with her small arms.
Something inside me completely melted, and I leaned down to kiss the top of her head. She was so short, yet she managed to create absolute chaos. She lifted her head, resting her chin on my chest to look into my eyes. I smiled down at her.
summary: routine and everything else gets in the way of your relationship with Dean.
pairing: dean dilaurentis x reader
content: angst, drama, heartbreak, romance
inspiration: Close As Strangers by 5 seconds of summer (preview of the song at the end of the story)
N/A: I’ve been having lots of ideas lately and I just wanted to do something short after listening to 5sos on repeat, hope u guys like it <3
The hum of the tour bus tires against the asphalt felt like a slow, rhythmic drilling into your skull. Across the narrow aisle, Dean was sprawled on the faux-leather couch, his broad shoulders framing a space that felt miles away. A laptop was balanced on his thighs, footage of his last hockey game looping silently.
He was right there. You could reach out, brush your fingers against the sleeve of his hoodie, and feel the solid reality of him. But you didn't. Because lately, looking at Dean felt like looking at a photograph of someone you used to know.
"Dean?" your voice was barely a whisper, swallowed by the low rumble of the engine.
He didn't look up, his eyes tracked the digital puck on the screen. "Yeah, babe? Hang on, just checking this defensive line."
Babe. It was a reflex now. A placeholder for a intimacy that was leaking out of the cracks of your lives. Ever since Dean had been scouted for the pros, his world had expanded into a whirlwind of press, training camps, and relentless travel. You had tagged along for this summer stretch, desperate to bridge the gap, but the road had only highlighted the chasm. You both were living in the same twenty-foot radius, yet you hadn't truly spoken in weeks.
Dean finally closed the laptop, rubbing his eyes. He caught you staring and offered a tired, handsome smile—the kind that used to melt you completely but now just felt heavy with exhaustion. "You okay?"
"We're stopping in Chicago tomorrow," You said softly, your heart hammering against your ribs. "We used to talk about living there. Remember?"
Dean blinked, a flicker of something passing over his face before it was replaced by professional distraction. "Right. Yeah. Hey, actually, my agent called. I’ve got a breakfast meeting there at eight. Then media drills." He reached over, squeezing your knee briefly before standing up. "I'm going to crash in the bunk. Long day tomorrow."
He left a kiss on the top of your head—fleeting, routine, and utterly devoid of the fire that used to define you two.
Chicago was cold, even for the tail end of the season. The wind whipped through the city streets, mirroring the turbulence brewing in your chest. You both had a rare three hours of downtime before Dean’s evening flight, and he had suggested a walk-through Millennium Park.
It felt like a date on paper, but the execution was tragic.
Dean walked a half-step ahead of you, his phone practically glued to his ear. He was arguing with his publicist about a brand endorsement, his tone sharp and decisive. He looked every bit the rising star—sharp jawline, impeccably styled, radiating a magnetic energy that drew glances from passersby.
You walked beside him like a ghost. You wore his old college sweater, the one that used to smell like him but now just smelled like hotel laundry detergent.
"Look," Dean snapped into the phone, "just schedule it for Tuesday. I don't care." He hung up with a heavy sigh, finally shoving the phone into his pocket. He looked at you, noticing the distance between you two on the sidewalk. "Sorry. It’s just crazy right now."
"It's always crazy now, Dean," you said, stopping by the railing overlooking the plaza.
Dean stopped too, his brow furrowing. "What is that supposed to mean? I'm doing this for us. For the future."
"Is it for us?" your voice cracked, the raw angst of the past few months finally bleeding through your composure. "Because I feel like I'm drowning in your shadow. We don't talk, Dean. We don't even look at each other. We’re just... running on autopilot."
Dean sighed, running a hand through his hair. The casual, playful Dean Di Laurentis from Briar U was gone, replaced by a man carrying the weight of a multi-million-dollar career. "Babe, I’m tired. I’m doing my best here. You wanted to come on this trip."
"I came to be with my boyfriend," you whispered, tears pricking your eyes. "But I'm more alone here than I am when you're across the country. We’re standing right next to each other, and we're as close as strangers."
The words hung in the bitter air between them, sharp and undeniable. Dean flinched, the truth of it striking a nerve he had been trying hard to ignore.
The confrontation in the park followed them back to the hotel room. The tension was suffocating, a physical presence in the room as you began packing your bags.
"What are you doing?" Dean demanded, his voice dropping into a dangerous, quiet register. He stood by the door, watching you fold your clothes with trembling hands.
"I'm going home, Dean. Back to Boston," you said, refusing to look at him because you knew if you did, you’d crumble. "I can't do this tour anymore. I can't watch you forget me in real-time."
"Forget you?" Dean strode across the room, grabbing your wrists gently but firmly to stop your pacing. The sudden proximity was dizzying. His blue eyes were fierce, cracked wide open with a vulnerability he hadn’t shown in months. "Do you have any idea how hard I'm working to keep my head above water? I'm trying to build a life so we can be secure, so we can have everything."
"I don't want everything! I want you!" you cried out, the dam finally breaking. Tears streamed down your cheeks as you pulled your hands from his grip to press them against his chest. "I want the guy who used to make me pancakes at 2 AM. I want the guy who listened to me talk about nothing for hours. I don't care about the contracts, Dean. I'm losing you, and you're letting it happen!"
Dean stared at you, the fight draining out of him all at once. He looked at your tear-stained face, at the suitcase open on the bed, and the reality of what he was sacrificing hit him like a body check on the ice. He had been so focused on the destination that he had completely abandoned the person riding beside him.
"Baby..." he breathed, reaching out to cup your face, his thumbs wiping away your tears. His touch was trembling. "Don't leave. Please."
"We're broken, Dean," you whispered, your heart aching at the desperation in his eyes. "We need to figure out who we are before we completely destroy what we were."
That night, you took a cab to O'Hare. Dean didn't stop you, because for the first time, he realized that keeping you close was the very thing tearing the both of you apart.
Six months later.
The Boston air was crisp, the leaves turning brilliant shades of amber and gold. You sat in a quiet corner of a local café, a warm mug of tea between your hands. You had spent the last half-year healing, focusing on your own career, and learning how to breathe without the suffocating weight of an unraveling relationship. You still thought of Dean every day. You still saw his face on sports networks, looking standardly brilliant, but you had stopped looking for the ghost of your past.
The bell above the café door jingled.
You didn't look up until a shadow fell across your table. When you raised your eyes, your breath caught in your throat.
It was Dean.
He wasn't wearing a designer suit or a team track jacket. He was wearing an old, faded Briar Hockey hoodie and jeans. He looked a little tired, but his eyes were clearer than you had seen them in years. There was no phone in his hand.
"Hey," Dean said, his voice a low, familiar rumble that sent a shiver down her spine.
"Dean," you breathed. "What are you doing here? Don't you have a game tomorrow?"
"I took a personal day," he said simply. He pointed to the empty chair opposite you. "Can I?"
You nodded slowly. He sat down, folding his large hands on the table. For a moment, the silence between you two was heavy, fraught with the memories of how you had parted. But it wasn't the suffocating silence of the tour bus; it was a simple pause, waiting for a spark.
"I've been going to therapy," Dean said bluntly, breaking the ice. "And I talked to my coach. I downsized my PR team. I realized... I was running so fast because I was terrified of failing. And in the process, I failed the only thing that actually mattered."
You kept your eyes on your mug, your heart hammering against your ribs. "Dean..."
"Just let me say it, please," he interrupted softly, reaching across the table. He didn't grab your hand, just left his open, an invitation. "I spent six months looking at pictures of us, wondering how we got so lost. We were strangers. And it was my fault. I let the noise drown you out."
He looked directly into your eyes, the familiar, devastatingly romantic intensity of Dean Di Laurentis returning in full force. "I don't want to go back to how we were on that bus. But I want to know you again. I want to learn your favorite coffee order now, what music you're listening to, what makes you laugh. I want to start over. If you'll let me."
You looked from his open hand up to his eyes. The hurt was still a memory, but the love—deep, enduring, and painfully real—was vibrating in the space between you two.
Slowly, you slid your hand into his. His fingers immediately intertwined with yours, warm and solid.
"Hi," you said, a small, tearful but genuine smile breaking across your face. "Nice to meet you."
Dean’s smile was breathtaking, relief washing over his features as he squeezed your hand. "Hi. I'm Dean. It's really, really good to meet you."
part one
pairing: dean dilaurentis x reader
content: enemies to lovers, brother's best friend, lots of bickering
inspiration: Girl of the year by Allie X (preview of the song at the end of the story)
A/N: from this chapter and the next ones, you’ll be reading from Dean’s pov :)
The first day of our road trip had been a total rollercoaster. From the constant bickering to the flat tire and our sudden deep chat at the bar. When she smiled and handed me a coffee the next morning while we waited for our car to be ready, I felt different. We were already back on the road. It was quite early, and we had already passed Salt Lake City, Utah, and were now leaving Fort Collins, Colorado. We had made good progress, but we still had seven states left before reaching New York.
"Did you rest well?" I asked suddenly, catching myself mid-sentence.
"Um, yeah," she answered, without looking up from the book she held in her hands.
"What are you reading?" I asked, and she raised her eyes to meet mine.
"Me Before You," she said, and I let out a chuckle. "What?"
"A romance novel?"
"What about it?"
"A bit ironic, don't you think?"
She wrinkled her nose. "No, why is it ironic?"
"You hate all that romance crap," I said, keeping my eyes on the road. "But you like reading about it."
"I don't hate romance," she said. "At least not in books."
"What's the difference?"
"That it's not real," she replied. "Romance books were created to let us imagine what love could be."
I let out another chuckle, and she sighed.
"I don't even know why I'm telling you this," she said. "It's obvious you have no idea what I'm talking about."
"No, I don't."
"Why am I not surprised?"
Neither of us said anything after that. A rap song came on the radio, and I turned up the volume.
"I'm reading," she said loudly.
"Congratulations?"
She wrinkled her nose again, and I found it kind of adorable.
"Don't congratulate me," she said. "Turn it down instead."
"I love this song."
"Congratulations," she shot back, and I pressed my lips together to keep a smile from escaping. She was annoyed, and that was going to make her throw a tantrum.
I kept driving with the music blasting until she lunged from her seat and turned off the radio.
"What have I told you about touching my stereo?"
"And what did I tell you about turning down the volume?"
Our eyes met, and I could see her nose wrinkling up again. This time, I didn't hold back and laughed.
"Idiot," she whispered as she leaned back in her seat and reopened her book.
Fine, now I was annoyed. I drove in silence until we reached Omaha, Nebraska. As we passed through the city, my stomach rumbled a bit, and I knew we had to stop to grab a bite to eat. I pulled the car over at a small burger joint.
"Are you hungry?" I asked, and she crossed her arms.
"A little," she said, and I noticed she was still upset.
"Well, it's your lucky day," I murmured, brushing past her.
We walked into the restaurant and took a seat at a small table for two. An elderly woman served us with a smile, and after taking our order, she walked away, leaving me with a frowning, nose-wrinkling brunette.
"Are you going to be grumpy for the rest of the trip?"
She didn't answer. A younger waitress brought us our food and gave me a warm smile before leaving. I hear a low chuckle.
"Are you laughing at me?"
She shook her head but then started laughing for real.
"I'm sorry," she said. "It's just that I still can't get used to this whole 'I'm not a womanizer' thing," she added, imitating my voice on the last part.
"You should," I said, pointing a french fry at her.
She smiled and began devouring her burger. That was one of the things I had always found endearing about her—she was one of those girls who just didn't care. Not about how she looked, not about what she ate, nothing. I smiled seeing ketchup on her face, and she smiled back.
"What?" she asked after taking another bite.
"You have ketchup right there," I said, pointing to her nose.
"Where?"
I pointed to her nose again, but she didn't seem to get it because she wiped everywhere except the right spot. I grabbed my napkin and leaned up slightly from my seat so my arm could reach her face, wiping away the smudge. She startled, and I froze. I sat back down, completely dazed by the gesture. It was so... sweet?
"Thanks," she murmured.
"Don't mention it," I said awkwardly.
We finished eating in silence and headed back to the car. When I got in, I left the radio off, but she turned it on. I turned to look at her, and she just rolled her eyes.
"I've read enough," she said, looking straight ahead.
A smile escaped me, and I pulled back onto the highway. Hours later, we had crossed Des Moines, Iowa, and I was now driving through downtown Naperville, Illinois, looking for a convenience store. I looked over at her, who was asleep, and admired how peaceful she looked. Her face was angelic—who would have thought that the moment her eyes opened, she was the exact opposite? When I finally found a 7-Eleven, I pulled over. I needed a coffee or something to wake me up so I could keep going. We only had one more day left to reach New York. Something shifted inside me at the thought that our trip would be over soon. That her and our arguments over the radio would no longer be there.
I got out of the car, shaking my head. I was acting like an idiot. It had been so long since I’d spent time with a girl that I was starting to get ideas. Idiotic ideas, considering we were talking about little Graham, my best friend's younger sister.
"Good evening," I greeted the cashier, and she checked me out.
"Good evening, definitely," she whispered, holding back a laugh.
I grabbed a strong coffee and smiled to myself when I spotted a bag of Funyuns to bring to the car.
"That'll be 13.99."
I pulled out some cash, and before I could hand it over, she said, "But it could be less if you decide to give me your number."
I smiled, flattered but uncomfortable. "I'm not from around here."
"I know," she said. "I can tell."
I didn't say anything, and the girl stared at me, waiting for an answer.
"I..." I started, looking out at the car, she was now awake with her face buried in one of her books. "...I have a girlfriend."
The girl looked surprised, and honestly, I surprised myself too.
"Oh, really?" she asked with a hint of disappointment.
"Yeah," I replied. "In fact, she's waiting for me in the car." I casually pointed toward the car, and we both looked at her.
"Wow," she said. "Lucky her. That'll be 14.99."
She gave me a fake smile and rang up my items, charging me extra just for rejecting her. I laughed to myself and walked back to the car.
"Hey," I said. "Look what I got you."
She looked at the bag of Funyuns and said nothing.
"You're welcome?" I said, furrowing my brow.
"I didn't ask for them," she replied, and I felt the sharpness in her tone. What the hell was wrong with her?
"I know," I said. "I just wanted to be nice after earlier."
"How thoughtful," she snapped, and I rolled my eyes.
"And stupid, I guess," I muttered, starting the car. "I won't do anything nice for you again."
She lowered her book and glared at me furiously.
"When the hell have you ever done anything nice for me?"
"Isn't it nice of me to give you a ride all the way from Oregon to freaking New York?"
"I didn't ask you to bring me!"
"Well, Garrett did!"
"And you had no choice," she said, staring at me. "Say it. Admit you're only doing it because my brother didn't leave you any other option."
I didn't answer, and she took it as a yes. Suddenly, the car chime started dinging, indicating a door was open. I looked over and saw her trying to open her door.
"What the hell are you doing?"
"I don't need this," she said. "Damn it, Garrett."
I slammed on the brakes right as she stepped out and stormed off towards the busiest sidewalk in the city. Neon lights were everywhere; there were shops, cafes, bars, and above all, crowds of people gathered all over. I cursed under my breath, parked the car, and got out to follow her. Garrett was going to kill me if he found out I let his little sister walk alone down one of the busiest streets in Naperville.
"Hey," I called out, walking behind her. She didn't turn around and kept walking. "Damn it, Graham, can you please stop?"
She kept walking and suddenly stopped in front of a bar. Oh no, don't go in there. She looked back at me, and seconds later, I was inside the packed bar, scanning the crowd for her. Angry as hell, I looked everywhere but couldn't find her. I pushed through the place until I spotted her at the counter with a curly-haired guy. A completely foreign feeling began to brew inside me—I wanted to break that curly-headed bastard's face. I got close enough to hear her laugh, and my blood boiled.
"So?" the guy asked. "What do you say?"
She caught my eye and rolled hers.
"That would be great," she answered.
"Cool," the guy replied. "I'll go tell my friends."
The guy walked away, leaving her alone. I crossed my arms and approached her as she took a sip of what looked like sangria.
"What?" she asked when she noticed me watching her.
"Are you seriously asking me that?" I shot back. "What are you doing? We need to keep moving if we want to make it on time."
She laughed. "That's exactly what I told you when we went to that bar with those obnoxious people, and you wouldn't listen to me."
"That's different," I said.
"Whatever," she said. "I'm having fun."
I looked at her and realized that in less than 48 hours, she had made me laugh, made me furious, and made me want to punch someone. I was losing my mind because of this damn trip.
"With that curly haired guy?" I asked mockingly.
"I like his hair," she replied dryly.
"Sure you do," I said, laughing. "You don't even know him."
Her eyes flashed, and her nose began to wrinkle.
"You didn't know the convenience store cashier either, but you sure seemed to be having a great time, didn't you?"
She shut her mouth abruptly, her eyes widening. I was stunned. I couldn't believe it. Her—little, annoying Graham—was... jealous? Before I could say or ask anything, the curly-haired guy came back and looked at me with a frown.
"Sorry, man, I met her first."
I chuckled. "Well, I'm already here" I said.
"You think so?" the guy asked defensively.
"I don't just think so," I said. "I know so."
The guy stepped up to me with a challenging glare, and I saw her startle. Does this scrawny idiot really think he's going to hit me? He shoved me with one hand, and before I could return the favor, he shoved me again.
"Go ahead, shove me," I said, laughing. "But that won't stop her from coming back to my car with me."
The guy must have taken that the wrong way because his fist slammed right into my face. The entire bar went dead silent, and her eyes went completely wide.
"Bar fight!" someone shouted from the back, and suddenly, everyone started swinging at each other. The guy punched me in the chest, and I countered with a blow to his stomach, knocking the wind out of him. She let out a gasped cry, and when her eyes met mine, I could see she was terrified. I hit the guy one more time to keep him down and pushed him away from us. She grabbed my arm, and that same electric current that had shocked me before came rushing back.
"Dean..." she whispered, her lips glistening from the sangria. "I'm sorry, I didn't want this to happen. I'm so stupid."
She looked down at the floor, and a completely reckless impulse made me take her by the chin to lift her gaze back to mine.
"You really are a brat," I said, and she pouted. Oh shit, she’s going to cry. "Hey, don't cry. I'm the one who should be crying here—I just got punched in the face and the chest."
She laughed through her tears just as I ducked a stray elbow.
"I'm sorry about that too," she said. "I can't believe that idiot hit you. Who does he think he is?"
We both laughed, and she took my hand, intertwining our fingers. My breath hitched, and I knew this was wrong.
"Can you forgive me?"
"What?" I said, my voice trembling. "Of course I do."
She smiled, and suddenly, a glass of beer flew over our heads, drenching us from head to toe. She gasped, and I pulled her close. I grabbed her by the waist, creating a shield with my body against the idiots fighting behind us. She laughed when one of them slipped and wiped out in a puddle of beer, getting soaked just like us. Up close, her laugh was beautiful—damn it, it really was, and I shouldn't have been thinking about that. Her gaze met mine, and her long, curled eyelashes fluttered as she blinked slowly. Her mouth was slightly open, and the sweet scent of sangria reached my nose, making me feel lightheaded.
"What a disaster," she whispered, and I nodded, completely spellbound by our proximity.
"Welcome to your first bar fight," I said back, mentally facepalming.
She laughed, her cheeks flushing pink.
My hands were still on her waist, and I was horrified to realize just how perfectly they fit right there. Her gaze flicked from my lips to my eyes. Please, stop, you don't know what you're doing to me. This isn't right.
Behind her, two guys started swinging wildly, and I knew it was time to get out. Before I could move, the man behind her was shoved backwards, crashing into her and sending her flying against my face. It was just enough for her lips to brush against my chin, making me lose all control. She lifted her massive hazel eyes to mine, and before I could think, her lips were on mine. I closed my eyes, melting into her soft lips and the taste of sangria. I was kissing my best friend's sister, in a bar, in the middle of a bar fight. How completely messed up.
"No..." I whispered against her lips. She didn't seem to want to stop, and to be honest, neither did I. But it wasn't right.
"Shh," she whispered back, wrapping her arms around my neck, pulling me even closer. Damn it, I was going to lose my mind.
"We have to go," I said. "The cops could show up at any minute."
She pulled back slightly but kept her hands on my neck, and I kept mine on her waist. Her cheeks were flushed and hot, her lips swollen. Oh damn, she was gorgeous. Why couldn't she be any other girl? Why did she have to be Garrett's sister?
When she nodded, I took her hand, ready to escape the chaos. Just before we reached the door, a guy shoved her shoulder, and I reacted instantly, throwing him across the bar. I felt her tugging gently at my shoulder, but I ignored her, scanning the room for the guy.
"Dean..." she whispered.
I turned around and saw that the police had arrived—and worse, they had seen me throw the guy. Great, exactly what we needed.
• • • •
I paced the small cell I was locked in, reviewing my entire day. Her and I fought over the radio, made up, fought over the convenience store girl, went into a bar, some idiot tried to hit on her, the idiot tried to fight me, we accidentally started a bar fight, she cried, we kissed, I threw a guy, and I ended up arrested.
We kissed.
It was the only thing I could focus on.
How the hell did I dare kiss my best friend's sister?
"Di Laurentis" an officer said, walking into the cell block with a furrowed brow after reading my last name. It was a normal reaction.
"Yes?" I said, standing up.
"You're free to go," he said. "Someone bailed you out and gave a statement."
I frowned. "What?"
"You heard me," he said. "You can leave."
I walked out of the cell and thanked the officer.
"Don't mention it," he said. "Just try to stay out of bars for a while."
We both chuckled, and when I walked into the lobby, I saw her with wide eyes and messy hair. I felt a warmth blooming inside me, and an overwhelming urge to wrap my arms around her appeared out of nowhere. I was truly screwed. She seemed to read my mind somehow and threw her slender arms around my body. I sighed as the fruity scent of her hair hit my nose.
"Were you here all night?"
She nodded, and I felt my heart squeeze.
"There was a waiting list to give statements," she said. "Though I highly doubt the others were let go like you were."
I smiled and kissed the top of her head, making her startle.
"Let's go," I said, and despite a brief hesitation, I took her hand as we walked out of the station. "You know... I'd really appreciate it if you didn't mention any of this to Garrett."
"Do you think I'm crazy?" she said, laughing. "Not in a million years could I tell him something like this. He'd kill me. He'd kill us both."
She laughed again, and I wondered what exactly she was referring to—the fight we were barely involved in, or our kiss. I sighed and started the car, pulling away and leaving Illinois behind. As I drove, I could occasionally feel her gaze on me; I knew it because her eyes felt like a burn on my skin, and it was driving me crazy. I drove in silence, and suddenly, I felt her take my hand. I looked over at her, and her eyes were closed. She looked so peaceful and so beautiful. I smiled and kept driving.
A few hours later, we were already in Fort Wayne, Indiana, which meant we only had three states left before reaching New York. A bitter taste settled in my throat. I didn't want this trip to end, but it was for the best. We were playing this strange game of attraction—a game I never imagined playing with someone like her. How was it possible to go from being her brother's annoying friend and Garrett's annoying sister to this?
When exhaustion finally won, I pulled over at a small, rustic motel. From the outside, it looked nice enough, and they had rooms available. I got out of the car to request a room, taking no more than 15 minutes. When I returned, she was awake, looking confused and sleepy.
"Hey," I said, and she smiled.
"Where are we?"
"Still in Indiana," I pointed out. "But I was dying of sleep, and I didn't feel like sleeping in the car. It's uncomfortable."
She nodded, and I handed her a room key. She frowned when she realized I had an identical one. At the last minute, I decided that getting separate rooms was the most rational option. The right option, though not the option I would have chosen.
"Thanks," she murmured, and something twisted inside me. Did she want us to sleep together? No, of course not. She knew it wasn't right either.
I parked the car near our rooms, and we both got out. I helped her grab some pajamas, and after she settled into her room, I walked into mine. I was completely exhausted, both physically and mentally. I still couldn't believe we had kissed, and I couldn't believe how much I enjoyed it—or how much I wanted it to happen again.
I sighed. I took off my shirt and folded it while unfolding a fresh one I kept in the car. I stretched my tense muscles and caught sight of the small bruise left by that curly-haired idiot's punch. I smiled, remembering her and her sangria-flavored lips.
"Who is it?" I asked when a knock sounded at the door. There was no answer, but the knocking came again.
I opened the door, but no one was outside. I furrowed my brows. A prankster, maybe.
Before I could lie down, there was another knock at the door. I rolled my eyes and stood up.
"Now what?" I said, throwing the door open. I nearly fell backwards when I saw her standing there, already in her pajamas, her massive hazel eyes tracing my bare chest.
"Can I come in?" she asked, barely above a whisper.
I swallowed hard, and every ounce of intelligence left my body as I stepped aside to let her in.
Avatar Jake x Avatar Reader + Human Jake x Human Reader
Word count | 9.3k
Warnings | 18+, explicit smut, gun kink, gun riding, reader gets hella freaky for Jake's gun, fingering, oral, p in v
Summary | You love your job. Science fascinates you. But there’s something about the way Sully drives his Avatar with that goddamned gun in his arms that you can’t get enough of.
It's shameful, really.
How quickly the good little scientist dropped her glasses and turned tail since it all began.
Shameful how easily a couple of roguish grins and low-drawl teases from that stupid ex-marine on wheels had your meticulous research neglected—gathering dust in a messy, heaped state on your desk.
Shameful how frequent the lying became as you started slipping off to your link unit for extra "field trips" in the name of science. Your self-appointed bodyguard trailing closely at your heels as you'd slink deeper into the vibrant canopy of Pandora. The tuft of your tail ghosting past his t-shirt, his hot breath teasing your neck.
Shameful how pitifully his name rolls like a desperate prayer from the trembling tongue of your Avatar right now. Your cargo shorts discarded at your boots as he pins you face-first against the rough bark of an ancient tree—the shockingly cold steel of his machine gun barrel prying your thighs apart from behind.
It turns you on to the high fucking heavens seeing that idiot play soldier in his massive suit of blue skin.
And he knows it.
“God damn, doc, you're soaked.”
Jake's wolf-whistle pierces the forest air like a siren as he leans back to take an appreciative look at the sodden cotton of your panties, using the tilt of his huge gun against your thighs like a tool for inspection.
He lets out an amused grunt, as though the evidence of your arousal is highly entertaining to him.
Bastard.
You whip his side with a hard thwack of your impatient tail, and he leans back in, pressing his dumb, cocky smirk against your cheek. The one that transfers so startlingly to his Avatar.
He lets out a low, vibrating chuckle beside your ear. "What's the science on that?"
“Urgh—shut it, smart-ass, and get those fucking fangs on me,” you growl.
You blindly reach back to hook a long, blue finger into the tight slot between his comms strap and the slick skin of his striped throat, giving him a sharp yank down into the crook of your neck.
The close air of Pandora's lush jungle always leaves you both drenched in a thick layer of humidity. Your tactical clothing ruined with dark, heavy sweat stains, your indigo skin tacky and wet.
But you couldn't care less.
If anything, the stifling heat only turns you on more.
You love feeling the smooth, slippery expanse of your massive Na'vi bodies sliding against each other like butter when you fuck.
“So demanding, baby,” Jake chuckles breathily against your neck, the delicate lavender points of his arched ears retreating back to his head.
Jake's never one to hesitate when you boss him around and call him names. He laps that shit up like it's his remedy. A well-trained soldier eager to please.
He pushes his bodyweight into you, pinning you harder against the tree with his gun grazing dangerously close to the spot that's screaming for it between your legs.
It's a magnificent tree—one that deserves more respect than having such devious activity like this inflicted upon it—but the guilt evaporates like steam off your skin the second Jake's mouth hits your neck.
His ivory fangs bear down over you rapid pulse point, the sharp tips dragging in a long, languid line all the way to your shoulder, sending a prickly wave of gooseflesh breaking out across your entire body.
They're predatory fangs that could draw serious blood if he really chose to clamp down, and the thrill of it has you trapping your shaky lip with your own canines as a hot pulse of arousal bleeds into your groin.
“Fucking hell, Sully...” you quiver, your eyes shutting tightly.
Jake twists you around to face him by the waist, his mouth curled back in a smirking snarl at the sight of your flushed face.
“Such a filthy little mouth for a nerd.”
His eyes fall sharply to your bottom lip, preying on the slight tremble of it. He brings his thumb up, brushing the rough pad over to release the swell from it's grip.
You're quick to sweep your tongue out to get a taste of his thumb tip before he can retract it, giving the end a soft, wet dab.
It tastes bitter. Like gun oil and metal.
Fuck. You love his gun.
You take the tip of his thumb between your lips more desperately, heavily moaning your approval—your head bobbing as you give it a series of light, teasing sucks while gazing up at him through your lashes.
Sucking his fingers is a little trick you've discovered that always has him losing his shit.
Even in his most cocksure of moods.
His eyes go dark and hooded, a deep, gravelly groan reverberating in his throat as he watches. He growls a low, breathless "fuck", swooping down to your lips to catch your muffled gasp in his mouth.
As you lose your mind to the slide of Jake's possessive kiss, whining as that spit-wet thumb now makes its way down to roll your nipple into a hard, aching peak beneath your tank top, you're harshly reminded of how you'd fallen so deep into this gritty pit in the first damn place.
Wasting your afternoons to fuck around with Sully in your Avatar instead of working had spiraled into a regular occurrence.
An addiction you couldn't seem to shake. A high you couldn't stop chasing.
To say he'd become a distraction from your research would be a laughable understatement.
You knew he was going to be nothing but trouble from the moment he first rolled into the Avatar compound and introduced himself. Blindsiding you from analyzing the DNA sequencing of a Stingbat with a warm, firm handshake and the sort of charming grin that crawled under your skin and stayed there.
So when it all started snowballing, inevitably—recklessly—you couldn't exactly bring yourself to blame your own damned weakness.
“Just need to get my hands on that one last sample before I compile it,” you'd straight-up lie to Grace whenever she'd ask why you were jumping back into link again when you were supposed to be writing your reports from yesterdays trip.
The very trip you'd spent sprawled out under the spiraling pink fans of Helicoradian plants—writhing in ecstasy with the incredible, heavy tongue of Jake's Avatar embedded deep between your thighs. Lapping you up—hurling you mercilessly into a dimension that easily beat the paradise of Pandora.
“At least eat something when you get back, for God's sake,” Grace would complain, rubbing her temples without a glance up from her monitors. “And make sure Sully's looking after you out there. Last thing I need is losing your expensive as shit Avatar to a damn Thanator.”
He'd roll into your room on silent wheels late in the evenings.
That up-to-no-good grin plastered all over his face as your fingers flew over your laptop keys in an frantic rush to upload your backlog of data.
“Just taking the boss a coffee,” was usually his choice of bluff whenever he bumped into anyone in the tight dormitory corridor.
His offering never did stand a chance of being consumed before going cold. Your glasses discarded on your laptop next to it as you'd find your limbs in a tangle with his beneath the rough sheets of your cramped, metal bunk bed. Making out—hot and heavy—as though playing with each other in your Avatars all afternoon hadn't been enough. Jake's savvy fingers slipping eagerly under the waistband of your pyjama bottoms while yours coursed through the thick, gorgeous waves of his chocolate hair.
Jake's dirty talk is a dangerous game.
But his sweet talk is the real lethal killer.
He'd linger at shoulder some early mornings in the communal lab space, having seemingly nothing better to do with himself.
Openly snooping on your data, his sharp, stubbly jaw resting flush against your shoulder as you'd sit hunched over your desk with your eye pressed tightly to the microscope.
“You know how gorgeous you look while you work?” he'd murmur lazily next to your ear, the vibration of his rugged voice tickling your skin, his lips ghosting the base of your neck like you were supposed to be able to ignore it. “So damn sexy. Inspiring me to go do some more of that hands-on research with you later.”
“Jake, stop. I really need to focus,” you'd protest with a slightly breathless giggle. A light slip of sound that was always your first mistake.
A subtle open door that would fuel Jake's flame—inviting him to drag his warm, open-mouthed kiss up your neck, leaving you right on the ragged edge of caving in your seat until you'd both sharply snap apart at the sound of the lab doors hissing open with Norm waltzing in, whistling to himself in cheerful oblivion.
Norm.
Norm knows.
He has to, from walking in on so many of these frighteningly close calls in the lab.
And from the way the atmosphere hangs heavy with a weight that's not just the humidity when he joins you both out in the field. The two of you harvesting samples together with Sully trailing in your stride—carrying his heavy-duty machine gun in his huge blue hands like it's a sleek, lightweight toy.
There's not a shred of doubt that Norm wonders why your eyes flick back to him so often.
But you can't help it.
You get a kick out of finding Jake looking at you with that lazy, vicious grin playing on his face. His heavy eyes sweeping over your body like it's a piece of prey he's tracking and fully intends to devour once he's pinned it.
But Norm keeps his mouth.
Because he's a good little scientist, like you used to be.
You love your job. Science still fascinates you like it always has.
But there's something about the way Sully drives his Avatar with that goddamned gun in his arms that you just can't get enough of.
You peel his clingy teeth from your lips with effort, your palms colliding against the coarse material of his backpack straps as you shove him back—hard.
Hard enough to make him stumble back over his muddy combat boots with a dorky, lopsided grin creeping up over his face.
His striking feline eyes flick between yours expectantly, the soft green flecks in the citrine of his irises mirroring the lush foliage around you. They're pretty eyes—ones you often find yourself chewing your pen lid over during those long, dragging mornings in the lab.
You straighten up against the tree, levelling your gaze with his.
“Put it in me, Sully.”
Jake loves a direct order. Thrives on it, even.
It has the marine in him lighting up like a spark off a live wire.
His grin turns crooked, his yellow eyes suddenly swimming with barely restrained mischief.
“Yes, ma'am.”
He pushes his rolled shirt sleeve a notch higher up his bicep, the leaves crunching on the soil beneath him as he adjusts his footing to haul the hefty steel beast up.
You admire the power in those striped forearms as he easily guides the tip of the barrel back between your legs, trailing it up your sensitive inner thighs with slow precision until the cold, flat muzzle rests flush again the brewing heat of your panties.
You peer down at the sight, your ears drooping helplessly to your head at the metal touching your throbbing pussy.
A shaky sigh slips past your slips as your knees buckle inward, your thighs pinching at the heavy weapon. “Fuck, yeah. That's what I'm talking about.”
Jake guides the tip in slow, gentle strokes through the wet seam of your folds, using it to spread your own slick up over your aching clit.
“Mm. You like that?”
His voice vibrates in his throat like sexy, low-drawl honey—a sound good enough in itself to get you off—and a hearty moan breaks out of your chest as your pussy pulses in agreement.
You roll your impatient hips over the hard, unyielding edge of it as you lock your hooded eyes onto him. “Mm, fuck. I want it inside me. Put your big, hard gun in my pussy, Sully.”
Jake's eyes snap up like a magnet at your dirty words, landing squarely on your parted mouth.
You can tell it's short-circuited his brain from how his eyelids have gone heavy, from the way they hover half-closed as he slowly blinks.
You grin. He always looks so fucking adorable when he gets drunk on his own arousal.
He lets out a low huff of air, his ears giving a small flick as he tilts his head with trance-like slowness. His eyes still stuck on your lips.
“Better get those panties down for me then, angel.”
You hook two fingers into the waistband of your briefs, pulling them down with a shimmy of your thighs and letting the sodden piece of material drop onto your heaped cargo shorts at your boots.
Jake's nostrils flare, his pupils gaping wide as his gaze drops to the sight.
“Fuck, mama...”
His long tail sways with weight as he crouches down close, feasting his wide eyes on your bare, blue cunt.
His heavy gun is sidelined, thudding softly into the leaves next to him as his hand approaches your swollen, glinting slit with a mind of it's own.
“She looks hungry,” he chuckles like a distracted child, touching you without a shred of hesitation.
Jake's primal fascination with the body of your Avatar is still raw and all-consuming, even after having played with it enough times to think he'd be used to it by now.
You'd make a dig at him if you weren't already gasping at the delicious pressure of his fingers on your clit.
It sends an electric pulse through you as he glides his fingertips over the bump, down to the slick, arousal-swollen center of your parted folds. His welcome touch releases a hot surge of your pent-up arousal, and Jake's ears twitch and flatten at the loud moans it wrings from your throat.
“God damn... Beggin' for my big gun, aren't you, pretty?” He grins, his glinting teeth flashing.
His tail undulates wildly behind him as he taps your ankle.
“Lift up for me, sweetheart. Let's get these shorts off.”
You lift your feet as he strips them off over your chunky boots, tossing them aside while you sink back against the tree with your legs spread invitingly.
Jake coasts his fingers down your pussy once more, teasing another sharp inhale into your lungs and making your walls flutter, before sliding them underneath to find your entrance.
He dips a fingertip inside. Circling it tantalizingly around your wet, begging hold before adding another, sinking both of the thick, long digits into the hilt in one confident plunge.
Oh fuck. That stretch.
It has you dissolving into a shaky, pinch-browed groan, your head rolling back to the tree as his curled fingers start moving in and out of you with agonizing slowness.
“Yeah... that good, baby?” Jake purrs, watching his gleaming blue fingers disappear and reappear in a hypnotizing rhythm.
“So good,” you whine, your back arching off the tree as you fidget under his fingering. “I need more though, Jake. Your gun. Please.”
When there's no response—none of his usual teasing or quick-witted remarks, you furrow your brows, wondering what the hell he's doing.
“Jake?...”
You roll your head forward from the tree to peer down at him.
He's staring. Frozen. Looking like a starved man who's been lost out in the jungle for days.
His ears have fully folded back in a tight streamline against his head, his irises reduced to razor-thin rings around his blown out, pitch-black pupils.
Fuck sake. Not this again.
He's lost himself.
This happens sometimes, when his face gets too close to your pussy—the tangy scent of your juices and pheromones searing his sensitive nostrils and devouring his rational mind entirely.
It's the cost that comes with fucking in these Na'vi skins. Of inhabiting creatures driven by blood and instincts far sharper than any human's, and even after the many afternoons you've spent fooling around out here together, poor Jake is still very much at the mercy of it.
You rarely scold him for it. After all—you get your own kicks out of seeing him completely disarmed and ravishing your body with an intensity that's just not possible in human form.
But on days like today, when you just want him to stay focused and give you what you asked for... his distraction is an inconvenience.
“Fuck, I... I just need to taste it...” Jake finally stutters, succumbing clumsily to his knees with a heavy thud against the leaves, his tail giving a sharp flick behind him as he leans in.
You open your mouth to object, but it's too late.
He's already there. Nuzzling his flat, broad nose against your mound with a ragged groan. His top lip brushing up and down the hood of your clit as his tongue sweeps out to thirstily lap up the slick arousal that's coating your soft folds.
“JACOB!” you gasp—half moaning it, half scolding—your eyes turning to saucers as your hands fly down to the top of his head.
You don't know if you want to pull him in all the way. Get him to sink that fantastic tongue in until it makes you pop, or push him away, and tell him to stick to the goddamn plan.
Fuck. It's too good for the latter.
You let out a heavy sigh, melting back against the tree with your eyes fluttering. Giving in for a moment to enjoy the sweet, sweet relief his mouth provides for your craving center, while Jake emits a satisfied rumble from deep in his chest.
His big hands hover lightly at your hipbones while he completely loses himself in worshipping the shrine between your legs, his knees splaying out wider against the dirt as he devours you with licks and sucks of perfect rhythm and pressure.
Your legs tremble as he pulls your clit into his mouth, giving the little bead a dab with his tongue before releasing it and repeating. Shifting further under you, trailing the tip of his tongue in a point from the back of your slit to the front before breaking into wide, firm strokes, his sharp teeth grazing your delicate skin.
Sweet fucking Jesus, it's heavenly.
Jake's talent for cunnilingus proved itself the first time he went down on you in human form, in your bunk bed during those early nights of getting intimate.
You hadn't expected much—given past experience with men not always knowing what goes where or really caring to find out—so when you giggled with your knees hitched under the covers as he shimmied himself down between your thighs, his playful blue eyes locked on yours as his tongue started a slow, sensual dance with you... it's safe to say he blew your expectations completely out of the water.
It made you laugh when he told you it was his secret weapon.
But it was true.
Having lost function in his genitals from being paralyzed from the waist down, Jake had to make up for what he lacked between his legs in other ways.
More creative ones.
It was mind-blowing, how he'd build you up so silently. Getting you to the point of writhing and grasping for fistfuls of the bedsheets as your shaking hips lifted to chase his mouth, and only at that point would he do that incomprehensible thing with his thumb—something you'll never truly understand—having you popped over your white-peaked edge in a mere matter of moments.
It was lethal.
Terrifying, actually. Transferring that kind of godly talent to his nine foot feline form.
One with two strong, working legs—and a third one hanging between them.
It was enough to de-throne you at your best.
“Oh, god,” you mewl, your ankles threatening to give way under the hot, mounting pressure that's tightening between your hips. “Jake—please, I want your gun. Don't make me come like this.” You dig your fingers further into the silky strands of hair on top of his head to haul him away quickly before he can get you there—ripping his mouth from its tight seal around your pulsing clit.
He's panting hard as he looks up at you—a complete, undone wreck with his lips obscenely wet with your juices. More dark, messy strands of his disheveled hair have escaped his braid and cling to his sweaty forehead, and he draws himself up confidently, taking your face in both his hands as he leans in to smother your mouth with his in one swift motion.
His tongue pushes into your mouth possessively—delivering the tangy taste of you thats coating it—and he swallows your muffled moan with his own deeper one, pushing you up against the tree with his body flush to yours.
His hasty hands roam over you hungrily, his knees bending as he gropes your ass and tits—pulling you up and pinning you against the bark with short, rhythmic grinds of his hips.
Your stomach tightens as you feel the outline of his rock hard erection pushing into you, throbbing like a heartbeat beneath his cargos.
“Which gun do you want?” he pants breathlessly as he breaks from your mouth, trailing his crude smirk in hot, wet kisses across your jawline and down your neck.
He recoils with a sharp grunt as you suddenly jab a long finger hard into his ribs—a warning that your impatience for his cocky games is running very thin.
“Ow! Fuck. Alright, alright.”
He peels himself off of you with sulking reluctance, swallowing hard to try and control his ragged breathing as he drops back down to a crouch to pick up his gun from the dirt.
“Better give the lady what she wants, then,” he mutters to himself, taking a firm grip on the handle as he draws the weapon back up between your legs—and this time, he keeps his focus locked.
You brace yourself with your hands on the tree either side of you, your heart fluttering fast as Jake works to position the blunt, heavy barrel at the entrance of your pussy.
Once he seems satisfied that all systems are go, his eyes flick up to yours, waiting for permission.
“Ready?”
“Yes! Just fucking put it in already, Jesus,” you growl.
He moves at your command, slowly pushing the cylindrical metal up into you, and it sinks through your slick folds.
The hard, cold width of the barrel stretching you open to fill the craving, empty space inside you.
Your head slams back against the tree, the frustration in your voice from mere seconds ago melting and liquefying into something carnal.
“FUCK, Sully.”
You groan between tight lips as Jake retracts it, before sliding it in further—slipping the steel inside you with the smooth lubricant of your own arousal. The stretch burns like fire, the cool metal already starting to warm from the friction—from your pussy walls squeezing and clenching at it hungrily.
“Oh, Jake. It's so fucking good.”
“Yeah? Tell me how you want it, baby.”
“Faster,” you whine.
Jake picks up the pace immediately. The muscles in his arms and shoulders bunching under the strain of lifting such a heavy-duty weapon and moving it with enough deliberate control to not hurt you.
He hitches a knee up to rest his elbow on as he works, taking some of the weight off his arms as he readjusts his grip on the stock with a grunt, his breathing growing heavy as he pumps the machine gun into you with quick, firm thrusts.
“That fast enough, doc?”
“Mhm! More, Jake, please!”
Your hips grow reckless, rolling down to meet each of his thrusts at its deepest, and it tightens the ache that’s coiling inside you each time the blunt tip of the barrel strikes hard against a spot of pressure.
A pressure that’s going to be the death of you if it carries on building.
You clutch your breast through your tank top, tugging and playing with your erect nipple while your other hand flies down to your clit to deliver quick, frantic circles, and the heightening of pleasure it provides has his name erupting from your throat in a loud cry.
“Fuck, baby,” Jake breathes hoarsely. “You’re gonna make me lose it doing that.”
He lunges up—too needy to merely watch you writhe in pleasure from a passive crouch beneath you—and leans over to catch your gasping lips, kissing you clumsily as the heavy weapon rocks chaotically between your bodies.
Jake can’t help his unbridled hips as they start to roll blindly against the hard handle of the weapon, an attempt to grind out some relief for the leaking bulge thats cooped up in his cargos.
It has him spilling a groan into your mouth, his brows pinched together tightly, and it’s not long before the pathetic pleading starts tumbling out of him against your lips.
“God, let me fuck you with this blue dick, baby, please? I’m so hard. I wanna cum in that sweet pussy so fuckin’ bad.”
“Not yet,” you hiss, clamping your fangs down on his bottom lip.
His twitching hips falter on the metal, and you can tell he’s holding back a whimper.
Your own climax is pulsing like a threat around the unyielding cylinder inside you as you pull away from Jake’s dumb, chasing mouth.
You gaze at him for a moment through heavy lids.
Taking in his flushed, sweat-sheened face. His pretty bioluminescent freckles that faintly pulse with his arousal.
“Load it, Sully.”
Your firm words slice the air like a knife.
The whir of nature from the surrounding expanse of trees dials up sharply, and Jake’s hips instantly freeze.
You glance down at his crotch. Watching as the thick outline of his cock throbs visibly against the sudden stillness of his body.
The hungry thing has already made a mess of his cargos, spilling some of his much needed release in a blooming, damp patch of glowing pre-cum at the tip.
He blinks, barking out a quick, uncertain laugh.
“What?”
You hold his gaze.
“You heard me.”
A soft, nervous chuckle, his ears flattening.
“Come on, sweetheart… That’s too far.”
"Oh... sorry, Jake," you giggle. A sweet, bubbly sound that catches him off guard, and his ears lift slightly from the sides of his head. "It's just, I was under the impression you weren’t such a pussy.”
The throat strap of his comms shifts with the heavy, nervous bob of his Adam’s apple, his lips hanging parted at the drop of your tone.
Your hand brushes past his as you lean forward and wrap your fingers around the gun grip, deliberately dragging the heavy, charcoal shaft deeper inside you.
“Don’t make me ask again, Sully. Or I might have to tell Grace you’ve been slacking.”
Ok.
You can’t deny it. You took things a little too far, sometimes.
Got a little… wild, out here in the forest.
Blame it on the foreign composition of Pandora’s atmosphere, or the rash impulses of the Na’vi blood running through your veins.
You’d feel sorry for poor Jake for having to put up with this untamed, gun-crazed kink of yours, except that was never the case at all.
He gets off on the thrill of danger just as much as you do, and although the extent of your requests had undoubtedly grown more… extreme, since your first escapades—Jake hadn’t denied you anything yet.
He can't resist a challenge thrown his way.
It’s in his blood, human or not.
But above all, he can never say no to his favorite, precious little scientist.
He huffs an uneasy laugh as he glances to the side, his brows furrowed with his head cocking slightly as though he’s still trying to wrap it around the order.
It’s hard not to home in on the sweat that glistens on his cheekbones and nose. Or the sharp crunch of leaves under his clunky combat boots as his feet shuffle nervously below you.
He finally rolls his broad shoulder. A heavy click resonating as he cracks his neck.
“Alright.”
His throat muscles jump in another rough bob as he takes a wary glance down to where the gun is still buried inside you, and there’s not an ounce of playfulness left in his yellow eyes when they snap back up to meet yours, his husky voice dropping an octave.
“Only for a second, though. Ok?”
You nod quickly. Holding your breath the way you’re holding onto the climax you so desperately want as Jake slowly stabilizes the robust frame of the machine gun.
His tail twitches erratically behind him as he slowly draws his long fingers to rest over the charging handle.
Your heartbeat pounds against your ribs as they hover there.
And then he takes the plunge.
A quick, sharp inhale—and he racks the bolt.
The heavy, mechanical clack-clack of the weapon cycling sends a sharp vibration straight through the barrel buried inside your pussy, the sound making both of your ears twitch in unison.
Fuck.
There it is.
Loaded ammunition inside you.
A breathless hush seems to fall over the trees. The only sound the thrum of your pulse like rushing water in your ears as you stare at your own round eyes reflected in the black mirror of Jake's pupils.
And then your pussy pulses in demand.
You grind. Once. Rolling over the steel that now buzzes with the terrifying weight of a live round chambered right inside you.
And then again—feeling that deep, delicious ache of the weapon pressing at your insides. Digging into your g-spot and shooting a spine-tingling spike of heat straight through you.
Your body takes control.
Your hips slip into a fast, shallow rhythm, and you resume rubbing quick, rapid circles against your clit. Humping your hand unashamedly like an untamed animal in front of Jake’s dumbfounded stare.
An immense, hot convulsion of pleasure surges through your core and down your legs—your pussy beating and fluttering around his gun—and a throaty moan tears out of you, your eyes going hazy at the edges as you hold Jake's sharp, petrified ones.
His grip on the gun is like iron, his whole body taut as he tries to stop his hand from trembling violently over the giant body of metal. Terrified that one wrong twitch of his fingers or one violent squeeze of your walls will slip the safety.
“Oh fuck—Jake—keep it inside me, I’m gonna—”
Your plea trails off as your climax creeps up tremendously, forcing the breath still in your lungs. Your hips bob in little rigid shudders over the hazardous toy inside you as you reach the brink, your fingers losing all strength and smushing clumsily against your peaking clit.
It’s a fight to keep your eyes open—your vision turning white and starry—but you can’t miss the sight of Jake watching you help yourself to orgasm over his gun.
His gorgeous feline features are a picture of agonizing torment.
You can tell it’s taking every solid inch of his strength to restrain from tearing the gun away as fast as possible. To chuck it a mile and fuck you himself instead.
But he holds it. Letting you ride it to completion like you asked. His blown out eyes trained between your shaking thighs as your sweet bliss crashes down on you.
Your eyes clamp shut. your body shuddering as a guttural shriek rips from your lungs, and the back of your head cracks violently against the rough bark behind you.
Waves. All you can feel is waves. Delicious, crashing waves. Tight, heavenly waves that pulse and squeeze at the smooth metal inside you, turning your legs hollow and weightless.
Waves that are suddenly shattered as Jake ruthlessly rips the length of the barrel from your convulsing pussy.
He un-cocks it. Hastily.
Dropping the deadly thing to the ground from his vice-like grip like it’s something born of the devil.
“Oh my… fuck. Baby—”
His wired eyes are trained on you, suddenly flaming with gold, his flustered fingers blindly fumbling to unclip the utility belt that suffocates his waist.
The straps slip from his shoulders, the weight of his backpack hitting the forest floor behind him with a heavy, dead thud.
And then he lunges.
Trapping your slumped, slack body against the tree. Pouncing on you with a predatory force that might scare you if your brain wasn't so clouded over from ecstasy.
The impact punches a breathless whine out of you, the ridges of bark clawing unforgivingly at your back, and you know it's leaving marks on your poor Avatars back for days.
Jake’s already pinned your wrists above your head, locking them both in the inescapable band of his hand while he clumsily battles the buckle of his belt in the other.
“You scare the goddamn shit out of me with that stuff, you know that?”
His bellowing voice is reprimanding as he brutally breaks his belt open, yanking his cargos down in one sharp tug that lets his thick erection snap up against his stomach.
“Why you gotta do that to me sweetie, huh?”
You can’t help but let out a chuckle despite the dizzying whirl of adrenaline that's making your head spin, your gaze dropping to the profusely leaking, lavender tip of his cock as it bobs beneath you.
“This doesn’t look that scared to me, soldier…”
He opens his mouth—probably with some witty remark ready to fire back—but it dies in his throat, overruled by his need to sink his throbbing dick inside you before he ruins himself up your front.
It really is beautiful like the rest of him, and it suddenly looks infinitely more appealing than cold metal as he spreads your thighs wider with a rough, heavy shove of his knee.
He bullies his hips in between yours, lining the steaming wet flare of his cock-head against your entrance, and it draws one last lazy, residual orgasmic twitch out of your walls.
There’s many great things about fucking out here, in the vast, echoing expanse of Pandora’s jungle.
One of them being just how much noise you could make.
Neither of you ever needed to hold back from letting undignified sounds spill from your mouths as you lost your minds over one another. Not without a soul within miles to hear such unearthly resonance.
Unlike the constant threat of being overhead through the paper thin walls of your dorm room back at Hell's Gate, the forest was your perfect, soundproof playground. A place that gave you the ultimate freedom to fuck each other however loudly you desired—an endless opportunity to let loose like feral, savage beasts.
And you both made the most of it.
Jake’s booming, chest-deep “MURRGHH” rattles you to the bones as he lifts you off the ground with his powerful thighs in a single, brutal upward thrust, his buttocks clenched rock-hard as his cock spears you to the hilt.
The roar is enough to scatter a troop of swinging Prolemuris in the trees nearby, and that delicious, white-hot sting of the sudden penetration has you matching him with a piercing shriek of your own.
He fits your pussy flush like a glove—his Na’vi anatomy tailor-made to ruin you—and the deep, fulfilling ache of the stretch has your toes curling hard inside your boots.
It’s even better than his loaded machine gun.
Much better.
Your eyes roll straight into the back of your skull as he single-handedly rearranges your brain chemistry with another deep, sharp thrust, putting words into your mouth that you barely even recognize as your own.
“Oh my god… Sully, fuck me—NOW!”
Jake doesn’t waste a fucking second.
He drives into immediate, frantic action—his pelvis rutting up rapidly into yours, his cock slipping in and out of your tight, silky slit with ease.
“Hohh-shit baby, that’s it,” he pants raggedly, the glowing freckles tracking his forehead flaring fiercely through the messy strands of his hair, lighting up with his spiking pulse—his eyes rolling back for a split second. “Fuck, you feel like heaven. So wet for me angel. So fuckin’ good for me.”
He hooks the hand that isn't pinning your wrists into the hem of his grey sweat-stained t-shirt with a grunt, wrenching the unwanted fabric up and out of the way in a jagged line.
It reveals the intricate strings of bioluminescence that drape down his toned stomach, trailing in bright streams to the solid V-line of his lower abdomen that funnels directly to the base of his pounding cock.
Jesus fucking Christ.
The sight of Jake’s naked Avatar never failed to completely destroy all of your inhibitions.
The combination of the sheer, muscular anatomy with the majestic prettiness of it is simply mind boggling, and you’re not sure if you’ll ever be able to wrap your little scientific brain around how such a god-forsaken thing grew in a lab when it looks like it should have fallen straight from the skies.
It leaves you weak to the very core every time you see it, and even in the desperate, deep throes of being pounded and crushed by him, you can’t help but take a moment to simply stare at the stunning sight of his torso.
Your poor eyes are ripped away as he jerks your own vest up over your breasts in a jagged motion.
“Mm, yeah. Nice little tits, aren’t they, doc?” Jake hisses, pulling his t-shirt up higher so he can press his broad chest right against yours. The friction of his slick, bare skin rubbing your nipples into stiff peaks.
He drops your wrists from their shackle above your head only to hoist one of your legs up and over his shoulder with a rough hand, making you gasp, while the fingers of his other wrap tightly around your erect nipple to give it a tight, bruising squeeze.
“Takin' my cock like such a good little scientist.”
He slams up into you, pinching his lip between his teeth with the effort as he funnels his glazed, fuck-drunk eyes into yours, and you splutter out a choked cry as the new angle has his cock-head ramming deeper into your cervix.
The mix of pain and pleasure is intoxicating, and it has a string of undignified, strangled curses spewing from your mouth. The unadulterated, filthy kind you could never be caught dead releasing within the rigid confines of Hell’s Gate.
Not unless you wanted to lose your damn job.
“Such a tight little cunt,” Jake wheezes through gritted, bared teeth, his tail wrapping in a tight coil around his muscular thigh to steady himself, and you know he’s on the brink from the garbled filth that starts pouring out of him.
“Dirty little slut, ain’tcha? Bad gal. Lettin’ me fuck you senseless like this when you should be working. Mad lil scientist. Crazy little—”
He barks out a breathless, hysterical chuckle— sounding borderline insane—before faltering with a soft, whiney crack in his voice.
“Oh fuck, mama—”
You adored the mouthy trash talk that would spew from Jake right when he was about to explode into smithereens.
But the sound you practically worshipped during the heated throes was his whimpering.
There was something so utterly exhilarating about hearing a rugged, capable man like Jake make such a vulnerable little noise at the power your body held over him that never failed to have your panties dripping.
You’d been hooked ever since you first heard it escape him one afternoon, while you had his thick, twitching shaft buried deep in your throat, the muscles of his striped thighs trembling and bunching underneath you from the suck of your mouth.
It seemed to only come out when he was hovering at the edge of complete ruin, his inhibitions completely obliterated over the loud, pulsating thrum of his own sexual pleasure.
It was shameful to admit it, but it became your personal mission to actively coax this gorgeous sound out of Jake for your own pleasure.
Whether that meant rubbing the strangely hyper-sensitive spot under his tail that seemed to push him over the brink a bit too quickly, or pulling your mouth away to lick lazily at the leaking slit of his cock right when he was about to cum. Tormenting him while the tip oozed and begged for more, his head rolling back as he let out a sexy, chest-heaving whimper.
It gave you something to play in your head while you fingered yourself on nights when he wasn’t sharing your bunk bed with you.
But best of all... it gave you something to tease him with.
Ammunition to rein him in whenever he’d start getting too cocky for his own damn good.
You loved having that needy little noise to pull out of your pocket whenever he got a bit too big for his boots.
It kept that soldier in line.
Jake’s hands slam onto the tree either side of your head, his fingers clawing into the ridges of bark as he clamps his teeth down hard on his bottom lip.
It's a cute effort to stifle the pathetic whimper that’s begging to burst from his throat right next to your ear. You admire it.
But unfortunately for him, his neck is exposed.
The perfect weak spot right next to your lips.
You dig your teeth hard into the slick flesh as you roll your hips up into each of his punishing thrusts. The heavy, rhythmic smash of his pelvic bone against yours making your walls clamp around his cock in a relentless chokehold.
It wheedles that sweet, sweet whimper right out of his lungs, spilling a ladle of heat directly into the bowl of your belly.
“Argh, fuck, bad girl.” Jake’s face contorts into a pretty mask of agony from your sharp bite and pure, unadulterated ecstasy from your fluttering walls. “Gonna make me cum.”
His thrusts turn jerky. Quick and chaotic, his cock swelling against the constraint of your slick teasing walls. The length pulsates in steady, rhythmic throbs, nudging at the deep pit of your insides as though giving a warning of the incoming explosion.
“Mm, do it, make mama proud and shove me full of your glowing cum, soldier,” you moan, cupping either side of his face between your hands.
You pull his ear to your lips. Slipping in a quiet, devastating whisper.
“I want you to fill me up like your bullets would.”
It’s enough to have Jake tumbling over his wall of white-hot bliss like a weak fool.
“Oh fuck, doc,” he grinds out, his voice seething out between his teeth as his screwed-up face rolls to the heavens for mercy, his ears clamped flat against his skull as he slams home, and you can feel his knees buckling under you. “Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck—”
His orgasm has him stiffening up. His quivering hips pinning you in a tight hold against the tree as the release starts leaking out into you—hot and wet and throbbing against the enticing clench of your walls, before erupting violently.
“JAKE!” Your eyes slam shut in a tight squeeze as the sweet rhythm of his ejaculation sends your pussy into a frantic dance.
Thick waves of his hot cum floods your center, pulsing like lava against your soft insides as a thunderous roar ruptures from his lungs, forcing your sensitive ears down to your head.
Your hands scramble at his shoulders for fistfuls of his utility shirt as you desperately rush to catch his high—grinding on him in a frenzy until his seed spills out down your ass and thighs.
Jake yelps, his hands quaking on the tree from overstimulation as you bounce hard against him until you finally come—erupting into a garbled, sore-throated wail. Writhing and whine—weakly tugging and shoving at his shoulders until every last nerve in your body is shattered. Over-sensitized, numb and utterly spent.
You go limp.
Your head flops back as Jake’s falls down like a dead weight onto your shoulder. Panting with his massive, sweaty frame draped over you, holding you up against the tree as he trembles from head to toe.
Jesus.
If you ever needed a reminder of why you’d started abandoning your work for this shit…
This right here was your evidence.
You both slouch there. Panting like sweaty horses after a race.
You finally roll your dizzy head to the side, and you wonder if Jake’s fingers have melded to the bark from the way he’s still clutching onto the tree on either side of you.
It’s impressive. How he’s remained standing this whole time without buckling at the knees entirely.
“Jake..." you giggle breathlessly. "How… how’re you still standing?”
His laughter is faintly delirious as it bounces jaggedly against your chest, and he draws his head up off of your shoulder, taking an exhausted, half-lidded look at you.
His facial features are completely heavy. Loose and relaxed compared to just moments ago.
“Putting these damn legs to use the right way,” he grins.
You laugh, grinning back as you take his cheeks between your palms and drag his sweaty forehead in to rest against your own.
“Made you cum hard, didn’t it? I know you like that gun shit. Don’t try and hide it.”
His hiss of laughter tickles your lips as it escapes him, his jaw jutting to the side with his tongue in his cheek as he looks down.
A wordless answer.
He peels his sticky front from you, and your eyes follow his gaze to the gooey state that’s now sat between you. Your blue skin glints with a mixture of sweat and cum, the subtle bioluminescent hue of Jake’s seed glowing around your thighs and pussy.
He whistles, his face turning slappably smug.
“Dang, doc. Look at the mess you’ve made.”
Your mouth falls open in disbelief.
“My mess?”
Jake chooses to ignore your comment. Instead trailing his lazy, smirking gaze up the length of your body.
“Better get you all cleaned up and back in your little lab coat before Grace starts wondering where you are, hm?”
You bark out an incredulous laugh. “God, I’d slap that look straight off those blue cheeks if you weren’t so fucking pretty.”
“Aw, baby.” He flashes his fangs in a full-blown, wolfish grin. “You think I’m pretty, huh?”
He leans in to kiss you, but you stop him in his tracks, pressing a firm finger against his puckered lips.
“And because you have extra brownie points for…”
You pause, watching his ears prick forward.
“…pleasing me, today.”
Jake chuckles cooly. But the flick of his tail tuft behind him gives him away.
“Really fucking pleasing me.” Your lips roll up into a wicked grin. “You wanna sleep in my bunk tonight?”
His brows fly up.
“Jesus, sweetheart, this not enough for you?”
“No,” you laugh, tracing a fingertip over the trail of white dots down his nose. “I mean, just... sleep with me. For the night.” Your fingers trace lower, running over both of his lips, making them catch with the drag. “You look really fucking cute when you make my bed in the morning.”
Jake grins like an idiot.
His gaze falls to your lips, the playfulness in his eyes turning warm and sincere as you let him lean in to deliver a light peck to your lips. “Yeah. I’d love that.”
You give a little giggle, glancing down.
The discomfort of the mess between you and the sudden apparent sting from the bark on your back makes you want to get moving.
“Come on, Sully. Get your soft cock out of me and pull your damn trousers up. Better clean up this mess of mine before getting back.”
The air conditioning that circulates your room feels chilly against your skin later that night. Hell’s Gate seeming noticeably colder and more clinical.
It always feels this way after being out there. After growing accustomed to your Avatar’s larger veins and the temperate climate of the beautiful forest.
But snuggling beneath the covers with Jake’s comforting arm thrown around you warms you from the inside out, and you wiggle down further, cocooning yourself in him with your leg draped over his.
Jake’s arms are one of his proudest assets. A place where he can wear the strength from years of wheeling his own bodyweight around. They feel big and comforting as they envelop you, even when his human body is smaller and more vulnerable than his nine foot tall blue version.
It’s pitch black save for the dim glow of a nearby floodlight outside, providing just enough light through the small window for your eyes to adjust to the swirls of opaque tattoos entwining his arm.
You trace the sharp outlines with your nail idly, feeling a light tug of nerves in the pit of your stomach.
“Hey, Jake?”
“Yeah, sweetheart?” he mutters.
“I’m sorry,” you mumble. “You know… for all that stuff with the gun today. I don’t know what comes over me, I’m just…” You break off, your fingers plucking anxiously at the material of the tank top over his chest. “Everything feels so different out there… You know?”
Jake shifts, and you feel him craning his neck to look at you in the dark.
He brings his other arm across his chest, finding your chin with his thumb and forefinger and tilting your face up towards his.
“Hey. No need for apologies, baby.” He leans down to kiss you with lips softer than earlier.
“I get it. I mean...” he chuckles quietly. “Look at me. I’m the idiot who actually let it happen. I’m just as dumb and hooked on that crazy stuff as you are.”
You chuckle back. “I know. It’s just… to ask for something like that. I can’t believe how insane I really am sometimes.”
“Yeah… me neither.”
You suck in a sudden, quiet breath.
You see the faint pale outline of his playful smirk, his voice a husky whisper. “We’re both insane. And I fucking love it.”
His lips meet yours again, and you can’t help but break into a slow smile against his mouth. It alleviates some of the lingering nerves that swirl in your belly.
But as Jake settles back onto the pillow, shifting his arm underneath his head with a content exhale through his nose, you find yourself chewing at your lower lip.
There’s something else you’d been meaning to ask him tonight.
Something that sends your pulse spiking whenever you consider plucking up the courage to say it out loud.
You try to keep your finger as idle as possible as you trace over his chest.
You decide to just go for it.
It’s probably as good a time as any—lying here in the pitch black so he can’t see how fucking hard you're blushing.
“Jake...”
“Mm?”
“I’ve been… err… thinking. About something,” you mumble.
His head shifts again.
“Yeah? What’s that, love?”
“Well, it’s…” you clear your throat softly. “Sort of a... Well, I mean… I wanted to know if you’d be interested, first, so I thought I’d ask…”
“Oh, Jesus,” he chuckles blithely. “Not sure if I’m quite ready after today’s excitement.”
You let out a nervous laugh. “It’s not anything like that.”
“No?” He squeezes your hip impatiently before bringing his hand up to your hair, raking his fingers in light, gentle strokes through the strands. “What is it then, baby? What’s got that smart tongue of yours in a twist.”
“Well… you know how I love getting to see you drive your Avatar, when I’m like this. With my own eyes.”
Jake’s fingers slow down in your hair, almost stilling completely.
He’s deathly silent, so you hurry on. Sucking on your teeth before releasing a string of words in a tumbling hot flurry.
“I just wondered if maybe you’d wanna get in link and we’d fuck around while I’m still a human or something.”
You scrunch your eyes shut, your nose crinkled up in a cringe.
You realize your whole body has gone tense, waiting for his reaction, until his fingers slowly resume their steady strokes through your hair.
The thrum of the air conditioning unit hums loudly at the edge of the room, and you feel the heavy weight of the grin in Jake’s tone when he finally speaks.
“Ah… You want it really big, huh?”
You let out an embarrassed laugh, your face on fire.
“I mean, I think it could be… good. From a research standpoint. You know?”
Jake laughs darkly. “Oh yeah? That right?”
He rolls into you, squeezing your ass tightly as he kisses you again.
This time it's deeper, the scratchy stubble on his jaw grazing your chin as it moves powerfully against yours, and you giggle, trying to keep the kiss light despite the sudden heat flooding straight through your core.
Meeting Jake out there when you were both driving your Avatars had your blood pumping, sure.
But on those rare occasions you got to see him swagger over to you all blue, towering over you while you were trapped in your human skin…
Well. That was an entirely different game that had your knees on the verge of caving under your weight.
He always seemed extra teasing and playful when you were smaller than him. Crouching down to your level to prod you with his big, blue fingers—flashing you Cheshire grins, ones that seemed far wider and sharper than when you were in your own Avatar.
It was impossible to hold any command over him when he was peering down from five feet above you, and he clearly got a kick out of seeing you get in a fluster over it.
Grace was never fond of him bringing his Avatar into the lab without good reason. And equally there was rarely a good reason for you to be out in the field in an exo-pack, either.
It would be a sensitive minefield to navigate.
But...
You have an idea.
And that idea is seeming more attractive by the second from the haziness of currently being locked in Jake’s all-consuming kiss.
“So,” you pull back from his mouth to breathe. “What do you think?”
“I think I can’t say no to this beautiful, smart woman in my arms,” he rumbles, leaning down to press his pandering lips into your neck instead.
“Hey.” Your voice comes out firmer as you push him back by his forehead. “Don’t get all mushy on me like that when I’m talking about you jamming your godly Na'vi cock in my human pussy.”
“There she is,” he chuckles low and devilishly, pulling himself back up level with your face, his breath tickling your lips.
“Mm… Getting to feel my Avatar’s dick in this tight little thing?”
You gasp as he slides a heavy, warm palm over your pyjama bottoms, slotting his lightly curled fingers into the sensitive gap between your thighs.
“I’d love nothing more, sweetie.”
He kisses you again, slowly. The soft, slick sound of your lips sliding together in the dark sending a fresh spike of heat straight between your legs under the pressure of his massaging fingers.
“I think something can be arranged,” Jake murmurs.
summary: when Garrett asks his best friend to pick up his younger sister and give her a ride to her new college, Dean thinks it will be an easy task. After all, how hard could it be to drive from Portland to New York?
Of course, he didn't count on the storm that would catch them halfway, a flat tire, a bar fight, getting arrested due to a misunderstanding, and the constant bickering with her because they are polar opposites.
But what he least expected was that she might actually spark something inside him. That maybe, after all, she wasn't just Garrett's little sister.
And that he might spark something in her, too.
pairing: dean dilaurentis x reader
content: enemies to lovers, brother's best friend, lots of bickering
inspiration: What she wants by ARIZONA (preview of the song at the end of the story)
A/N: I couldn't wait to post another story after finishing my last one so here it is, this story is based on different songs not only just one like I did with TAXI so I hope you enjoy it and I hope you like some of the songs :) btw I'm not an expert on road trips and I'm guessing it takes much longer to get to the places I mention in here so I apologize in advance lol
"Could you remind me one more time why am I doing this?" Dean asked over the phone, his voice weary. He had been waiting outside his best friend Garrett Graham's house for nearly a damn hour.
"Because you're my best friend and I don’t trust anyone else to do it," Garrett laughed. "I'm really sorry, Dean. I didn't think I'd get stuck at the airport. She is never going to forgive me."
Dean sighed.
When Garrett had called him, panicked, to say his flight was canceled due to an alleged storm, he had almost laughed. He wasn't laughing a few minutes later, though, when he asked him for a favor: to swing by his house and pick up his younger sister. She had been accepted into NYU and needed to be in New York by Saturday. Given New York's constant traffic chaos, it was best to leave as soon as possible. Garrett was an absolute wreck knowing he wouldn't be able to take his sister for her first day of college.
"Tell her I promise to catch up with you guys in New York as soon as I find an available flight," Garrett said.
"If she doesn't just ignore me like she usually does," Dean replied, rolling his eyes. Garrett’s younger sister was a total pain in the ass. She had a hell of a temper and loved to push his buttons. To be honest, the only reason he tolerated her was because of his best friend.
"I owe you a big one, Dean," Garrett said desperately.
"Don't worry about it," Dean answered sincerely.
He was just about to complain to Garrett about how long his little sister was taking when he saw her walk out the front door. How on earth did it take her a whole damn hour to come out when she was dressed exactly the same as always? A plaid shirt, jeans, and some converse.
"Aren't you..." she said, dragging her massive suitcase towards the trunk of his car, "...quite the gentleman?"
"If any—" he tried to say.
"I'm being sarcastic," she interrupted. "Damn it, a little help here?"
Dean rolled his eyes and got out of the car to help her with the suitcase.
"You're an asshole, Garrett," she whispered under her breath.
Dean closed the trunk and stood there for a few seconds with his eyes shut, praying for enough patience to survive the entire trip.
"Take your time," she said as he opened the door to get into the car. "It's not like I have anywhere important to be. Like college, for instance," she added, rolling her eyes.
Dean started the car, put on his Ray-Bans, and hit the pedal. He used one hand to turn up the radio.
"I’m going to pretend you didn't say anything," he said, turning down one of the streets.
"Of the hundreds of friends Garrett has, I still wonder why it had to be you," she muttered. Dean fought back a smile.
She couldn't stand him—not since the time her and her friends sneaked off to a fraternity party, and Dean called Garrett to report her after bumping into her on her way to the restroom. Just like him, she only tolerated him for Garrett's sake. Garrett knew they weren't exactly fond of each other, but he always made an effort to get them to get along. Dean glanced over and saw her leaning back in the passenger seat; she had put her headphones in and closed her eyes. Good. The last thing he wanted to hear was her voice nagging him about Garrett's choice of chauffeur to New York. He turned the radio up a bit more. A hip-hop song was blasting...
"We interrupt this song to bring you a report on the approaching storm. The winter storm will primarily affect the states of Oregon, Idaho, Utah, Wyoming, and Nebraska. If you do not have to leave the city, please stay indoors. Take precautions, we will keep you updated—"
Dean frowned. He hadn't heard anything about a storm. It was October; winter storms didn't usually show up until mid-November. The radio went back to the song as they crossed the state line, heading toward Twin Falls, where he figured he might make a quick stop to grab a bite. Because of how rushed everything had been, he had forgotten to eat lunch.
The sky was already turning dark. He had been driving for a few hours, and they were just about to arrive in Twin Falls. People were walking out of shops carrying umbrellas.
Puzzled, Dean pulled up to a small grocery store. She took off her headphones, looking confused.
"Where are we?" she asked, her voice thick with sleep.
"Idaho," Dean replied, turning off the ignition.
He got out of the car and heard her stepping out behind him.
"And we stopped because...?" she asked. Dean rolled his eyes.
"Because I need something to eat," he answered, walking into the store.
Dean heard her trailing behind him as he browsed the small store for an energy drink and a snack for the road. He grabbed a can of Red Bull, and in the distance, he spotted a bag of Funyuns. The moment he reached to grab it from the shelf, another hand grabbed it first.
"Seriously?" she asked, rolling her eyes.
"I saw it first," Dean countered.
"But I grabbed it first," she shot back defensively.
They locked eyes, staring each other down. Finally, she sighed and tossed the bag of chips back onto the shelf.
"You are so childish," Dean said, walking away from her.
He went to the counter to pay, and once he had his items, he went back to the car. A few seconds later, she returned. Dean started the engine and they set off again, turning up the volume as a Justin Bieber song started playing.
"Truce?" he heard her say. He looked over to see she had opened the bag of Funyuns and was offering him some.
He gave a slight smirk, took a handful, and popped them into his mouth.
As the minutes passed, the rain began to intensify, and the highway started getting slick. Dean tried to drive cautiously, but the downpour was making it difficult. The music was interrupted once again by a storm alert. Dean frowned while she rubbed her arms to warm up.
"They're exaggerating," she said. "It's just a little rain."
Right as she said that, a massive boom of thunder echoed, followed by a few flashes of lightning. Dean looked over at her, raising an eyebrow.
"I think we should pull over."
"What?" she said, shaking her head. "Absolutely not. Hello? I need to get to New York as soon as possible."
"And we won't get there at all if we crash because of the rain," Dean replied, scanning the road for a place to stop.
"Oh, please," she said, letting her head drop back against the seat.
He continued driving even slower, looking for a safe spot to pull the car over. They were on a highway that was practically deserted, save for them and an occasional car.
"Can't we listen to something better?" she asked, leaning forward to change the station.
"Could you..." Dean said, trying to keep his eyes glued to the road, "...not touch my stereo?"
"What a mood," she grumbled. "There's nothing good on anyway."
"Just pick one."
"There literally isn't one," she continued switching stations, which Dean found incredibly annoying.
"Then turn the radio off," he snapped, irritated.
"I hate silence," she shot back, still flipping through channels.
"Damn it, Graham" Dean replied, turning to look at her. "Just put your damn headphones back in."
"What the hell is your problem?"
The two of them began to argue when suddenly, they heard a loud pop, and the car started spinning out on the highway. Dean tried to regain control using the steering wheel, but the road was so wet it was nearly impossible. After a few terrifying seconds, the car came to a halt, and both her and Dean fell dead silent with a country song playing in the background. Dean turned off the engine and checked his rearview mirror. A tire had blown. Great.
"What just happened?" she asked, looking visibly shaken.
"One of the tires blew," Dean replied. Damn it. Garrett was going to lose his mind the second he found out.
"Just what we needed," she said, burying her face in her hands.
Dean sighed and got out of the car, pulling up his hood to shield himself from the pouring rain.
"What are you doing?" she yelled.
"Changing the tire?"
"It's raining," she said, her tone laced with worry.
"Oh, really?" Dean said sarcastically. "I hadn't noticed."
He caught her muttering "idiot" under her breath as he popped the trunk to look for the spare. He shut his eyes when he realized it wasn't there; the last time he was out with Garrett, they had a similar mishap and used it.
"Well?" she asked when he got back into the car.
"I don't have the spare tire."
"Bravo," she said, rolling her eyes. "Exactly what we needed."
Dean huffed, trying to ignore her, and grabbed his cell phone. Brilliant—it was the perfect moment to have absolutely no service. He smacked the steering wheel, making her jump.
"I don't have signal either," she murmured.
"Excellent," Dean replied.
"Dean," she said. He turned to look at her. For the first time since he'd known her, he actually took in her features. She looked a lot like her brother Garrett—they both had tan skin and hazel eyes that sometimes looked brown. But he had never noticed before that she was pretty. Quite pretty, actually. She had plump lips, and her eyelashes looked naturally curled. He swallowed hard when he noticed she realized he was staring at her.
"Yeah?"
"What are we going to do?" she asked, nervously biting her lower lip.
Dean's eyes followed the movement, and suddenly he found himself staring intently at her lips. What the hell are you doing, Dean? She's Garrett's sister. The exact same girl you can't stand, and who can't stand you.
"We need to find a mechanic," he said, clearing his throat.
"Right now?" she asked. "It's late. I don't think we're going to find one open."
"Well," he said, "do you have a better idea?"
She didn't answer, crossing her arms and staring straight ahead. Dean carefully studied her profile and realized she looked good from that angle, too.
"No," she finally answered, turning back to him.
Both of them fell silent. Dean fixed his gaze on the rearview mirror, trying to figure out how to keep Garrett from finding out about the mess him and his sister were currently in. A pair of headlights caught his attention, and he realized a car was approaching. He quickly got out of the vehicle while she started shouting at him to get back inside. He waved his arms to signal the car to stop, and to his luck, it pulled over.
"Hey," Dean said as the car stopped in front of him. A girl and a guy who looked about his age looked back at him with curiosity. "Sorry to bother you, but one of my tires just blew and our phones don't have any signal. Do you know where the nearest mechanic is?"
"A few miles from here," the girl answered, "but it won't be open until tomorrow morning."
Dean cursed internally. The girl’s gaze shifted to something behind him. Frowning, Dean turned around to see little Graham standing by the car, her hair damp, shivering from the cold.
"Hey," Dean called out, "get back in the car, you're going to get sick."
She grabbed his arm, sending a sudden jolt through him, and looked at him with worry.
"Have you guys been out here long?" the guy asked.
"Just a few minutes," Dean replied.
The girl looked at the guy, and the two whispered something to each other while Garrett's sister clung to Dean's arm.
"We were on our way into town," the girl said. "The mechanic is right there. We can give you a ride if you want."
Dean turned to her, who was just looking at him, waiting for his response.
"That would be a huge help," Dean replied.
"Great," the girl said. "Hop in before you catch a cold."
Dean waited for her to grab her bag, and they both climbed into the back of the couple's car. She looked skeptical and kept holding onto him.
"I don't think we should be doing this," she whispered.
"Why not?"
"What if they're serial killers?"
Dean let out a chuckle at that, and she slapped his arm.
"I'm serious," she said. "Don't you watch horror movies? This is exactly how they start."
"Relax," Dean said, giving her a gentle nudge.
"If Garrett finds out about this, he's going to kill us," she said.
"Oh yeah, definitely," he laughed. "And that's exactly why we aren't going to tell him"
Her eyes widened, and Dean simply muttered, "shh," which actually made her smile—probably for the first time since they had been forced to share a car.
"So, are you guys from around here?" the girl asked.
"No," Dean replied. "We're coming from Oregon."
"Oh," she said, "my parents live there." She smiled. "We're from Utah, but we're on vacation right now." She turned back to look at them. "How long have you two been a couple?"
Their eyes went wide, and the question caught Dean completely off guard.
"Oh, no," he said, laughing. "We're not dating."
"No?" she asked. "Oh, I'm sorry, how silly of me."
The guy laughed, and Dean could see how she was looking uncomfortable. He gave her shoulder a little nudge and made a face, making her laugh.
"What about you guys?"
"We've been together for five months," the girl answered.
"And those have been the best five months of my life," the guy added.
"Oh, stop it," the girl said, leaning over to kiss him.
Dean looked at them and then looked next to him, where she was sitting, then she gagged dramatically, and they both shared a quiet laugh.
"By the way, I'm Danna, and this is James," the redhead said, smiling.
They both smiled but didn't say anything. For the rest of the drive, Danna didn't stop talking about the places they had visited and how much they loved each other. When they finally arrived, they parked in front of a bar, causing both of them to frown.
"Well, this is where we're heading," Danna said. "Why don't you guys join us?"
"That sounds nice, but we really need to find a mechanic."
"You won't find one open at this hour," James said. "Come on, guys, let's have a little fun."
Dean turned to her, who was just watching him with her arms crossed, slowly shaking her head.
"Uh..." Dean looked outside. "Yeah, why not?"
The couple got out of the car, and she immediately jabbed Dean in the chest.
"Are you crazy?"
"Ouch," Dean placed a hand over his chest. "Why?" he asked, laughing.
"We are not going in there with them. We don't even know them."
"We're already here," Dean countered. "And the auto shops won't open until tomorrow. Could you just relax for a second?"
"Relax?" she said sarcastically. "What a wonderful idea. Great, let's relax as if our car isn't stranded in the middle of nowhere."
Dean didn't answer; he just shrugged, turned around, and walked towards the bar. He heard her footsteps following close behind. The place was actually quite nice—not the type of spot Garrett and him usually frequented, but a good place considering it was in a small town on the outskirts of Idaho. He took a seat at the bar, and she did the same, looking around with a scowl.
"Hey," Dean said over the music, "why don't you try to enjoy yourself a little?"
She rolled her eyes. "I don't understand how you can say that so easily," she said, visibly annoyed. "We're stranded in the middle of nowhere, and now we're hanging out with..." She glanced towards Danna and James to make sure they were out of earshot. "...with those strangers who have done nothing but kiss and talk about how much they love each other." She made a face of pure disgust at the last part.
Dean let out a laugh, which only made her angrier. He was doing it on purpose, and it seemed to be working. She had a very specific way of showing her anger; along with flailing her hands and yelling, she crinkled her nose in a way that only she could. Whenever he had to stop by Garrett's house, he used to say something stupid just to watch her crinkle her nose and mutter a few curse words before Garrett stepped in.
"Hey, they're in love," Dean said. "Let them be."
She huffed. "They are so stupid, both of them."
"Why?" he asked, purely out of curiosity. The little he knew about her—and what Garrett had occasionally mentioned about her—was enough to know she had never had a boyfriend. Sure, she had been on a couple of dates, but it had never turned into anything serious. To be honest, her way of thinking intrigued him.
"Because they've only been together for five months," she said, looking at them over her shoulder. "And they'll most likely break up at some point."
"Says who?"
"What do I know?" she replied, laughing. "But that's what always happens. Love isn't infinite. It burns out or starts to fade away little by little. It's no big deal."
Dean frowned and bit his tongue to keep from prying further. So that was part of the reason she never really dated anyone. She was, in a way, at war with love. It was either that, or she was terrified of getting her heart broken.
"Well, I think they look good together," Dean said, taking a sip of the beer he had ordered a few seconds ago. "A bit over the top, but it's understandable."
She let out a quiet laugh, and Dean raised an eyebrow.
"What's the joke?"
"Nothing," she said, still giggling. Dean raised his eyebrow again, and she laughed again. "Alright, fine. I'm sorry, it's just funny coming from someone like you."
"Someone like me?"
"Yeah," she said, biting her lower lip, pulling Dean's gaze back to her mouth for the second time that day. Focus, Dean. Don't be an idiot.
"Am I missing something?" he asked. "Because I don't get it."
She gave a timid smile. "It's just that you've always been such a... player?"
Dean choked back a laugh. "Did you really just call me a player?"
"Yes," she said, laughing. "Why does that surprise you? You know you are."
"I am not," Dean frowned.
"Oh, come on," she said, laughing. "You totally are."
Dean narrowed his eyes, and she crinkled her nose. He knew his denial was starting to annoy her.
"You've dated so many girls I've lost count," she said. "I know because you've brought them to Garrett's parties." Her gaze shifted to a couple hugging behind them.
"I haven't dated all of them," Dean said, laughing. "I have female friends, you know."
"Well, Garrett says otherwise," she murmured, but he managed to catch it.
They both fell silent, and Dean wondered why his best friend would say something like that to his sister. Was it to protect her? To warn her to stay away from him? It was glaringly obvious that wasn't necessary, because neither her nor he had ever flashed a flirtatious look or anything close to it. In fact, they barely even spoke. Maybe Garrett did it just to annoy her, or simply because he was an idiot. While he debated the reason in his head, a girl walked past, brushing her arm against his. When he looked up, she gave him a pretty, flirtatious smile. He looked back at his current bar date, who was staring around the room as if she were on Mars or something.
"What are you doing?" she asked, frowning.
"What?" he asked, confused.
"That girl just flirted with you and you didn't do anything."
Dean smiled. "I'm not really in the mood to meet anyone today."
Her mouth dropped open instantly, and Dean had to fight the urge to laugh in her face.
"Have you lost your mind?"
He shook his head and took another sip of his beer.
"Then what?" she insisted. Damn it, like I said before. She is a total pain in the ass.
"I'm not a player," Dean replied. She sat completely frozen in her seat. For a split second, Dean thought he had messed up, but then she burst into laughter.
"Good one," she said, giggling. "I almost believed you."
Dean rolled his eyes. "I don't really care if you believe me or not."
She placed her hand on his shoulder, making him jump slightly.
"I believe you," she said. "I'm sorry, I just didn't think you were being serious at first. But looking at you closely now, you're different."
Dean gave her a half-smile and looked across the bar. A brown-haired guy with freckles was staring at her with a completely struck-dumb look on his face. Dean laughed as he took another sip.
"What's so funny?" she asked.
"You just made a guy fall head over heels for you," Dean said, nodding his head towards the guy.
"Oh, come on," she said, rolling her eyes. "Just shut up."
"I'm serious," Dean said, laughing.
"Oh, really?" she asked.
"Yeah," Dean said, nodding again. She sighed and looked over at the guy, who smiled at her, causing her to snap her head right back to Dean.
"How awful," was the first thing she said, making Dean burst out laughing.
"Why?" he asked. "He looks like he's your age." He examined him from afar. "He’s wearing a sweater straight out of Old Navy, probably. And he seems like your type."
"My type?" She frowned.
"Yeah," Dean said. "He looks smart, like he just stepped out of a library."
She laughed. "That is not my type. How on earth could you think that?"
Dean shrugged, and she tossed her long hair over her shoulder.
"I don't have a type," she said. She frowned as the bartender set a beer down in front of her. "Thanks, but I don't drink."
"It's from the guy in blue," the bartender said, pointing over at Mr. Old Navy.
She forced a smile, raised the beer in acknowledgment, and Dean tried his best not to burst into laughing.
"What were you saying?"
"That I don't have a type," she said, leaning in to smell the beer, making a face that Dean found incredibly amusing. "If a guy can make me laugh and manage to tolerate my temper, then that's enough for me."
"I guess I don't have to ask why you haven't had a boyfriend then," Dean replied, earning himself a playful swat from her.
"Hey," she said, "my temper isn't any worse than yours."
"You are unbearable," Dean said, raising an eyebrow. "And you know it."
"You are too," she said, rolling her eyes. "And that's why you love reminding the whole world about it."
They both laughed, and Dean felt a sudden wave of warmth being like this with her. They had never had a conversation before—not of any kind. And now here they were, chatting away as if it was the most natural thing in the world.
"Are you excited for college?"
"So excited," she answered, her eyes lighting up instantly.
"I'm really glad you got accepted," Dean said sincerely. She looked a little surprised.
"Thank you," she answered, blushing. Damn it. There was something about her... she looked different when her cheeks flushed. Hell, either I'm losing my mind or this beer is way too strong.
"I..." she started, and Dean noticed her crinkle her nose. Something was bothering her. "I'm sorry for acting like a brat earlier. I know we're nowhere near New York yet, and I've already made the trip pretty difficult for you."
Maybe I might fall in love tonight inside the backseat, Maybe we could fall in love tonight inside the backseat
summary: you reunite with the love of your life inside the back of a taxi pairing: dean dilaurentis x reader
content: fluff, romance, happy ending
inspiration: TAXI by EXES (preview of the song at the end of the story)
part one, part two, part three, part four
A/N: thank you so much for reading this story, I already have something else planned and I can’t wait for u guys to read it ⭐️
"Do you think I should bring a coat?" Dean asks from the other side of the door.
I roll my eyes but can't help but laugh. "A coat in Los Angeles?" I ask back. "Seriously?"
Dean pokes his head through the open bedroom door and just laughs. We were packing our bags to go visit my mother. It had been exactly three years since I last visited California, but since Kat let the news slip that Dean and I had gotten engaged while she was on a call with my mother, my mom practically demanded that I return to Los Angeles so she could meet Dean. And here we were, driving ourselves crazy with the luggage, the flight, everything.
After leaving the airport, I decided that I never wanted to be away from Dean again. So, at that moment, I announced to my father that I planned to stay for a few more days after the holidays. Those "few more days" turned into a year, then two, and now three. Two years living in New York and one year living with Dean.
"I'm sorry," Dean says, walking into the room. "It's just that this whole thing is driving me crazy. What if your mother doesn't like me?"
I smile. "My mother already adores you," I say, stepping closer to him. "And she hasn't even met you yet. So relax, baby." Dean smiles, but I can tell he's still nervous. I plant a quick kiss on his lips and continue packing.
A few minutes later, the doorbell rings, and I hear Dean tell me that he'll get it. I sigh and can't help but smile as I look around. Every day that I wake up next to Dean, I would remind myself that this is real. That we were truly together and that we were going to get married.
"Babe," I hear Dean's voice. "Your dad and Kat are here."
Quickly, I zip up the suitcase and run downstairs to the first floor. Dad, Kat, and Tucker were already there. After Dean and I sorted things out between us, we kept up the tradition of going to the karaoke bar, and most of the time, we dragged Katherine along with us. On one of those nights, we ran into Tucker, Kat's ex-boyfriend and a friend of ours. As time went on, the four of us started hanging out like old times, which resulted in Kat and Tucker dating again. It was to be expected; Kat always used to say that Tucker was the love of her life.
"Hey," Katherine says. "Were you planning on leaving without saying goodbye? I see you two have way too much in common."
I roll my eyes and walk over to hug her. "Of course not. We were going to call you before heading to the airport."
"What do you say, Dean?" Katherine laughs. "Ready to meet Mom?" Dean makes a face, making us all laugh.
"She's a nice woman," Dad says. "Not all the time, I must warn you."
"Dad," I say, shooting him a look.
"What?" Dad laughs. "I didn't get divorced for nothing."
Everyone laughs again, even me. So much time had passed that we could finally laugh about it now; even Mom joked about the divorce.
"What are you laughing at, Tucker?" Dad says suddenly. "Next year is your turn." Tucker makes a horrified face, and Katherine laughs.
"Do you have everything ready for the trip?" Dad asks. I nod.
"Yes."
"Well, if you don't need our help, all that's left is to say goodbye and wish you luck," Dad says again. "Especially to you, son—good luck with that woman." I shake my head and hug my dad.
"Stop it, dad." My father raises his hands in surrender and pats Dean on the back. "Take care of my little girl, alright?" he says. "And make sure she comes back home and her mother doesn't keep her in California."
Dean laughs. "Sure thing, sir."
"Sir?" my father questions. "When are you going to start calling me dad?" Then my father smiles playfully and murmurs, "Or grandpa..."
"Dad!" I instantly say, blushing furiously.
Everyone starts laughing and Dean wraps his arms around me so I can hide my embarrassed face. After chatting for a bit and promising we'd be back for the holidays, Katherine announces that she has called a taxi to pick us up and take us to the airport. I thank her and say goodbye to her, Dad, and Tucker.
A few minutes later, Dean and I were standing outside the house, in front of the door with our suitcases, waiting for our cab. When it arrives, I help Dean load the bags into the trunk, and then we both get into the back seat. Nostalgia settles into my chest, and I turn to look at Dean, who is smiling, thinking the exact same thing.
As the ride goes on, I notice the driver repeatedly glancing at us through the rearview mirror. I tilt my head with curiosity, and when my eyes meet the driver's, I see them widen in surprise.
"Oh, holy shit!" he says instantly. "I knew it was you guys!"
I frown, and I see Dean turn to look at me, confused. "Excuse me?" Dean asks, puzzled.
"The Eastside kids," he laughs. "The car ran out of gas. Ring a bell?"
My mouth drops open in surprise, and I look over at Dean, who is just smiling.
"Wow, what a coincidence," he says. "How's it going? How have you been?"
Without saying a word, I lift my left hand to face level and show him my engagement ring. His eyes go wide, and he turns around, smiling with excitement.
"Holy shit!" he says. "You're getting married!" I nod, laughing, and he adds, "Wait, wait. The last time I saw you, you both said goodbye in such a sad way that even I wanted to cry." He points at us. "How did that... turn into this?"
I shrug. "Well," I say, "it all started with a ride in the back seat of a taxi."
The guy laughs, thrilled. "Oh my god, I'm a total cupid. I knew it."
Dean and I laugh, and I feel Dean take my hand. "I'm really happy for you guys, truly," he says, smiling. "And I'm glad my cab was a big help."
I can't stop smiling, not even while we tell him our story—how we met and how we got to where we are now. We talk the whole way to the airport until the guy receives a call, leaving Dean and me alone to talk for a moment.
"Do you know what I'd love to hear right now?" He raises an eyebrow, and I continue, "I'd love to hear you say you love me, even though you already have me. Because you really do have me, Dean Di Laurentis."
"I love you," Dean says, kissing the tip of my nose. "I love you so much baby"
"You should start calling me Mrs. Di Laurentis," I say, making him laugh.
"That's only happening if I survive your mother." I smile, shaking my head.
"Oh, of course you will. You'll survive, and you're going to change my last name, I'm sure of it."
Dean kisses my forehead, and then the car pulls to a stop. Dean and I break apart, and I see the driver watching us with a tender look on his face. "Well, guys, we're here," he says, smiling. "Have a great trip!".
I thank him, and before getting out of the car, Dean pulls out one of his business cards and hands it to the guy, who looks at it curiously. "Here you go," Dean says. "I hope you can keep in touch." He smiles and adds, "Because I think we're going to need a taxi for our wedding day."
The guy nods quickly, excited. "Holy shit, absolutely. Count on it."
I smile and step out of the car, helping Dean with the bags. After everything, we had managed to make it to this moment. The two of us, together, engaged, and about to visit my mother. Back then, when I decided to return to Los Angeles, I remember thinking how great it would have been for Dean to meet my mom or visit California for the first time, but at the time, it was only a dream. A dream that was now coming true.
Life was funny like that. One day I hated Dean and wanted nothing to do with him. And the next, I ended up falling in love with him all over again, in the back seat of a taxi.
Maybe I might fall in love tonight inside the backseat, Maybe we could fall in love tonight inside the backseat
summary: you reunite with the love of your life inside the back of a taxi pairing: dean dilaurentis x reader
content: angst, romance, flashbacks
inspiration: TAXI by EXES (preview of the song at the end of the story)
A/N: there's still one more part coming up :) thanks for all the love you've shown to this story ❤
part one, part two, part three
I watched impatiently as people walked back and forth, fleeing from the rain that had decided to fall over the weekend. I hated that the weather had somehow aligned itself with exactly how I was feeling.
Dean was going to leave the same way I had. But I didn't feel brave enough to stop him.
"Can't sleep either, sweetheart?" I heard my dad's voice, snapping me out of my trance. It was the early hours of the morning, and I was anxious knowing it was already Monday—the day Dean would leave New York.
"No, Dad," I replied with a sigh.
My father knew something had happened. But just like me, he couldn't find the words to ask. On Saturday morning, after I had cried for the rest of the night alongside Katherine, Dad tried to chat animatedly about my flight, my mom, and California. But I had neither the headspace nor the energy for it. Even so, Dad limited himself to asking Katherine about me, but she simply told him I was just going through a complicated time after coming back to them after five years.
"Sweetheart," my father said, sighing. "I know Kat said I shouldn't worry, but you're still my little girl. And even though your mother was always the expert in these matters of love and feelings, I want you to know your old man has been trying. If you need to talk about it, you can."
I smiled. My parents had faced problems because Dad found it hard to talk about his feelings, and Mom, being the hopeless romantic she was, couldn't tolerate it.
"Thanks, Dad," I said, feeling a lump in my throat. "It’s... it’s a lot of things, really."
My father nodded and crossed his arms over the table. "It's him, isn't it?"
I frowned. "Who?"
"Dean," he responded, as if it were entirely obvious.
I fell silent, feeling embarrassed, but my father patted me on the back to let me know everything was okay.
"I know, sweetheart," he answered. "I've always known. Dean hurt you, and that's why you didn't want to visit us for a long time." I stared at him incredulously. Had Katherine told him? "I know it seems like I don't pay attention to these things, but I always knew."
I sighed, feeling exhausted, but then Dad added, "Besides, Dean told me."
He what? Oh God, no.
"What did he tell you, Dad?"
"Everything, sweetheart. Everything."
Katherine knew, even my father knew. Why was I the only one left in the dark? Because the moment it happened, I ran away. Right.
"We caught the same taxi yesterday by pure chance," I blurted out suddenly.
My father’s eyes widened in surprise. "Look at that," he laughed a little. "The odds of something like that happening."
I smiled faintly. "It was totally unexpected. A lot happened." I sighed. "I thought that after seeing him again, after learning the whole truth, I could forgive him. But I don't know, Dad. I don't know if I should."
"It's hard," he replied. "What he did to you wasn't pretty at all. What happened between the two of you. But if there’s one thing I’m sure of, it’s that Dean loves you. And he has for a lot longer than you think." He laughed, shaking his head. "I might be old, but I have eyes, and I know how to recognize when a boy starts visiting my daughter a bit too much."
I couldn't help but laugh, but I still felt the lump in my throat.
"When we got home after the taxi ride," I sighed, "he asked me if I loved him."
"And what did you say to him?"
"I didn't answer."
My father pressed his lips together and smiled. "And if you had answered, what would you have told him?"
I was left speechless. I hadn't really thought about it. Do I love him? Memories of the night and the journey we shared flashed through my mind. I hadn't felt that happy and whole in a long time, and Dean had made me feel that way again. The answer had always been there, but I couldn't see it through my anger and all the conflicting emotions I had towards him and what had happened. I even remembered how frustrated I felt at not having the chance to talk to him about it—about having acted impulsively the moment I told Mom I wanted to go back with her.
"That I do," I confessed, instantly freeing myself from the words I had wanted to say so badly.
My father smiled. "Then you have to tell him, honey. Dean needs to know that despite everything, you still love him."
"Yeah, well," I grimaced, "if I ever travel to Italy, maybe I’ll tell him."
My father frowned. "What are you talking about?"
"Dean is going to Italy with his mother."
"When?" he asked, confused.
"Possibly at this very moment."
My father’s eyes widened, and he quickly stood up, catching me off guard. "Katherine! Kat!" he yelled up the stairs. "Katherina!" he shouted again, using the nickname he had given her that Kat absolutely despised.
"How many times have I told you not to call me that, Dad?" Katherine replied, coming out of her room. "What's going on? Is everything okay?"
Katherine’s eyes shifted from my father to me, and I just shook my head, just as confused as she was.
"We are taking your sister to the airport right this second."
"Seriously, dude?" Katherine asked. "Isn't it a bit too soon to go back to California?"
My father waved his hand dismissively. "She isn't going anywhere. It's Dean. That silly boy wants to leave New York without telling anyone."
"Dean is leaving?" Katherine asked, shocked. "That bastard... I swear I didn't know anything" she pointed at me.
"I know," I said, smiling as I stood up.
"Well," Dad said, "what are you waiting for? Let's go stop that Di Laurentis boy."
Katherine laughed, shaking her head, and grabbed my arm to lead me out of the house. In a second, we were already in Dad's car, speeding towards the airport. I couldn't believe what I was doing. I was actually going to stop Dean. I was actually going to tell him that I loved him. Because I did. I loved him just as much, if not more, than I did five years ago.
When we arrived at the airport, my dad told us to get out while he found parking. Katherine practically dragged me towards the terminals, and soon, we were both searching frantically for a pretty face with blue eyes and blonde hair.
"I don't see him," I said, feeling terror take hold of me. "He's probably already gone."
"He'd better not be," Katherine said, never stopping her search. "Or I'll have to book a flight to Italy just to punch him in the face."
I couldn't help but laugh, and right then, I spotted him.
He was sitting down with his headphones on. He was dressed entirely in black, in his usual sporty style—a look I loved on him. His head was resting against the uncomfortable chair, and his suitcase rested near his feet. His eyes were closed, so he didn't see us approaching.
"You think you can just bugger off without saying a single word?" Katherine said loudly, hitting him on the chest. Dean jumped in startle and looked at the two of us in surprise. "You're not getting rid of me that easily, bro."
Dean took off his headphones and laughed. "I am well aware of that."
"Italy?" Katherine said. "Seriously?"
Dean shrugged. "My mother practically lives there."
"Well, your mother has the whole Italian look, I don't blame her," Katherine laughed. "But you? Well damn, you have New York tattooed on your forehead."
Dean smiled, but his gaze shifted to me. I took a deep breath, nervous.
"Well," Katherine said dramatically, "I need to check that Dad hasn't parked in the disabled spot again. He always gets fined for that."
Dean and I laughed, remembering the countless times Dad had been fined for parking where he shouldn't. Katherine threw us a look and walked away, leaving us alone. I felt my whole body tremble, and I fixed my gaze on the floor.
"Hey"
I looked up at him and saw him watching me with curiosity.
"I..." I tried to say. Come on, don't chicken out now.
"You?"
I sighed. Okay, here goes nothing.
"You can't leave, Dean."
Dean smiled sadly. "It's for the best."
"For whom?"
"For both of us?" He sighed. "That way, you can spend more time here in the city."
"God, Dean," I said, shaking my head. "Is that what you think? That I need you to leave just so I can come here?"
Dean nodded, looking embarrassed.
"It's not like that," I said quickly. "Do you know why I didn't come back for five years?" Dean watched me in silence, and I continued. "It wasn't because I couldn't stand the thought of seeing you. It was because I was terrified of the fact that, despite the way you hurt me, I still had feelings for you. I was terrified of coming back and falling right back into your trap. Because I knew I would. I knew the moment I stepped foot in New York, you would find me, and we would talk, and we would fix it somehow. But I also knew you could hurt me again. And I just couldn't handle that. That's what it is. It's not your presence; it's my feelings for you." Dean was left speechless—I could tell the moment his mouth opened but no words came out, so I added one more thing: "Feelings that, despite all this time, haven't disappeared."
Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed my father arriving with Katherine, but they kept a fair distance, giving Dean and me our space.
"Do you remember what you asked me when we got out of the taxi?"
Dean answered, his voice cracking slightly, "Yes."
"Well, the answer is yes," I said, feeling my chest swell with emotion and uncertainty. "I love you, Dean. I never stopped loving you, and honestly, I don't think I ever will."
Dean didn't reply, and I felt the anxiety inside me spike. What if it was already too late?
"I know I acted like a child, that I didn't want to listen to you and I ran away," I said quickly. "And I'm sorry, I shouldn't have done that. I should have stayed and listened. But it's different now. Now, neither of us has to run." As I said this, a woman's voice over the loudspeaker announced the flight to Italy, and my palms began to sweat. "Don't do it, Dean. Don't run away like I did."
Dean seemed to be having a battle within himself; I knew the feeling well because I felt the exact same way. I watched him swallow nervously, and then he stood up and picked up his suitcase. He was going to leave. After everything, he was actually going to do it.
It was too late. Five years too late, to be exact. Dean had no reason to wait again, and above all, Dean had no reason to stay. If I had been asked to stay back then, I wouldn't have done it.
"I'm sorry," I whispered, feeling my heart wrench. "I'm really sorry."
"For what?" Dean said softly, just for the two of us.
"For not listening to you, and for making you wait all these years."
Dean smiled. "It's okay. I'll get over it."
I let out a breathless laugh and crossed my hands in front of me. I wanted to hug him, but I wasn't sure if that was a good idea. I wasn't sure of anything anymore.
I watched Dean take his suitcase and turn on his heels, looking towards Dad and Katherine, who were watching us as if they were witnessing a dramatic movie unfold right before their eyes. Dean smiled at them and began to walk away, dragging his suitcase behind him.
I felt the air leave my body, and all my strength began to fade. If five years ago I thought I had lost Dean after what he did, now I truly was losing him. It was funny in a way—who would have thought things would flip like this? Now I was the one who would have to wait for him.
I turned to look at Dad and Kat with tears in my eyes, and I saw Dad giving me a sad smile. I started walking towards them, desperate to feel their arms around me, when I heard Dean's voice again.
"Do you think you could come with me?" he said, catching me completely by surprise. "I was planning on going alone, but to be honest, now that I think about it, I'm terrified the girl at the desk will tell me she can't refund the flight."
A mischievous smile danced across his face, and without a second thought, I sprinted toward him, throwing myself into his arms. Dean laughed and caught me right in time, keeping us both from crashing to the floor from the sheer momentum of my hug. Not caring at all that Dad and Katherine were watching, I cupped his face in my hands and crashed my lips against his.
Maybe I might fall in love tonight inside the backseat, Maybe we could fall in love tonight inside the backseat
summary: you reunite with the love of your life inside the back of a taxi pairing: dean dilaurentis x reader
content: slightly smut, suggestive content, lots of angst (like really, super angsty i swear), romance, flashbacks
inspiration: TAXI by EXES (preview of the song at the end of the story)
part one, part two
Could it really be possible for me to fall in love with Dean all over again in the backseat of a taxi?
I didn't know, but a part of me wanted to believe it. As his lips trace down my neck and my hands travel across his back, I remind myself that this is the present. The past, the bad things, and the bitter memories were forgotten—at least for now. With a certain shyness, Dean reaches for the edge of my t-shirt and begins to lift it; at the same time, I help him pull off his white sweater. A gasp escapes my mouth when I see Dean shirtless. He was more muscular and defined now; nothing remained of the seventeen-year-old boy with whom I had my first time. The only boy I had ever let into my life that way. When his mouth returns to my neck, I sigh and bite my lower lip. His hands delicately caress my waist and move upward, stopping over my breasts, massaging them so softly that I can't help but groan out loud.
I blush, remembering that we were in the backseat of a taxi parked in a store lot.
I feel Dean smile against my neck before he shifts the direction of his kisses until they meet my lips again. The moment I feel his tongue slip into my mouth, I lose control. Quickly, I unbutton Dean’s pants and help push them down to his ankles. In the same manner, Dean unbuttons my pants and removes them, leaving them on the floor of the car. Now, both of us were in our underwear, panting and seeking more of each other with every movement, with every kiss.
I sigh as Dean lowers his head to the level of my breasts and kisses them delicately. My hand travels into his hair, gripping it between my fingers and tugging slightly as his kisses grow more intense. When Dean’s hand reaches the clasp of my bra, my breath catches. I could stop this; I could tell him this was a mistake. But a mistake shouldn't feel this good, and above all, it shouldn't be exactly what I need so badly. So, I don't stop him. I don't stop him even when he rids me of my panties.
I bite my lower lip, keeping myself from crying out as I feel him inside me. He was moving slowly, but it had been a long time since I’d been with anyone. So, it practically felt like the first time. It was ironic to think that the last time I was with someone it was with Dean, and now that I was with someone again, it was also him. I place my hands on Dean’s shoulders and feel them tense with every thrust of his hips. The heat and the panting build in the back of the small car, and I feel like I might explode at any moment.
When my breathing returns to normal, I rest my head on Dean’s chest, feeling his rapid heartbeat. Now I was on top of him, pressing my body against his, with my hair and my mind a total mess. Everything inside me told me this shouldn't have happened—but what if it really was meant to? Maybe I needed this to forgive Dean, or maybe I needed this to reaffirm to myself that staying away from Dean was for the best.
"What are you thinking about?" Dean asks suddenly in the darkness of the car. The streetlights barely reached the backseat, leaving us practically in the shadows.
"About everything," I answer with a sigh.
"You're not..." I hear him swallow hard. "You're not regretting this, are you?"
I lift my head from his chest and meet his deep blue eyes, which are watching me carefully.
"No," I say, and I see his face relax. "This had to happen."
Dean frowns. "Why do you say that?"
"Because..." I sigh. "How else could I admit how much I've missed you?"
The smile that spreads across Dean’s face makes my heart skip a beat. I smile back without thinking. He looked so happy, and I couldn't blame him; I felt the exact same way, only with an internal battle raging between what I had felt for so many years and what I was feeling at this precise moment.
"I missed this," he said, catching me off guard. "All of this. Your smile, your hair, you."
I sigh and rest my head on his chest again, not knowing exactly what to say. I'm sorry for walking away? For never coming back? It wasn't exactly my fault. I felt like I had no other choice.
"Where will you go?" I murmured.
"I was thinking about Italy," he replies, taking a deep breath. "My mother has a house there and she's been traveling constantly lately, so I thought I could go with her."
"Why?" I asked almost instantly.
Dean falls silent, taking his time to answer, but when he does, it leaves me breathless: "Because New York isn't the same without you. It hasn't been the same since you left."
"But I'm here now," I say, feeling small. I didn't like feeling this way—so vulnerable around him.
"I know," Dean replies. "But for how long? Until the holidays are over? We both know that once the New Year ends, you'll go back to California." He sighs. "And I don't know if I can go back to that. To counting the days until your return. Days that turn into weeks, then months, and then years."
I knew it. I knew it had affected Dean just as much as it had affected me. My mind had been so determined to make me believe that Dean just carried on as if nothing happened—partying, happy, celebrating with his friends while I plunged into my sadness every single day. But as always, it wasn't the way I had thought. And it was horrible knowing that we had both hurt each other.
I feel a massive lump in my throat that prevents me from speaking, so I just limit myself to sighing.
"But it's okay," Dean says. "I understand. I understand that it will take time for you to believe in me."
I lift my head from his chest and place my hands on his face. "It will take time," I say with a sigh. "But how am I supposed to do that if you're not here?"
I see Dean’s jaw tighten, and I run my hand over that exact spot, caressing it softly.
"We've both hurt each other," I whisper, "but we're still here. Right now, together. That has to mean something, doesn't it?"
Dean nods and pulls my body into an embrace. I can't help the smile that forms on my face as I lose myself in the warmth of his chest. As I drift off to sleep, I can hear Dean’s breathing, and it comforts me. Was I really willing to give Dean another chance? After all this time?
A noise at the car window wakes both Dean and me up. I look outside and see the taxi driver leaning against the car with his back to us.
"Hey guys," he says, his voice strained as if he's trying not to laugh. "I found help. I'm going to let you... you know." He chuckles. "But don't worry, I didn't see anything."
I blush, and Dean laughs, shaking his head. I quickly put my clothes back on, and Dean does the same. Then we both get out of the car to stretch our incredibly sore muscles.
"Sorry for the delay," the guy says sheepishly. "A guy said he'd help me if I beat him in a beer pong match." He rolls his eyes. "It’s been an interesting night. How about you guys?" As he says this, his face turns bright red and he starts to cough. "I... uh, you don't have to answer."
Both Dean and I laugh, and then Dean walks away to see if the man needed help while hooking up a hose connecting the taxi to a fuel container. Once I'm left alone with the driver, I notice he is still blushing.
"Can I ask you something?" he says, catching my attention.
"Sure"
"Things have changed between you two, right?"
My mouth drops open, and then a laugh escapes me. "Yeah, you could say that."
"I can tell," he says, chuckling. "You don't have that look on your face anymore."
"What look?" I frown.
"When you looked at him before, I could see sadness, resentment, and I'd even venture to say hate." He sighs. "But now you look at him as if you're afraid to lose him."
"You're quite the observer, aren't you?"
The guy laughs. "When you work in this business, you notice a lot of things. Even things the passengers don't notice about themselves."
I smile and glance over at Dean chatting with the man with the gasoline.
"He hurt you, didn't he?" the guy asks.
"He was the first boy I ever fell in love with, and he broke my heart."
"Wow," he huffs, taking off his cap. "That's a tough thing to forget."
I sigh and nod.
"But you still love him, don't you?"
Did I? Damn it, I didn't have an answer. Dean was the only boy in my life. He was everything to me. But after a betrayal got in the way, it was hard for me to think about him and my feelings. Now that I knew the truth—something I hadn't expected—could it change everything?
Before I can answer, Dean returns and announces to the guy that the car is ready to resume our trip to East New York. My hands sweat and I feel my body tremble once we find ourselves back in the backseat of the taxi, now heading home. What would happen after the ride ended? Maybe we could go back? Pause the drama and start from scratch. Was that even possible?
"Smoke is going to come out of your head if you keep thinking like that," Dean says, drawing my attention.
I give him a playful punch to the chest, prompting him to take my arm and pull me against his body. It was comforting to be like this with him. Sitting next to each other, cuddling in the back. It felt as though we were all alone on this journey. I look out the window at the city. It was four in the morning already, but the city was livelier than ever. That was what I adored about New York; here, the night was infinite. Here, there was always a possibility to fix things. If you messed up at a certain point in the night, you had all the time in the world to resolve it. Dean takes my hand and intertwines our fingers while I rest my head on his chest and close my eyes.
I wanted to stay like this forever. With my hair fluttering around my head from the air coming through the driver's window. With Dean holding me in his arms and his chin resting on top of my head. Being here, it felt as if nothing had happened five years ago. As if we both belonged in that backseat.
When the car stops, I don't want to open my eyes. I really don't want to. I feel Dean’s lips close to my ear and I force myself to do it. We were already outside my dad’s house. The lights were off, and the only things I could hear were Dean’s breathing and a Beatles song playing in the background.
"We're here," Dean murmurs with a hint of bitterness.
I look in the rearview mirror and see the driver giving me a sad smile. It was as if he knew exactly what my mind and heart were feeling right now. With my heart pounding, I turn to look at Dean and I know I have so many things to tell him. So much to express. But I can't. I simply can't.
"Go on, get out," Dean says with a chuckle, "or the fare will go up." Then he adds, "Even more."
That makes me laugh, but I can't stop the tears from spilling from my eyes. I looked like a crazy person, laughing with my face bathed in tears.
"I don't want you to go, Dean," I say suddenly.
Dean frowns in a way that makes him look adorable. "I'm only a few blocks away."
My hands grip his sweater, holding on tightly. Wishing he wouldn't walk away from me.
"You know what I mean."
Dean sighs, his gaze fixing on the car window. I see him swallow hard, and I feel my legs tremble.
"Do you love me?" he asks suddenly. "After everything, do you still love me?"
I can't answer. I simply can't do it. I wasn't sure of anything—not after what happened between us, and not after all that time spent away from each other. Dean smiles, but it's a bitter smile, and he opens the taxi door. Somewhat dazed, I get out too, and it doesn't take long for Dean to place my suitcase in front of me.
"I love you" Dean says, leaving me frozen. "I love you, even if you can't love me back."
Without letting me respond, Dean climbs back into the backseat of the car and closes the door, disappearing from my sight in seconds. I bite my lower lip, trying to stop myself from crying even harder, but I can't. I was a covered in tears, and that is exactly how Katherine finds me when she opens the front door of the house. Without even asking a thing, Katherine wraps her arms around me and lets me cry for as long as I need to. Though I wasn't sure if it would be enough. To get over something like this, I would have to cry for a year, or maybe even another five.
Maybe I might fall in love tonight inside the backseat, Maybe we could fall in love tonight inside the backseat
summary: you reunite with the love of your life inside the back of a taxi
pairing: dean dilaurentis x reader
content: angst, romance, flashbacks
inspiration: TAXI by EXES (preview of the song at the end of the story)
A/N: this is a short story so this is just the first part, I'll be uploading the rest later, also english is not my first language but i hope you like it still :)
part two
I rub my hands, which are covered in thick, plush gloves, but the cold remains and seems determined to stay. Well, it was obvious. I was arriving in New York in December. Expecting the weather not to be as terrible as it currently is, was pretty foolish of me.
"Answer, Katherine," I curse again when I get no response whatsoever from my older sister.
I was back in New York after a long time. My parents had separated when Kat and I were just girls. While Mom decided to stay in California, Dad took a bit of a risk and chose to settle down somewhere completely different. Both Kat and I wanted to stay close to both of them, so I used to spend a season with my dad and the majority of the time with Mom. Unlike me, Kat preferred the weather and views of New York.
But here I was again. I hadn’t been here in almost five years, and though I was excited to see Dad and Kat again, the reality was that I had spent months and years avoiding this visit. I liked New York. It was my second home. But it was also the place where my heart had been broken for the very first time. And that’s something no girl wants to return to.
"For God's sake, Katherine, are you kidding me?" I say under my breath, but a guy throws a curious look my way as he passes by, dragging a massive suitcase.
My sister was supposed to pick me up from the airport—or at least, that had been her promise when she found out I was coming to visit for the holidays. I sigh and check the time on my phone again. It was 11:30 PM, and there were only two possible reasons why Katherine wasn't answering her phone. The first was that she was fast asleep, which I doubted since it was a Friday night in New York. That brought me to the second reason: Katherine was probably out partying.
Thirty minutes later, I was seriously contemplating different ways to murder my sister. Right, to hell with Kat. I could make it home by myself. After all, how hard could it be to catch a taxi?
I grab my suitcase and step out into the freezing air, which makes my entire body shiver. Since the holidays were just around the corner, taxis seemed to be in extremely high demand, so it didn't surprise me that not a single one was waiting outside the airport. Central New York needed thousands of cabs to take drunk tourists back to their hotels. Frowning, feeling my hands completely numb, I spot car headlights in the distance. I pray silently that it’s a taxi, raising my hand the instant I see the tiny yellow car.
When it pulls up and I see the sign indicating that it is indeed a taxi and currently in service, I relax almost instantly.
"Hi," I greet him politely. "Excuse me, I'm struggling to find a taxi. Are you heading East?"
The driver nods and smiles a bit nervously. "Yes, miss."
"Great," I say with a laugh. "I thought I'd never get home."
"The fare is a bit high because of the hour, but I can take you."
"Thank you." I smile, and the guy gets out to help me put my suitcase in the trunk.
Once he shuts it, he quickly hops back in, and I do the same. Slipping into the back seat, I jump and feel my heart stop when I notice a guy sitting there, watching me with a curious smirk.
"Oh my God, you scared me to death," I frown. "I'm sorry. I didn't know the taxi was already occupied."
"You're both heading East, miss, it's no trouble for me to take you both."
I open my mouth to say something, but then my stomach drops as I recognize the guy sitting next to me. Five years had passed, but he was exactly the same. Same blue eyes, same troublesome smile, same Dean.
"Dean," I sigh, breathing out his name.
"Hey," he replies instantly.
I close my eyes. Why did this have to happen to me? Seriously? Of all the guys in New York and all the taxis... why did he have to be in mine?
"I'm sorry, but this isn't happening," I say quickly, trying to open the door, but Dean stops me, grabbing my arm.
"Seriously?" he sighs. "It's almost midnight and there are no taxis around. I'm not leaving you here."
"Well, I'll figure something out. But I am not riding in this car with you."
The taxi driver, with the car still in park, looks back and forth between Dean and me with amusement and a bit of confusion. I cross my arms, and Dean mimics my action. Now we look like two toddlers fighting in the back seat of their parents' car.
"Uh... guys," the driver interrupts our little argument. "Can I start driving or...?"
"Yes," Dean answers.
"No," I interrupt this time.
"I forgot how stubborn you are."
"It's good that at least one of us can forget."
A silence settles over the small car, and the driver clears his throat, catching Dean's attention.
"Drive."
I open my mouth to protest, but the guy starts the engine and pulls away before I can even think about getting out. Oh my god, five years avoiding running into Dean Di Laurentis, and now I found myself sharing a taxi with him. Thanks, life.
Still with my arms crossed, I turn my head towards the window, trying to ignore Dean's presence—even though the reality was quite the opposite. I could feel him. I could feel the heat radiating from his body next to mine, the scent of his cologne that was practically engraved in my memory, and, of course, his blue eyes locked onto me.
"What?" I ask, turning my head. "Would you rather take a picture? That way you can look at it longer."
Dean suppresses a smile and shakes his head. "How have you been?"
I shrug. "Fine, I guess."
"I didn't know you were coming to the city for the holidays," he says. "Kat didn't mention it."
Ah. So that traitor Katherine was still in touch with him. This was going to make for an interesting dinner conversation.
"I wasn't planning on coming," I reply. "I didn't want to. But there was a change of plans."
"Your dad is going to be so happy," he says, completely ignoring my comment about not wanting to be here. "He hasn't stopped talking about how much he misses you."
"You still talk to my dad?"
"Of course," he frowns. "Why wouldn't I?" I look at him, raising an eyebrow, and Dean just smiles. "Not as much as before, but we run into each other here and there."
I don't answer. It was pretty obvious my dad would want to keep talking to him. To my father, Dean was the perfect guy. They shared the same love for hockey and local bars. And I didn't blame him; Dean was perfect. Or he used to be. Before everything happened.
"And how's California?" he asks. "As hot as always?"
I don't answer again, and I notice Dean scratch his neck, looking a bit frustrated.
"Are you going to ignore me the whole ride?"
When I don't reply, Dean scoffs and rests his head against the window. I should have felt glad that I was managing to maintain this distant attitude with him, but for some reason, my chest ached. I knew Dean deserved it, but a part of me didn't want to accept it. The driver glances back at us and turns up the radio volume to ease the tension and awkwardness Dean and I are causing. A rock song plays, and the guy switches stations. He keeps flipping through until Dean asks him to stop. My eyes shut. Oh God, not now.
"This song," Dean says, laughing and shaking his head. "I haven't heard it in years."
Anita Ward's Ring My Bell blares loudly through the speakers of the small taxi. I can't help but remember that time we went to that bar—the only bar that would let us in when we were seventeen. It was karaoke night. I didn't want to go up because I was terrified of making a fool of myself, so Dean figured if he went first, I’d lose my fear. And there it was again: the memory of Dean dancing and singing in such a ridiculous, hilarious way.
As if Dean knows exactly what's running through my mind, he turns to look at me with a grin, and I can't help but laugh.
"It's a good song, you have to admit it," he points at me, and I shake my head.
"It's old," I say, laughing.
"It's a total classic," he says. Suddenly, he turns to face me, pretending to hold a microphone, and does the one thing I didn't expect him to do. "You can ring my bell, ring my bell—" Dean starts singing in the exact same exaggerated way he did five years ago. "The night is young and full of possibilities—" He points at me. "Come on, I know you know it."
I shake my head, keeping my arms crossed.
"Come on..." Dean insists.
I look towards the front and see the driver watching us with a smile. He seemed to be thoroughly enjoying the impromptu karaoke session Dean had started. I couldn't help but laugh.
"Well, come on and let yourself be free, yeah," I sing out. Dean claps, and the driver cheers with excitement.
I laugh again, but then the memories hit me. It was obvious that Dean would do something like this to make me forget everything that had happened. And here I was, letting him. I sigh and slip back into my indifferent posture, which Dean notices instantly.
"It was fun, wasn't it?"
"I guess."
Dean sighs. "You're never going to forgive me, are you?"
The radio volume drops slightly, and I know the driver did it to give Dean and me space to talk.
"I'm not answering that," I respond defensively.
"Fair enough," he sighs again. "I don't deserve it anyway."
After that, Dean falls silent. An Elton John song plays in the background, and as if things weren't dramatic enough, it's a melancholic one. I let out the breath I've been holding as I watch the lights of the buildings flash past. At one point, New York was my absolute favorite place. I never wanted to leave. I even used to argue with Mom about how long she'd let me stay whenever I visited Dad and Kat. But things had changed. I glance at Dean out of the corner of my eye, and my heart squeezes. Did it affect him as much as it did to me? Did his life change as drastically as mine? Without realizing it, I find myself checking him out from head to toe. He was still handsome—even more so now that he looked older and more mature. He was wearing a white turtleneck sweater, dark jeans, and a chain around his neck.
"Did it just start, or did it end?" I ask suddenly, catching him off guard.
"What?" he asks, confused.
"The party." Because it was obvious he had been partying. Friday night, late, in a taxi.
"Work, actually," he replies. "I haven't gone out partying in a while."
"Well, that's not what I remember," I murmur under my breath, but Dean manages to catch it.
"I'm not the same person I was five years ago" he answers. "Though there's no way you could know that, right?"
"Excuse me?"
"I haven't heard from you in five years. You completely cut yourself off from everything and everyone. If you had let me, I would have shown you how much I've changed."
I don't answer. Hearing him leaves me speechless. I had to admit that staying away from Dad and Kat for five years had been hard. But the house, the city—everything reminded me of Dean. It reminded me of how badly he hurt me. It wasn't easy for me, but clearly, it hadn't been easy for him either.
"I'm sorry," I murmur after a long silence.
"I know," Dean replies, turning to look at me. "Though really, I'm the one who's sorry. I'm sorry for everything"
I offer him a sad smile, and then we both fall into silence. Images of what we used to be play out in my head. Flashes of Dean holding my hand while walking through a park; Dean and me taking a photo in front of Times Square; Dean laughing with my dad after chatting in our backyard; Dean taking me to a hockey game. We were young—we still are—but back then, we had absolutely no idea what we were doing or how terribly wrong everything could go.
"Um, guys," the driver interrupts my thoughts. "I think I have some bad news."
Dean and I frown at the same time.
"What's wrong?"
"The car has run out of gas."
My eyes widen in surprise.
"What do you mean?" Dean asks, confused. "Did you forget to fill up the tank before picking us up?"
The guy shrugs slightly, looking embarrassed. "I'm sorry, I thought it would be enough, but I didn't think I'd be driving all the way East."
I press a hand to my forehead in disbelief. I look at Dean, who seems annoyed but at the same time seems to understand the situation.
"I'll pull over on one of these streets," the driver says. "The car can make it that far, but it's going to take some time to find someone to help us because of the holidays and all."
I sigh and check the time. It was 12:30 AM, and there was still no sign of Katherine. Biting my lower lip nervously, I watch as the car pulls into the parking lot of a convenience store.
"Alright, guys," the driver says. "I promise to give you a huge discount for the inconvenience."
"Don't worry about it," Dean replies.
The guy smiles and gets out of the car, leaving the two of us alone in the back seat. I look out at the street warily. I didn't recognize it, but it wasn't abandoned or anything like that. Quite the opposite. There was a pretty busy sidewalk full of bright neon signs and outdoor patios where people were drinking and chatting animatedly. I see Dean's eyes light up, and he turns to look at me instantly.
Maybe I might fall in love tonight inside the backseat, Maybe we could fall in love tonight inside the backseat
summary: you reunite with the love of your life inside the back of a taxi
pairing: dean dilaurentis x reader
content: lots of angst, romance, flashbacks, slightly suggestive at the end
inspiration: TAXI by EXES (preview of the song at the end of the story)
A/N: i hope you're liking the story so far!! This is a short story so I still have 3 more parts coming up :)
part one
"Dean," I said, frowning. "Where are we going? We can't just leave the taxi. What if he drives off without us?"
Dean laughed. "He won't leave, trust me. We haven't paid for the ride yet, remember?"
My eyes widened in surprise. "So now he’s going to think we ran off to skip the bill."
Dean laughed again. "No, darling. We’re coming back, and nobody is going to think we tried to rip off a taxi driver. Alright?"
I rolled my eyes but kept walking behind him down the sidewalk, which was packed with bars and tourist spots. My mind scrambled to unearth a vague memory of having been here before, but no matter how hard I tried, the place felt entirely new to me. Dean stopped abruptly, causing me to nearly slam into his back. I turned to look at him. His eyes were bright, and he was smiling like an idiot. Following his gaze, I spotted a small, somewhat empty, weathered bar.
"You're not seriously thinking of going in there, are you?"
"Who said anything about thinking?" Dean said. "I'm not thinking about it; I'm going in."
Dean pushed the door open, and I watched him, bewildered. Damn, all of this was so bizarre. First, sharing a taxi with him, and now going into a bar together.
"Good evening," Dean greeted. An older woman turned to look at him, and a smile instantly lit up her face.
"Well, look at you!" the woman exclaimed. "You're practically a grown man now!"
Dean laughed, while I stood there feeling completely out of the loop—until the woman's eyes locked onto me. Her jaw dropped. "Don't tell me... Is this your girlfriend? The one from back then?"
I shot a look at Dean, who appeared to be... blushing? I couldn't tell for sure, but he definitely looked embarrassed.
"I knew it," the woman said, pointing at us. "I knew it from the very first moment I saw you two walk through that door—that you guys would be forever."
I frowned and whipped around to face Dean, who was looking at me with a guilty expression. I didn't understand any of this; I was utterly lost.
"Why so quiet, sweetheart?" she asked.
"She doesn't remember this place," Dean answered with a shrug. "She hasn't been to the city in five years."
"Oh," the woman said, looking a bit awkward. "I see." She smiled. "Well, I'll leave you two to... reacquaint yourselves with the place."
The woman slipped away immediately, leaving Dean and me wrapped in a cloud of awkward tension. I took a seat next to him and placed my hands on the bar counter.
"Care to explain?"
Dean gave me a sad smile. "I can't believe you forgot," he sighed. "Do you really not recognize it?"
I shook my head and began to look around the small bar. There were vintage posters of singers and bands on the walls, alongside old vinyl records. There was a small stage with colored lights up top, and a few tables and chairs—some empty, others occupied by a stray patron here and there—but for the most part, the place was deserted.
"No... I don't think I've ever been here," I replied honestly.
"Well, that photo says otherwise," he said, pointing towards the back of the bar where the liquor bottles were lined up.
I froze. There was a photo of me alongside Dean, Katherine, and Tucker—Katherine's boyfriend at the time. The four of us were holding microphones, looking absolutely ridiculous. My eyes went wide, and I snapped my gaze back to Dean. "Oh my god!"
Dean laughed. "Now you remember?"
Of course I did. This was Dean's favorite bar. Our bar. How could I have forgotten? The layout was a bit different, but it was undeniably the exact place where we used to spend our afternoons laughing and singing horribly on the karaoke stage. But above all, this was the place where Dean and I had seen each other for the last time.
"I can't believe it," I said, laughing. "Is that woman Maggie?"
Dean nodded. God, that woman used to sneak us free beers even though we weren't of legal drinking age. And I hadn't even recognized her.
"Wow, now I feel terrible for not remembering her," I admitted.
Dean smiled. "Don't worry about it. The place has changed quite a bit, so I don't think Maggie will mind."
I looked around the room again in disbelief. I remembered afternoons spent listening to people attempt to sing, and drunks cracking jokes into the microphone. A wave of melancholy settled deep in my chest, and I felt a lump form in my throat.
"Why are we here, Dean?" I asked. He didn't seem surprised by the question.
"I thought maybe we could revisit old times."
"Dean..."
"I know," he said, wincing. "I'm really not trying to force a conversation about it. But I thought this might help."
I sighed. This felt like reopening an old wound, and I wasn't ready to face all that pain again. I should have gotten out of the taxi when I had the chance.
"Sometimes... I—" Dean started to say, but he was cut off by two glasses of beer being slid in front of us.
"On the house," Maggie said with a warm smile.
"Thank you," I said, grateful for both the beer and the interruption.
I could see Dean having an internal battle. I knew how badly he wanted to talk about us—about what happened. But I just wasn't ready. Still, looking at it from another perspective, Dean and I were actually getting along. There were no painful memories or open wounds right now. We were just two old friends hanging out. And looking at it that way made it feel a lot better than it actually was.
"Do you think..." I said suddenly, "do you think we could just hang out, without all the heavy drama, since we're already here?"
Dean raised an eyebrow. "Like old times?"
"Yeah, something like that," I said, shrugging.
Dean's face lit up. "Nothing would make me happier."
After that, I was able to relax for the first time since I’d been forced to share that taxi with him. We started talking about everything—from old memories to movie and TV show recommendations. It was always easy being around Dean; he never ran out of things to say. And his laugh was something I had always adored hearing, something I had missed for a very long time.
Four beers later, we were laughing hysterically, recalling the time Tucker and Dean tried to serenade Katherine, and my dad accidentally dumped a bucket of water on them.
"I used to think your dad hated us," Dean laughed.
"And look at you guys now, being best friends," I said, rolling my eyes.
"He's a great guy, what can I say?" He shrugged, still chuckling.
But when Dean stopped laughing and let out a soft sigh, I knew something serious was coming—and I knew I wasn't going to like it.
"I've missed you," he said abruptly.
"Yeah?" I asked, staring down at my nearly empty glass.
"You know I have," he answered, and I could feel the intensity of his gaze burning into me. "I never stopped missing you." He sighed. "When the first year passed, I thought you'd come back the next. I kept thinking that until three years went by, and I finally had to accept that you weren't coming back."
I bit my lower lip, unable to find the words to respond, so Dean kept going.
"I know you probably still hate me, but for some reason, you're here with me right now," he said. "So... thank you."
"For what?"
"For spending time with me," he said, "and for not breaking my jaw in the process."
His last comment cracked us both up.
By the time we had two more beers in our systems, I felt all my anger melt away somehow. I was smiling and talking comfortably with Dean, and I genuinely enjoyed being with him like this. I really had missed him. I would never admit it to him, but I had to confess to myself that not a single day had gone by where I hadn't thought about him.
"Damn," Dean said suddenly. "Do you hear that?"
I tilted my head, confused, until the melody began to play louder through the speakers.
"No way!" I laughed. "It's Ring My Bell!"
Dean nodded excitedly and stood up, extending his hand out to mine.
"What are you doing?" I asked, laughing. "Oh no, absolutely not. I am not going up there with you."
"Come on" he laughed. "Or are you going to make me embarrass myself all alone again?"
Feeling the alcohol buzzing through my veins, I stood up and took his hand. A sudden spark of electricity shot through my body, and I felt Dean tighten his grip on my hand, making me shiver from head to toe. I looked down at our intertwined fingers and couldn't help but smile.
"Good evening, everyone!" Dean spoke into the microphone, drawing the attention of the few people in the bar. He even woke up a man who had been fast asleep at his table. "We are completely drunk, and we're going to sing a little Anita Ward for you." When he said this, a few women laughed in the back. "What? Guys like Anita Ward too!"
I shook my head. Dean looked so incredibly happy and excited, though I wasn't sure if it was just him or the alcohol talking. Either way, he was having a blast, and so was I. Dean grabbed just one microphone and positioned it right between the two of us. I raised an eyebrow, and he flashed me an innocent smile.
"I'm glad you're home, now did you really miss me?" Dean began to sing, completely overacting.
I couldn't stop laughing, and I noticed we were starting to draw a crowd. Maggie had somehow opened the front doors of the bar, and passing pedestrians seemed amused by two drunk kids about to belt out an old track. Dean started dancing and clapping to the rhythm of the song, looking utterly foolish but adorable at the same time. When Dean pushed the microphone towards me, I tried to keep up with the lyrics, but I couldn't stop staring at him like a lovesick fool. He was being so classically Dean, and there I was, falling right back into his trap. Without us even noticing, the bar began to fill up. People were clapping enthusiastically; some were dancing, others were singing along. The place felt exactly like I remembered it. There were even some young tourists, excited to take the stage after us. I smiled, thrilled—and then, everything flipped.
As one of the stage lights flashed directly across my face, the memory hit me like a train. Katherine and I had been up on this very stage after Dean and Tucker dared us to do it. Dean had been acting strange the previous few days; it felt like he was looking for any excuse to keep me busy and push me away. But Katherine kept assuring me it was all in my head, that Dean loved me, and that he wasn't distancing himself at all. That was the exact reason the four of us were at Maggie's bar that night, about to sing a ridiculous ABBA song. Katherine was strutting across the stage like a supermodel while I just tried to stay in tune. And then it happened. A spotlight illuminated the back exit of the bar just as Dean and another girl walked out of the back room, holding hands. I remembered feeling my heart drop straight to the floor, telling Katherine I had to leave. I remembered walking outside and catching Dean kissing that girl in the alleyway right next to the bar. And I remembered how my heart shattered into a million pieces while Katherine and I took a silent taxi ride back home alone.
I dropped the microphone. It hit the floor with a thud, snapping Dean's attention to me. The smile vanished from his face the moment he looked at me. Without giving him a chance to say a word, I bolted off the stage and ran straight out the front door.
"Wait!" Dean yelled after me.
Ignoring his shouts and the curious stares from people on the street, I kept pushing away from the bar. Now I remembered everything. That was why I had buried every single memory of this place, and that was why I had fled New York five years ago, vowing never to return. I had been seventeen, deeply in love, and Dean was the first boy I had ever given my heart to—and he had broken it in the worst way possible. It had started with him partying almost every night of the week, ignoring me, making me feel like I had done something wrong, and it ended with him cheating on me and leaving me completely crushed.
"Hey, wait," Dean said, grabbing my hand.
That drove me over the edge. I yanked my arm out of his grip and slapped him hard across the cheek. When everything happened years ago, I hadn't had the courage to tell Dean how I felt or how badly he had ripped me apart. I had just walked away and never came back. But things were different now. I was a different person. And this time I was furious, and I wasn't going to bottle it up.
"Did you think that by bringing me to this damn bar, making me laugh, and singing that stupid song, I was just going to forget what you did?" I gasped out, completely out of breath from sprinting. We were now standing right where we had left the taxi. It was still idling there, though there was no sign of our driver.
"No," he replied, shaking his head. "But..."
"But what?!" I cut him off, a sharp pain piercing my chest. "I am not the same naive idiot I was five years ago. You are not going to brainwash me."
"Would you just listen to me? Please, just let me explain what happened that day."
"What is there to explain? That you were seeing someone behind my back? Someone who wanted to party 24/7 just like you did? What else do you possibly need to explain to me, Dean?"
"That is not what happened," he fired back instantly.
"That's exactly what I saw!" I yelled.
"What you saw didn't tell the whole story. What actually happened does. I didn't kiss that girl."
I closed my eyes, letting out a bitter laugh. "You have got to be kidding me."
"I didn't kiss her. She kissed me," he said, and I could see the sheer desperation and pleading in his eyes.
"I don't believe you."
"I know," he said softly. "Katherine didn't believe me at first either. Right after it happened, you... you shut down, and I couldn't even get you to talk to me before you packed up and went back to California."
Katherine knew about this? I shook my head. Why would Katherine keep something like that from me?
"You need to stop lying, Dean," I said, feeling tears pool in my eyes. "Don't you ever get tired of it?"
"I know it's impossible for you to believe that's how it went down," he said, "but that's the truth. I would have never done something like that to you."
"And yet, you did."
Dean fell silent, shoving his hands deep into his pants pockets. Confused, I watched as he pulled out a necklace and held it out in his open palms. I looked at it, my brows furrowing. It was my grandma's necklace, the one she gave to me a few years ago. Somebody stole it from me and I thought it was gone forever.
"That day, I went out to get you back your necklace," he said, looking down at the ground. "Tucker hooked me up with a guy who used to steal fine jewelry and after doing some digging and hanging out at the same parties he did, we found out he was the one who took your necklace" A heavy lump formed in my throat, but I forced it down. "I was supposed to meet the guy, but his girlfriend showed up instead. She insisted we do the handoff outside the bar because she could get into massive trouble if anyone saw her selling her boyfriend's stolen jewelry. I hesitated at first, but it seemed like the best option. Once we got outside, she told me the cash I had wasn't enough for the necklace, but that there were... other ways I could pay her off." He sighed deeply, putting his hands behind his head. "Sounds incredibly stupid, right? I wouldn't believe a piece of garbage story like that either."
I didn't answer. I could feel the tears spilling over and rolling down my cheeks. A part of me desperately wanted to believe him—he looked so utterly devastated that it felt impossible for him to be fabricating this. But another part of me reminded me that I shouldn't trust him again. I simply couldn't bring myself to believe it.
"I'm so sorry I hurt you," Dean said quietly. "But Kat and your dad aren't to blame. They really have missed you. If me being here in New York is what's bothering you, don't worry. I'm leaving on Monday."
I snapped my head up to look at him, stunned. He was leaving New York? Dean worshipped this city; he loved living here. And yet, he was willing to walk away from it.
"Can I... can I see it?" I blurted out, surprising both myself and Dean. I gestured towards the necklace with a nod. Dean nodded clumsily and handed it over.
I really thought I was never going to see this necklace again. It really meant a lot to me, and I remember being completely devastated when someone stole it at the park. I cried for days, but now it was here, and Dean made that possible.
Without a second thought, I looped the necklace around my neck. Dean stared at me in disbelief. His vivid blue eyes scanned every inch of my face, studying me intently, as if he wanted to memorize every single detail.
"Do you... do you need help with it?" Dean asked in a low whisper.
I nodded. My skin broke out into goosebumps the moment I felt his body step closer to mine. His warm fingers brushed against the bare skin of my neck, causing me to catch my breath. His breathing fanned against my sensitive skin, making me feel like I was losing my mind. I spun around on my heels so we were standing face-to-face. His eyes flicked from my eyes down to my lips, and I mirrored his gaze. God, I had missed him so much.
Without overthinking it, I did exactly what anyone else in my shoes would have done: I grabbed the collar of his sweater and pulled him down into a kiss. I could feel his initial shock, but it didn't take him long to match my rhythm. His lips moved gently and slowly at first, before shifting into something far more passionate and wild. We both began to stumble backwards until we hit the side of the taxi parked right behind us. Dean's body pressed firmly against mine, and I couldn't help but wrap my arms around his torso, pulling him even closer. Both of his hands came up to cup my face gently, as if he were terrified to let me go. The kiss deepened, intensifying until I finally pulled back, gasping for air.
Dean stared at me, completely dazed, his lips swollen and his breathing ragged. I watched as a flash of sadness crept back into his beautiful blue eyes, only for them to light up a second later when he saw me open the taxi's back door.
I slid inside, my nerves completely on edge. I lay back across the seat and looked up at him, waiting for his move. Dean blinked in surprise for a few seconds, but then he climbed into the car, pulling the door shut behind him and carefully hovering over me. With burning cheeks, I smiled and pulled his face down to mine, giving him absolutely no time to think or hesitate about us.
Maybe I might fall in love tonight inside the backseat, Maybe we could fall in love tonight inside the backseat
summary: you reunite with the love of your life inside the back of a taxi pairing: dean dilaurentis x reader
content: slightly smut, suggestive content, lots of angst (like really, super angsty i swear), romance, flashbacks
inspiration: TAXI by EXES (preview of the song at the end of the story)
part one, part two
Could it really be possible for me to fall in love with Dean all over again in the backseat of a taxi?
I didn't know, but a part of me wanted to believe it. As his lips trace down my neck and my hands travel across his back, I remind myself that this is the present. The past, the bad things, and the bitter memories were forgotten—at least for now. With a certain shyness, Dean reaches for the edge of my t-shirt and begins to lift it; at the same time, I help him pull off his white sweater. A gasp escapes my mouth when I see Dean shirtless. He was more muscular and defined now; nothing remained of the seventeen-year-old boy with whom I had my first time. The only boy I had ever let into my life that way. When his mouth returns to my neck, I sigh and bite my lower lip. His hands delicately caress my waist and move upward, stopping over my breasts, massaging them so softly that I can't help but groan out loud.
I blush, remembering that we were in the backseat of a taxi parked in a store lot.
I feel Dean smile against my neck before he shifts the direction of his kisses until they meet my lips again. The moment I feel his tongue slip into my mouth, I lose control. Quickly, I unbutton Dean’s pants and help push them down to his ankles. In the same manner, Dean unbuttons my pants and removes them, leaving them on the floor of the car. Now, both of us were in our underwear, panting and seeking more of each other with every movement, with every kiss.
I sigh as Dean lowers his head to the level of my breasts and kisses them delicately. My hand travels into his hair, gripping it between my fingers and tugging slightly as his kisses grow more intense. When Dean’s hand reaches the clasp of my bra, my breath catches. I could stop this; I could tell him this was a mistake. But a mistake shouldn't feel this good, and above all, it shouldn't be exactly what I need so badly. So, I don't stop him. I don't stop him even when he rids me of my panties.
I bite my lower lip, keeping myself from crying out as I feel him inside me. He was moving slowly, but it had been a long time since I’d been with anyone. So, it practically felt like the first time. It was ironic to think that the last time I was with someone it was with Dean, and now that I was with someone again, it was also him. I place my hands on Dean’s shoulders and feel them tense with every thrust of his hips. The heat and the panting build in the back of the small car, and I feel like I might explode at any moment.
When my breathing returns to normal, I rest my head on Dean’s chest, feeling his rapid heartbeat. Now I was on top of him, pressing my body against his, with my hair and my mind a total mess. Everything inside me told me this shouldn't have happened—but what if it really was meant to? Maybe I needed this to forgive Dean, or maybe I needed this to reaffirm to myself that staying away from Dean was for the best.
"What are you thinking about?" Dean asks suddenly in the darkness of the car. The streetlights barely reached the backseat, leaving us practically in the shadows.
"About everything," I answer with a sigh.
"You're not..." I hear him swallow hard. "You're not regretting this, are you?"
I lift my head from his chest and meet his deep blue eyes, which are watching me carefully.
"No," I say, and I see his face relax. "This had to happen."
Dean frowns. "Why do you say that?"
"Because..." I sigh. "How else could I admit how much I've missed you?"
The smile that spreads across Dean’s face makes my heart skip a beat. I smile back without thinking. He looked so happy, and I couldn't blame him; I felt the exact same way, only with an internal battle raging between what I had felt for so many years and what I was feeling at this precise moment.
"I missed this," he said, catching me off guard. "All of this. Your smile, your hair, you."
I sigh and rest my head on his chest again, not knowing exactly what to say. I'm sorry for walking away? For never coming back? It wasn't exactly my fault. I felt like I had no other choice.
"Where will you go?" I murmured.
"I was thinking about Italy," he replies, taking a deep breath. "My mother has a house there and she's been traveling constantly lately, so I thought I could go with her."
"Why?" I asked almost instantly.
Dean falls silent, taking his time to answer, but when he does, it leaves me breathless: "Because New York isn't the same without you. It hasn't been the same since you left."
"But I'm here now," I say, feeling small. I didn't like feeling this way—so vulnerable around him.
"I know," Dean replies. "But for how long? Until the holidays are over? We both know that once the New Year ends, you'll go back to California." He sighs. "And I don't know if I can go back to that. To counting the days until your return. Days that turn into weeks, then months, and then years."
I knew it. I knew it had affected Dean just as much as it had affected me. My mind had been so determined to make me believe that Dean just carried on as if nothing happened—partying, happy, celebrating with his friends while I plunged into my sadness every single day. But as always, it wasn't the way I had thought. And it was horrible knowing that we had both hurt each other.
I feel a massive lump in my throat that prevents me from speaking, so I just limit myself to sighing.
"But it's okay," Dean says. "I understand. I understand that it will take time for you to believe in me."
I lift my head from his chest and place my hands on his face. "It will take time," I say with a sigh. "But how am I supposed to do that if you're not here?"
I see Dean’s jaw tighten, and I run my hand over that exact spot, caressing it softly.
"We've both hurt each other," I whisper, "but we're still here. Right now, together. That has to mean something, doesn't it?"
Dean nods and pulls my body into an embrace. I can't help the smile that forms on my face as I lose myself in the warmth of his chest. As I drift off to sleep, I can hear Dean’s breathing, and it comforts me. Was I really willing to give Dean another chance? After all this time?
A noise at the car window wakes both Dean and me up. I look outside and see the taxi driver leaning against the car with his back to us.
"Hey guys," he says, his voice strained as if he's trying not to laugh. "I found help. I'm going to let you... you know." He chuckles. "But don't worry, I didn't see anything."
I blush, and Dean laughs, shaking his head. I quickly put my clothes back on, and Dean does the same. Then we both get out of the car to stretch our incredibly sore muscles.
"Sorry for the delay," the guy says sheepishly. "A guy said he'd help me if I beat him in a beer pong match." He rolls his eyes. "It’s been an interesting night. How about you guys?" As he says this, his face turns bright red and he starts to cough. "I... uh, you don't have to answer."
Both Dean and I laugh, and then Dean walks away to see if the man needed help while hooking up a hose connecting the taxi to a fuel container. Once I'm left alone with the driver, I notice he is still blushing.
"Can I ask you something?" he says, catching my attention.
"Sure"
"Things have changed between you two, right?"
My mouth drops open, and then a laugh escapes me. "Yeah, you could say that."
"I can tell," he says, chuckling. "You don't have that look on your face anymore."
"What look?" I frown.
"When you looked at him before, I could see sadness, resentment, and I'd even venture to say hate." He sighs. "But now you look at him as if you're afraid to lose him."
"You're quite the observer, aren't you?"
The guy laughs. "When you work in this business, you notice a lot of things. Even things the passengers don't notice about themselves."
I smile and glance over at Dean chatting with the man with the gasoline.
"He hurt you, didn't he?" the guy asks.
"He was the first boy I ever fell in love with, and he broke my heart."
"Wow," he huffs, taking off his cap. "That's a tough thing to forget."
I sigh and nod.
"But you still love him, don't you?"
Did I? Damn it, I didn't have an answer. Dean was the only boy in my life. He was everything to me. But after a betrayal got in the way, it was hard for me to think about him and my feelings. Now that I knew the truth—something I hadn't expected—could it change everything?
Before I can answer, Dean returns and announces to the guy that the car is ready to resume our trip to East New York. My hands sweat and I feel my body tremble once we find ourselves back in the backseat of the taxi, now heading home. What would happen after the ride ended? Maybe we could go back? Pause the drama and start from scratch. Was that even possible?
"Smoke is going to come out of your head if you keep thinking like that," Dean says, drawing my attention.
I give him a playful punch to the chest, prompting him to take my arm and pull me against his body. It was comforting to be like this with him. Sitting next to each other, cuddling in the back. It felt as though we were all alone on this journey. I look out the window at the city. It was four in the morning already, but the city was livelier than ever. That was what I adored about New York; here, the night was infinite. Here, there was always a possibility to fix things. If you messed up at a certain point in the night, you had all the time in the world to resolve it. Dean takes my hand and intertwines our fingers while I rest my head on his chest and close my eyes.
I wanted to stay like this forever. With my hair fluttering around my head from the air coming through the driver's window. With Dean holding me in his arms and his chin resting on top of my head. Being here, it felt as if nothing had happened five years ago. As if we both belonged in that backseat.
When the car stops, I don't want to open my eyes. I really don't want to. I feel Dean’s lips close to my ear and I force myself to do it. We were already outside my dad’s house. The lights were off, and the only things I could hear were Dean’s breathing and a Beatles song playing in the background.
"We're here," Dean murmurs with a hint of bitterness.
I look in the rearview mirror and see the driver giving me a sad smile. It was as if he knew exactly what my mind and heart were feeling right now. With my heart pounding, I turn to look at Dean and I know I have so many things to tell him. So much to express. But I can't. I simply can't.
"Go on, get out," Dean says with a chuckle, "or the fare will go up." Then he adds, "Even more."
That makes me laugh, but I can't stop the tears from spilling from my eyes. I looked like a crazy person, laughing with my face bathed in tears.
"I don't want you to go, Dean," I say suddenly.
Dean frowns in a way that makes him look adorable. "I'm only a few blocks away."
My hands grip his sweater, holding on tightly. Wishing he wouldn't walk away from me.
"You know what I mean."
Dean sighs, his gaze fixing on the car window. I see him swallow hard, and I feel my legs tremble.
"Do you love me?" he asks suddenly. "After everything, do you still love me?"
I can't answer. I simply can't do it. I wasn't sure of anything—not after what happened between us, and not after all that time spent away from each other. Dean smiles, but it's a bitter smile, and he opens the taxi door. Somewhat dazed, I get out too, and it doesn't take long for Dean to place my suitcase in front of me.
"I love you" Dean says, leaving me frozen. "I love you, even if you can't love me back."
Without letting me respond, Dean climbs back into the backseat of the car and closes the door, disappearing from my sight in seconds. I bite my lower lip, trying to stop myself from crying even harder, but I can't. I was a covered in tears, and that is exactly how Katherine finds me when she opens the front door of the house. Without even asking a thing, Katherine wraps her arms around me and lets me cry for as long as I need to. Though I wasn't sure if it would be enough. To get over something like this, I would have to cry for a year, or maybe even another five.
Maybe I might fall in love tonight inside the backseat, Maybe we could fall in love tonight inside the backseat
summary: you reunite with the love of your life inside the back of a taxi
pairing: dean dilaurentis x reader
content: lots of angst, romance, flashbacks, slightly suggestive at the end
inspiration: TAXI by EXES (preview of the song at the end of the story)
A/N: i hope you're liking the story so far!! This is a short story so I still have 3 more parts coming up :)
part one
"Dean," I said, frowning. "Where are we going? We can't just leave the taxi. What if he drives off without us?"
Dean laughed. "He won't leave, trust me. We haven't paid for the ride yet, remember?"
My eyes widened in surprise. "So now he’s going to think we ran off to skip the bill."
Dean laughed again. "No, darling. We’re coming back, and nobody is going to think we tried to rip off a taxi driver. Alright?"
I rolled my eyes but kept walking behind him down the sidewalk, which was packed with bars and tourist spots. My mind scrambled to unearth a vague memory of having been here before, but no matter how hard I tried, the place felt entirely new to me. Dean stopped abruptly, causing me to nearly slam into his back. I turned to look at him. His eyes were bright, and he was smiling like an idiot. Following his gaze, I spotted a small, somewhat empty, weathered bar.
"You're not seriously thinking of going in there, are you?"
"Who said anything about thinking?" Dean said. "I'm not thinking about it; I'm going in."
Dean pushed the door open, and I watched him, bewildered. Damn, all of this was so bizarre. First, sharing a taxi with him, and now going into a bar together.
"Good evening," Dean greeted. An older woman turned to look at him, and a smile instantly lit up her face.
"Well, look at you!" the woman exclaimed. "You're practically a grown man now!"
Dean laughed, while I stood there feeling completely out of the loop—until the woman's eyes locked onto me. Her jaw dropped. "Don't tell me... Is this your girlfriend? The one from back then?"
I shot a look at Dean, who appeared to be... blushing? I couldn't tell for sure, but he definitely looked embarrassed.
"I knew it," the woman said, pointing at us. "I knew it from the very first moment I saw you two walk through that door—that you guys would be forever."
I frowned and whipped around to face Dean, who was looking at me with a guilty expression. I didn't understand any of this; I was utterly lost.
"Why so quiet, sweetheart?" she asked.
"She doesn't remember this place," Dean answered with a shrug. "She hasn't been to the city in five years."
"Oh," the woman said, looking a bit awkward. "I see." She smiled. "Well, I'll leave you two to... reacquaint yourselves with the place."
The woman slipped away immediately, leaving Dean and me wrapped in a cloud of awkward tension. I took a seat next to him and placed my hands on the bar counter.
"Care to explain?"
Dean gave me a sad smile. "I can't believe you forgot," he sighed. "Do you really not recognize it?"
I shook my head and began to look around the small bar. There were vintage posters of singers and bands on the walls, alongside old vinyl records. There was a small stage with colored lights up top, and a few tables and chairs—some empty, others occupied by a stray patron here and there—but for the most part, the place was deserted.
"No... I don't think I've ever been here," I replied honestly.
"Well, that photo says otherwise," he said, pointing towards the back of the bar where the liquor bottles were lined up.
I froze. There was a photo of me alongside Dean, Katherine, and Tucker—Katherine's boyfriend at the time. The four of us were holding microphones, looking absolutely ridiculous. My eyes went wide, and I snapped my gaze back to Dean. "Oh my god!"
Dean laughed. "Now you remember?"
Of course I did. This was Dean's favorite bar. Our bar. How could I have forgotten? The layout was a bit different, but it was undeniably the exact place where we used to spend our afternoons laughing and singing horribly on the karaoke stage. But above all, this was the place where Dean and I had seen each other for the last time.
"I can't believe it," I said, laughing. "Is that woman Maggie?"
Dean nodded. God, that woman used to sneak us free beers even though we weren't of legal drinking age. And I hadn't even recognized her.
"Wow, now I feel terrible for not remembering her," I admitted.
Dean smiled. "Don't worry about it. The place has changed quite a bit, so I don't think Maggie will mind."
I looked around the room again in disbelief. I remembered afternoons spent listening to people attempt to sing, and drunks cracking jokes into the microphone. A wave of melancholy settled deep in my chest, and I felt a lump form in my throat.
"Why are we here, Dean?" I asked. He didn't seem surprised by the question.
"I thought maybe we could revisit old times."
"Dean..."
"I know," he said, wincing. "I'm really not trying to force a conversation about it. But I thought this might help."
I sighed. This felt like reopening an old wound, and I wasn't ready to face all that pain again. I should have gotten out of the taxi when I had the chance.
"Sometimes... I—" Dean started to say, but he was cut off by two glasses of beer being slid in front of us.
"On the house," Maggie said with a warm smile.
"Thank you," I said, grateful for both the beer and the interruption.
I could see Dean having an internal battle. I knew how badly he wanted to talk about us—about what happened. But I just wasn't ready. Still, looking at it from another perspective, Dean and I were actually getting along. There were no painful memories or open wounds right now. We were just two old friends hanging out. And looking at it that way made it feel a lot better than it actually was.
"Do you think..." I said suddenly, "do you think we could just hang out, without all the heavy drama, since we're already here?"
Dean raised an eyebrow. "Like old times?"
"Yeah, something like that," I said, shrugging.
Dean's face lit up. "Nothing would make me happier."
After that, I was able to relax for the first time since I’d been forced to share that taxi with him. We started talking about everything—from old memories to movie and TV show recommendations. It was always easy being around Dean; he never ran out of things to say. And his laugh was something I had always adored hearing, something I had missed for a very long time.
Four beers later, we were laughing hysterically, recalling the time Tucker and Dean tried to serenade Katherine, and my dad accidentally dumped a bucket of water on them.
"I used to think your dad hated us," Dean laughed.
"And look at you guys now, being best friends," I said, rolling my eyes.
"He's a great guy, what can I say?" He shrugged, still chuckling.
But when Dean stopped laughing and let out a soft sigh, I knew something serious was coming—and I knew I wasn't going to like it.
"I've missed you," he said abruptly.
"Yeah?" I asked, staring down at my nearly empty glass.
"You know I have," he answered, and I could feel the intensity of his gaze burning into me. "I never stopped missing you." He sighed. "When the first year passed, I thought you'd come back the next. I kept thinking that until three years went by, and I finally had to accept that you weren't coming back."
I bit my lower lip, unable to find the words to respond, so Dean kept going.
"I know you probably still hate me, but for some reason, you're here with me right now," he said. "So... thank you."
"For what?"
"For spending time with me," he said, "and for not breaking my jaw in the process."
His last comment cracked us both up.
By the time we had two more beers in our systems, I felt all my anger melt away somehow. I was smiling and talking comfortably with Dean, and I genuinely enjoyed being with him like this. I really had missed him. I would never admit it to him, but I had to confess to myself that not a single day had gone by where I hadn't thought about him.
"Damn," Dean said suddenly. "Do you hear that?"
I tilted my head, confused, until the melody began to play louder through the speakers.
"No way!" I laughed. "It's Ring My Bell!"
Dean nodded excitedly and stood up, extending his hand out to mine.
"What are you doing?" I asked, laughing. "Oh no, absolutely not. I am not going up there with you."
"Come on" he laughed. "Or are you going to make me embarrass myself all alone again?"
Feeling the alcohol buzzing through my veins, I stood up and took his hand. A sudden spark of electricity shot through my body, and I felt Dean tighten his grip on my hand, making me shiver from head to toe. I looked down at our intertwined fingers and couldn't help but smile.
"Good evening, everyone!" Dean spoke into the microphone, drawing the attention of the few people in the bar. He even woke up a man who had been fast asleep at his table. "We are completely drunk, and we're going to sing a little Anita Ward for you." When he said this, a few women laughed in the back. "What? Guys like Anita Ward too!"
I shook my head. Dean looked so incredibly happy and excited, though I wasn't sure if it was just him or the alcohol talking. Either way, he was having a blast, and so was I. Dean grabbed just one microphone and positioned it right between the two of us. I raised an eyebrow, and he flashed me an innocent smile.
"I'm glad you're home, now did you really miss me?" Dean began to sing, completely overacting.
I couldn't stop laughing, and I noticed we were starting to draw a crowd. Maggie had somehow opened the front doors of the bar, and passing pedestrians seemed amused by two drunk kids about to belt out an old track. Dean started dancing and clapping to the rhythm of the song, looking utterly foolish but adorable at the same time. When Dean pushed the microphone towards me, I tried to keep up with the lyrics, but I couldn't stop staring at him like a lovesick fool. He was being so classically Dean, and there I was, falling right back into his trap. Without us even noticing, the bar began to fill up. People were clapping enthusiastically; some were dancing, others were singing along. The place felt exactly like I remembered it. There were even some young tourists, excited to take the stage after us. I smiled, thrilled—and then, everything flipped.
As one of the stage lights flashed directly across my face, the memory hit me like a train. Katherine and I had been up on this very stage after Dean and Tucker dared us to do it. Dean had been acting strange the previous few days; it felt like he was looking for any excuse to keep me busy and push me away. But Katherine kept assuring me it was all in my head, that Dean loved me, and that he wasn't distancing himself at all. That was the exact reason the four of us were at Maggie's bar that night, about to sing a ridiculous ABBA song. Katherine was strutting across the stage like a supermodel while I just tried to stay in tune. And then it happened. A spotlight illuminated the back exit of the bar just as Dean and another girl walked out of the back room, holding hands. I remembered feeling my heart drop straight to the floor, telling Katherine I had to leave. I remembered walking outside and catching Dean kissing that girl in the alleyway right next to the bar. And I remembered how my heart shattered into a million pieces while Katherine and I took a silent taxi ride back home alone.
I dropped the microphone. It hit the floor with a thud, snapping Dean's attention to me. The smile vanished from his face the moment he looked at me. Without giving him a chance to say a word, I bolted off the stage and ran straight out the front door.
"Wait!" Dean yelled after me.
Ignoring his shouts and the curious stares from people on the street, I kept pushing away from the bar. Now I remembered everything. That was why I had buried every single memory of this place, and that was why I had fled New York five years ago, vowing never to return. I had been seventeen, deeply in love, and Dean was the first boy I had ever given my heart to—and he had broken it in the worst way possible. It had started with him partying almost every night of the week, ignoring me, making me feel like I had done something wrong, and it ended with him cheating on me and leaving me completely crushed.
"Hey, wait," Dean said, grabbing my hand.
That drove me over the edge. I yanked my arm out of his grip and slapped him hard across the cheek. When everything happened years ago, I hadn't had the courage to tell Dean how I felt or how badly he had ripped me apart. I had just walked away and never came back. But things were different now. I was a different person. And this time I was furious, and I wasn't going to bottle it up.
"Did you think that by bringing me to this damn bar, making me laugh, and singing that stupid song, I was just going to forget what you did?" I gasped out, completely out of breath from sprinting. We were now standing right where we had left the taxi. It was still idling there, though there was no sign of our driver.
"No," he replied, shaking his head. "But..."
"But what?!" I cut him off, a sharp pain piercing my chest. "I am not the same naive idiot I was five years ago. You are not going to brainwash me."
"Would you just listen to me? Please, just let me explain what happened that day."
"What is there to explain? That you were seeing someone behind my back? Someone who wanted to party 24/7 just like you did? What else do you possibly need to explain to me, Dean?"
"That is not what happened," he fired back instantly.
"That's exactly what I saw!" I yelled.
"What you saw didn't tell the whole story. What actually happened does. I didn't kiss that girl."
I closed my eyes, letting out a bitter laugh. "You have got to be kidding me."
"I didn't kiss her. She kissed me," he said, and I could see the sheer desperation and pleading in his eyes.
"I don't believe you."
"I know," he said softly. "Katherine didn't believe me at first either. Right after it happened, you... you shut down, and I couldn't even get you to talk to me before you packed up and went back to California."
Katherine knew about this? I shook my head. Why would Katherine keep something like that from me?
"You need to stop lying, Dean," I said, feeling tears pool in my eyes. "Don't you ever get tired of it?"
"I know it's impossible for you to believe that's how it went down," he said, "but that's the truth. I would have never done something like that to you."
"And yet, you did."
Dean fell silent, shoving his hands deep into his pants pockets. Confused, I watched as he pulled out a necklace and held it out in his open palms. I looked at it, my brows furrowing. It was my grandma's necklace, the one she gave to me a few years ago. Somebody stole it from me and I thought it was gone forever.
"That day, I went out to get you back your necklace," he said, looking down at the ground. "Tucker hooked me up with a guy who used to steal fine jewelry and after doing some digging and hanging out at the same parties he did, we found out he was the one who took your necklace" A heavy lump formed in my throat, but I forced it down. "I was supposed to meet the guy, but his girlfriend showed up instead. She insisted we do the handoff outside the bar because she could get into massive trouble if anyone saw her selling her boyfriend's stolen jewelry. I hesitated at first, but it seemed like the best option. Once we got outside, she told me the cash I had wasn't enough for the necklace, but that there were... other ways I could pay her off." He sighed deeply, putting his hands behind his head. "Sounds incredibly stupid, right? I wouldn't believe a piece of garbage story like that either."
I didn't answer. I could feel the tears spilling over and rolling down my cheeks. A part of me desperately wanted to believe him—he looked so utterly devastated that it felt impossible for him to be fabricating this. But another part of me reminded me that I shouldn't trust him again. I simply couldn't bring myself to believe it.
"I'm so sorry I hurt you," Dean said quietly. "But Kat and your dad aren't to blame. They really have missed you. If me being here in New York is what's bothering you, don't worry. I'm leaving on Monday."
I snapped my head up to look at him, stunned. He was leaving New York? Dean worshipped this city; he loved living here. And yet, he was willing to walk away from it.
"Can I... can I see it?" I blurted out, surprising both myself and Dean. I gestured towards the necklace with a nod. Dean nodded clumsily and handed it over.
I really thought I was never going to see this necklace again. It really meant a lot to me, and I remember being completely devastated when someone stole it at the park. I cried for days, but now it was here, and Dean made that possible.
Without a second thought, I looped the necklace around my neck. Dean stared at me in disbelief. His vivid blue eyes scanned every inch of my face, studying me intently, as if he wanted to memorize every single detail.
"Do you... do you need help with it?" Dean asked in a low whisper.
I nodded. My skin broke out into goosebumps the moment I felt his body step closer to mine. His warm fingers brushed against the bare skin of my neck, causing me to catch my breath. His breathing fanned against my sensitive skin, making me feel like I was losing my mind. I spun around on my heels so we were standing face-to-face. His eyes flicked from my eyes down to my lips, and I mirrored his gaze. God, I had missed him so much.
Without overthinking it, I did exactly what anyone else in my shoes would have done: I grabbed the collar of his sweater and pulled him down into a kiss. I could feel his initial shock, but it didn't take him long to match my rhythm. His lips moved gently and slowly at first, before shifting into something far more passionate and wild. We both began to stumble backwards until we hit the side of the taxi parked right behind us. Dean's body pressed firmly against mine, and I couldn't help but wrap my arms around his torso, pulling him even closer. Both of his hands came up to cup my face gently, as if he were terrified to let me go. The kiss deepened, intensifying until I finally pulled back, gasping for air.
Dean stared at me, completely dazed, his lips swollen and his breathing ragged. I watched as a flash of sadness crept back into his beautiful blue eyes, only for them to light up a second later when he saw me open the taxi's back door.
I slid inside, my nerves completely on edge. I lay back across the seat and looked up at him, waiting for his move. Dean blinked in surprise for a few seconds, but then he climbed into the car, pulling the door shut behind him and carefully hovering over me. With burning cheeks, I smiled and pulled his face down to mine, giving him absolutely no time to think or hesitate about us.
summary: Dean DiLaurentis gives you the "I don't do relationships" speech, and you say okay and come back the next day to fix Tucker's cooking. Turns out the most dangerous thing you can do to a man like that is simply not need him.
word count: 11.5k
warnings: 18+ explicit sexual content, minors do not interact. situationship dynamics, brief angst, dean being cruel in a moment he regrets, dirty talk, slow burn, eventual fluff.
Daily calls with your mother had become more sparse over the course of your college years. They started daily and had slowly tapered to every other Saturday, which, in all honesty, was a bit of a shock given that she wasn't the type to loosen her grip easily. She had always been overprotective, and when you announced you weren't going to Texas University but to a college in Massachusetts, she had genuinely flipped her shit. Two years later she seemed kind of cool about it. Just texting. Sending random updates about your dog, like the Halloween costume from last year that you'd screenshot and saved.
You were sitting in your room in the sorority house, legs extended and resting on the desk, phone propped against your water bottle while you FaceTimed her and tried to paint your nails without smudging anything. The room was quiet except for your mom stirring something on the stove.
"So I ran into Olivia Tucker — you remember her, right? From church? She had a son named John," she said, not looking at the camera.
You had learned years ago that it was easier to say yes, of course than to endure five minutes of your mom describing a person like she was giving a statement to the police.
"Yeah, of course. I remember Mrs. Tucker."
"She mentioned her son John is attending the same college as you." She said it like she was reading off a notecard. Matter of fact. "She said he's playing hockey now."
Oh. That John Tucker.
"Yeah, I know who he is," you said, cleaning up the mess on your middle finger.
"Isn't that a big coincidence?"
"I mean, not really — he's like a year younger than me, right?"
"Yes, but you two used to play together when you were kids. At church, remember?" You did not remember. Your family went to church maybe twice a year. "Anyway, I gave her your number so she could pass it along to him. So you two could talk."
"Mom — what, that's not really —"
"She's probably not even going to use it."
She used it. Mrs. Tucker called three days later, and with the grace of a good Southern woman, she asked you to keep an eye on John — not in so many words, of course. She said he'd moved into a house with some of the other players and she just wanted to know he was taking care of himself. She didn't want you to do much. Just stop by, take a look around, report back. She'd handle the rest by phone.
What she did not tell you was that Tucker already knew about her plan.
He opened the door looking completely unsurprised to see you, leaned against the frame with his arms crossed and a grin that said nice try. He was, it turned out, perfectly capable of taking care of himself and, annoyingly, other people too.
Which is how you ended up here, almost a year later, sitting on one of the stools at the kitchen island in the off campus house, crying into an onion.
"I'm just saying, get a dicer," you said, keeping your eyes on the knife because you had to. "This is inhumane."
"A real chef doesn't use those kinds of things," Tucker said from across the kitchen, doing significantly less chopping than you were.
"Well, good thing you're not a real chef then."
He turned around, visibly offended. "What did you just say?"
You opened your mouth to repeat it — and then Garrett wandered in from the living room, grabbed an apple from the counter, looked at Tucker's side of the kitchen and then at yours, and pointed at you. "She's doing all the work," he said, to no one in particular, and wandered back out.
"He's right," you said.
"He's a traitor," Tucker said.
You opened your mouth to agree and then the sound of footsteps came down the hallway, and Dean came around the corner fresh out of the shower, towel low on his hips and water still tracking down his chest.
You sniffed, eyes watering, nose red.
Dean stopped. Looked at you. And then let out a slow, deeply entertained laugh.
"Well," he said, "I've heard a lot of reactions from girls seeing me like this. But crying might be a first." He tilted his head. "You alright there, sweet pea?"
"It's the onion," you said flatly. "Tucker's making me cut it."
"Sure." He was already turning toward the stairs, completely unbothered. "Whatever floats your boat."
He winked at you over his shoulder as he disappeared around the corner.
You looked back down at the onion.
Tucker was very pointedly not looking at you.
"Not a word," you said.
"I didn't say anything," he said, in the tone of someone who was saying everything.
The party invitation from Tucker arrived as a single text on a Thursday night.
party saturday, be here, i made a playlist
You were in the middle of your readings and you looked at the message for a moment before typing back: do I need to bring anything?
yourself and good energy
You put your phone face down and went back to your reading. Then picked it up again.
what time
nine but come at eight so we can hang before it gets loud
That was Tucker's way of saying he wanted to cook with you beforehand, which you appreciated more than you would ever tell him out loud because he would absolutely use it against you. You sent back a thumbs up and returned to your notes, and you did not think about the fact that Dean would be there, because that was not a relevant consideration.
You thought about it the entire rest of the week.
Not in a dramatic way. Just in the quiet, persistent way of something you kept putting down and finding in your hand again. You were honest with yourself about Dean, had been from the beginning. You knew what he was. Charming in a way that looked effortless because it mostly was, easy with people, the kind of person who filled a room without trying. You'd watched him for almost a year. You knew the way he talked to people, the way he leaned in when something was funny, the way he'd come into the kitchen sometimes when you were there and open the fridge and just stand there for a full thirty seconds like the answer to whatever he was looking for might eventually appear.
You knew that he'd noticed you too. That wasn't ego, just observation. The way his eyes would find you first when he walked into a room where you already were. The way he'd aim a comment at you specifically when he had a whole group to choose from. The way he'd said I've heard a lot of reactions like your reaction was the one that mattered.
You'd been sensible about it for a year. You'd made the choice, every single time, to not do anything about it. And you were fine. You were genuinely fine with that. You knew what Dean was, knew what it would be, and you'd decided the math didn't work out in your favor so you'd left it alone.
It was just that sometimes, quietly, in the back of your head, a voice said but what if you didn't.
You got dressed Saturday night and told that voice to shut up, and went to the party anyway.
Tucker met you at the door at eight on the dot, already in a good mood, which meant either the playlist was really good or he'd already had a drink.
"You look great," he said, holding the door open.
"You say that every time."
"Because it's true every time." He handed you a beer from the counter as you came into the kitchen, already comfortable, already home in the easy way the house had started to feel over the past year. "I was thinking we do something with the leftover rice from yesterday, I got peppers —"
"Tucker."
"What."
"We're not cooking. There are already people here."
He looked genuinely confused. "So?"
You took the beer from him and looked around the kitchen. Logan was leaning against the far counter talking to someone from the team, and Garrett was already in the living room, and the house had that particular pre-party hum to it, not yet loud, still settling into itself.
Dean wasn't in the kitchen.
You noted this the way you noted a lot of things quietly, without making anything of it.
Logan glanced over when Tucker handed you the beer. "You're here early."
"She's basically a resident," Tucker said, like this was a fact.
"I'm a guest," you said.
"Guests don't know where we keep the good knives," Logan said and winked, and went back to his conversation.
You spent the next hour in that easy pre-party mode, moving between the kitchen and the living room, talking to people you knew by name now, accepting a second drink from someone who was mixing them near the back. Tucker orbited you loosely the way he always did at these things, appearing at your elbow every twenty minutes or so to say something that made you laugh and then disappearing again. This was one of your favorite things about him, he was never clingy, never needed to keep you close, just checked in like punctuation.
Dean appeared sometime around ten.
He came down the stairs and into the living room and you saw him before he saw you, which felt important. He was wearing a dark green shirt, sleeves pushed to the elbows, and he had that easy unhurried way of moving through a room like it had already arranged itself around him. He said something to Garrett near the bottom of the stairs and laughed, and you looked away before he could look up.
So. He was here. That was fine. That was completely normal and fine.
You went to find Tucker.
The next hour you spent being very deliberate about not being obvious. You talked to people on the back porch when Dean was in the living room. You came inside when he drifted toward the kitchen. You were not proud of it exactly, but you were not going to stand around waiting for him to decide whether tonight was a night he felt like paying attention to you. You'd done a lot of things in your life. That was not going to be one of them.
Your friend Anna, a sorority sister, texted at eleven: how's the party
You typed back: fine. dean's here.
Three seconds.
oh. OH. okay. call me tomorrow.
maybe
that means yes. don't do anything I wouldn't do
You locked your phone and put it in your pocket and thought about the specific, limited list of things Anna wouldn't do and found it unhelpfully short.
The thing was, and you'd been over this, you'd been reasonable about this, you knew what it would be. A night, maybe a few nights, comfortable and uncomplicated and then done. Dean DiLaurentis didn't do anything that looked like what came after. You'd watched him long enough to know that too. And you'd decided that wasn't what you wanted, so you'd kept your distance, and that had been the right call, and it remained the right call.
You were in college at a party on a Friday night and you had been sensible about this for almost an entire calendar year.
The voice in the back of your head said but you knew that going in and it doesn't have to mean anything you don't want it to mean.
You told it to shut up.
It had a point though.
You refilled your drink. Stood near the back door where the air was a little cooler and the noise slightly less consuming. Watched the party happen around you. Thought, very clearly and deliberately: you know what it is. you've always known. that doesn't have to be the reason not to.
You were still working through the logic of that when you felt someone come to stand beside you.
"(Y/N). You've been avoiding me."
Dean. Not accusing, just observing, the same way he did most things, like he was simply noting a fact about the universe. He had a drink in one hand and he wasn't looking at you yet, eyes scanning the room like he'd just happened to end up here beside you, which you both understood wasn't true.
"I've been talking to people," you said.
"You've been talking to people on the opposite side of every room I was in."
"Maybe I just like that side of the room."
He looked at you then. Really looked, in that direct way of his that felt like being assessed and appreciated at the same time. The music was loud enough that the conversation existed in its own small space, just between you.
"You've been doing that for a year," he said.
"Has it been a year?" You kept your voice light.
"Almost." He took a drink. "I've been patient."
The word landed simply, without performance. Patient. Like he'd been waiting. Like the last year had been something he'd noticed too, kept track of, decided to let run its course.
You looked at him for a long moment. The party moved around you, loud and warm, and you stood in it and made the decision clearly, with both eyes open, which felt like the important part.
"Bathroom's upstairs," you said.
Something shifted in his expression, not surprise, just confirmation. Like he'd known, and now he knew for certain.
"Yeah," he said.
He followed you up the stairs without touching you, which felt somehow more loaded than if he had. You could feel him behind you the whole way, that particular awareness of someone close, and by the time you reached the top of the stairs your heart was doing something inconvenient.
The upstairs bathroom was at the end of the hall. You went in, he came in behind you, and you turned to click the lock and found him already there, close enough that turning around put you nearly chest to chest with him, close enough that you could feel the warmth coming off him before he'd laid a hand on you.
He didn't kiss you right away.
That was the first thing. You'd expected him to, he'd been patient for a year, you'd just told him where the bathroom was, you'd expected him to close the distance immediately. Instead he just looked at you, and the looking was its own thing, slow and deliberate, like he was taking his time now that he finally had you here and he wanted you to know it.
"You made me wait a long time," he said.
"You could have said something sooner," you said.
"I said something tonight."
"Barely."
Something shifted in his expression, not quite a smile, more like he'd just decided something. He reached up slowly and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, fingers grazing your jaw, and the touch was so light it was almost nothing, which somehow made it worse.
"You're going to be like that," he said. Quiet. Certain.
"I don't know what you mean," you said, which was a lie and you both knew it.
He tilted your chin up with two fingers, not roughly, just — directing. Making you look at him. "Yeah you do," he said, and then he kissed you.
It wasn't tentative. It was a kiss from someone who had thought about this specifically, who knew what he wanted and had decided tonight was when he was going to have it, and you kissed him back and felt a year's worth of deliberate distance dissolve somewhere at the back of your mind.
He walked you backward until your hips met the bathroom counter and left you there, stepped back just enough to look at you again with that same unhurried attention, and you understood then that he wasn't in a hurry. That he'd waited this long and now he was going to enjoy it, and you were going to have to let him.
"Take your jacket off," he said.
You did.
He watched you do it. That was all — just watched, arms loosely crossed, completely at ease, like this was exactly where he'd planned to be tonight. You set the jacket on the counter and looked at him and he looked back.
"Good," he said, like that meant something.
Your heart was doing the inconvenient thing again.
He came back to you slowly, hands finding your waist, and kissed you again, deeper this time, one hand sliding into your hair and gripping, not painfully, just holding you exactly where he wanted you. You made a small sound against his mouth and felt him smile.
"There it is," he murmured.
"Shut up," you said.
"Make me," he said against your jaw, and then his mouth was on your throat and the option to respond coherently became briefly unavailable.
He took his time with your throat, your collarbone, the soft place below your ear that made your fingers curl into his shirt without your permission, and every time you moved to pull him closer he'd ease back just enough to remind you that he was running this. Not mean about it. Just clear.
"Dean —"
"I've got you," he said, against your skin. "I'm not going anywhere."
His hands moved to the hem of your top, pulling it up slowly, and he stepped back to pull it over your head and dropped it somewhere on the floor and looked at you again with that particular focus, and you had to actively resist the urge to cover yourself, because that was not what you did, but the way he was looking at you made you feel like you were already coming apart.
"You have no idea," he said quietly, more to himself than you, and then his mouth was on your collarbone and his hands were at your waist and you gave up on dignity entirely.
His hands moved to the button of your jeans, unhurried, and he looked up at you first — not asking exactly, just checking — and you nodded and he undid it and crouched down to pull the fabric down your legs with a thoroughness that felt like a point being made. He looked up at you from there, and whatever was on your face made him look deeply, quietly satisfied.
"You've been thinking about this," he said. Not a question.
"Don't," you said.
"Don't what?"
"Don't be smug about it."
"I'm not being smug." He pressed a kiss to the inside of your knee, which short-circuited something. "I'm just paying attention."
He stood back up slowly, hands trailing up the outside of your thighs, and lifted you onto the counter like it was nothing, stepping between your knees. You pulled him back in by the collar of his shirt and kissed him harder than you'd meant to and he made a low sound and kissed you back the same way, one hand flat against the small of your back pulling you closer.
"Tell me what you want," he said, against your mouth.
"You know what I want."
"I want to hear you say it."
You pulled back and looked at him. He looked back, completely unbothered, and you understood that he meant it, that he was going to stand here all night if he had to, patient as anything, until you said it out loud.
"Dean."
"I'm right here," he said pleasantly.
"You're so —"
"Tell me."
You told him.
"Please"
The expression that crossed his face was worth it. He kissed you once, hard, like a reward, and said good against your mouth, and then his hand moved and all the words you'd been planning to say next went somewhere inaccessible.
He knew what he was doing in a way that felt almost unfair, thorough, attentive, like he'd already decided exactly how this was going to go and was now simply executing. When you tried to rush it he slowed down. When you made a sound he filed it away and came back to it. The tile was cold at your back and his hands were warm on your thighs and his mouth was at your cunt and the things he said there were quiet and precise and designed specifically to ruin you.
"You've been driving me crazy," he said. Low, unhurried. "All year. You know that."
"Dean —"
"Every time you walked into a room." His hand didn't stop. "Every time you looked at Tucker instead of me. Every single time."
"That's your fault," you managed.
"I know," he said. "I know it is." Something almost rueful in it. "Doesn't change the fact."
When you finally came it was with your head hitting the mirror behind you and holding his shoulder and his name somewhere in the middle of it, and he stayed with you through the whole thing, unhurried, like he had nothing else in the world to do.
He gave you a moment. Then he pulled back and looked at you with an expression that you could only describe as thoroughly pleased with himself, which should have been annoying and wasn't.
"Don't," you said.
"I didn't say anything."
"You were about to."
"I was going to ask if you were okay," he said, which was such an obvious lie that you laughed, and the laugh broke something open in the room, and he grinned, a real one, unguarded in a way you hadn't seen before, and kissed you again before it could turn into a whole thing.
You worked his belt with hands that weren't entirely steady and he helped without comment, and then his hands were at your hips and he pressed his forehead to yours for just a second.
You watched him look for a condom on his backpocket.
"Yeah?" he said quietly. All the performance gone.
"Yeah," you said.
He pushed into you slow and you exhaled against his jaw, fingers gripping his shoulders, adjusting to the feeling of him. He gave you a moment, forehead still to yours, patient, present, and then he moved and everything else became temporarily beside the point.
It was charged the way it only gets when two people have been waiting too long. Not frantic but urgent, with a focused intensity that felt like something being resolved. His grip was firm and deliberate and you pulled him closer when he slowed down and he got the message and didn't slow down again. The mirror was fogging and somewhere below you the party was still happening and it was completely irrelevant.
"Look at me," he said.
You did. He held your gaze and something passed between you that neither of you named, and you felt it in your chest more than anywhere else.
"Months," he said again. Quieter now.
"I know," you said. "I know."
When he came he buried his face in your neck and went quiet and still, one hand flat against the small of your back holding you against him, and you held onto him too because it seemed like the thing to do, and because you wanted to, and those were the same thing tonight.
You stayed like that for a moment longer than necessary.
Then you both exhaled at roughly the same time, which broke the tension, and Dean huffed a quiet laugh into your shoulder.
You untangled carefully, straightened yourselves out. You hopped off the counter and turned to the mirror, fixing your hair, smoothing your top back into place. He leaned against the wall watching you do it, arms crossed loosely, shirt back on. His hair was a mess and he didn't appear concerned about it.
You met his eyes in the mirror.
"This doesn't have to be a thing," you said. Even, matter of fact. Not cold, just clear. You were giving him an out because you'd rather give it than have him feel like he needed to take it badly.
Something moved across his face. He pushed off the wall slightly. "What if I want it to be a thing?"
You turned around. "What kind of thing?"
He held your gaze. Didn't answer right away, which was an answer, and you'd known it would be, you'd known before you came upstairs, and still it took a small quiet moment to settle.
"Right," you said simply.
Not angry. Not hurt, or at least not visibly. You'd gone in with both eyes open and you'd meant it, and the math was what you'd always known it was. That was fine. You were fine.
You unlocked the door.
"Hey," Dean said.
You looked back.
He opened his mouth, closed it. Something in his expression that you couldn't entirely read. "Nothing," he said finally. "Never mind."
You nodded once and stepped out into the hallway.
Downstairs, the party had peaked without you. The music was louder and the living room was full and Tucker was in the kitchen, which is where Tucker always ended up at some point. He took one look at your face when you appeared in the doorway and turned to open the fridge and produced a beer, which he held out without a word.
You took it.
"Having fun?" he asked, very casually, eyes on the fridge.
"Yeah," you said. "Party's good."
"Cool." He closed the fridge. "I made queso."
"Tucker."
"It's in the pot on the back burner."
You looked at him for a second. He looked back, perfectly neutral, perfectly unbothered, and completely full of information he was choosing not to say.
"Thank you," you said.
"Don't mention it," he said. "Seriously, don't. I have a reputation."
You laughed despite yourself, and some of the tightness in your chest loosened, just a little.
Tucker handed you a chip.
You both stood at the stove and ate queso and said nothing about any of it, and that was, genuinely, one of the nicest things anyone had done for you in a while.
Dean came downstairs eleven minutes later, you weren't counting, you just noticed, and grabbed a beer from the fridge and leaned against the counter across from you, and the three of you stood in that kitchen like nothing had happened at all.
Dean looked at the pot on the stove. "Is that queso?"
"Made it myself," Tucker said.
"You absolutely did not."
Tucker looked at you. You said nothing, scooping queso onto another chip. Dean's eyes moved between you both and landed on you with something unreadable in them.
"Can I have some?" he asked.
"It's your house," you said.
He got a chip. Ate it. Looked at the pot. "That's really good."
"I know," you said.
Tucker stared directly at the wall and smiled at absolutely nothing.
It didn't have a name. That was the thing , it never got one, and neither of you tried to give it one, and somehow that made it easier to just let it exist.
It started simply enough. A week after the party, Dean texted you at eleven on a Tuesday night. Just: you up?
The second text was a trailer link. No context, no explanation, just: this.
You watched it once. Typed back: that looks pretentious.
i know. yes or no.
fine.
The house was quiet when you got there , Garrett's door closed, Tucker apparently out, and Dean was on the couch with a beer and the energy of someone who had been waiting without admitting to waiting.
You sat in the middle of the couch.
He pulled up the movie without comment.
It was pretentious and it was also actually good, and you told him so twenty minutes in when he glanced over to see what you thought. He said told you without looking back at the screen. You said you said it looked pretentious, which is not the same as saying it wasn't good. He said that's a very specific distinction. You said I'm a specific person. He didn't say anything for a moment, and then said: yeah.
Somewhere around the third act the distance between you closed. You weren't sure who moved, maybe both of you, gradually. His arm along the back of the couch and your shoulder under it and neither of you addressed it.
The movie ended and neither of you moved.
He found something else. A documentary, shorter, that turned out to be genuinely interesting. You watched most of it. Somewhere in the second half you were closer still his arm properly around you now, your feet tucked up beside you — and the lamp in the corner was the only light, and in here it was warm, and you were paying attention to about thirty percent of the documentary.
You woke up at two in the morning with a blanket over you that hadn't been there before. Dean was asleep at the other end of the couch, head back, completely unconscious. The TV was still on. You looked at him in the blue light of the screensaver, the line of his jaw, the stillness of someone actually asleep and felt the quiet weight of something you were not going to examine.
Then you got up, folded the blanket, left it on the cushion, and walked home.
You didn't text him about it. He didn't text you about it. Two days later he sent: you around tonight? and you said depends and he said on what and you said what's the plan and he said no plan and you said okay.
That was how it started.
By November it had a shape, even if it didn't have a name.
You came over two or three times a week. Sometimes it was a movie, sometimes it was just you in the kitchen making something with whatever was in the fridge while Dean sat at the counter with his phone and ate everything you put in front of him without comment except occasionally this is really good in a tone that suggested he was a little annoyed about it. Sometimes the whole house was there, Tucker loud and cheerful, Garrett and Logan drifting in and out, the TV on in the background and sometimes it was just the two of you and the house was quiet and those evenings had a quality to them that you tried not to examine too closely.
He texted you things that weren't questions. A link to an article about something you'd both argued about in passing. A photo of a sunset he'd apparently seen from the library roof, no caption. A voice memo once, at midnight, that was just him reading something in the flat unimpressed tone he used when something was genuinely getting on his nerves — listen to this, the message said, and you did, and you laughed, and he sent back a single: right?
You sent him things back. A recipe you thought he'd actually like. A clip of something that reminded you of a conversation you'd had. He always answered. Not immediately, not performatively, just he answered.
Garrett had noticed, in his way. He'd stopped doing double-takes when you were in the kitchen on a Tuesday night, had started just saying hey and opening the fridge like your presence was a given. Logan was less subtle, he'd caught your eye once across the living room when Dean laughed at something you'd said, and raised an eyebrow, and you'd looked away and he'd had the decency not to push it.
You talked to Anna about it on a Sunday afternoon in November, feet up on her bed, staring at the ceiling while she did her readings across from you.
"So it's a situationship," she said, not looking up.
"I didn't say that."
"You described a situationship."
"I described two people who spend time together."
"With benefits."
"Occasionally."
She finally looked up. "How often is occasionally?"
You said nothing.
"That's what I thought." She went back to her reading. "Are you okay with it?"
You thought about it honestly, the way you tried to think about most things. "Yeah," you said. "I went in knowing what it was."
"That's not what I asked."
You looked at the ceiling. "I'm fine," you said. "It's fine. I know what it is."
Anna made a small noncommittal sound that you chose not to interpret.
The physical part of it was easy in a way you hadn't entirely expected. Comfortable in a way that felt like it should have taken longer to get to. He knew what you liked with an attentiveness that might have been alarming if you'd let yourself think about it, and you knew what worked for him, and there was none of the awkwardness of newness anymore.
The only thing you were consistent about was the condom. Every time, without exception. Until one night in late November when Dean caught your wrist gently before you could reach for the nightstand.
"Why do you always —" He stopped. Nodded toward it. "Every time."
"Because I'm not stupid," you said. "You were getting around a lot before this and I don't know what this is and I'm not asking but I'm also not —"
"I haven't," he said. "Since the party. I haven't slept with anyone else."
The room went quiet.
"Oh," you said. A beat. "Me neither."
Something moved across his face that he didn't entirely manage to control. His thumb traced a slow absent line against the inside of your wrist.
"Okay," he said quietly.
"Okay," you said.
The air in the room changed into something neither of you was going to name. Then he kissed you, and it was different, slower, more careful, like something had been confirmed that he hadn't known he was waiting to confirm, and you let yourself feel it without examining it too closely, because that felt fair.
The first sign was the texts.
Not that they stopped completely, that would have been obvious, and Dean was too smart for obvious. They just slowed. A reply that came four hours later instead of forty minutes. A shorter answer where there used to be a real one. The voice memos stopped. The links stopped. You'd send something and get back a single word where there used to be a sentence, and you'd look at it and feel the shape of what was happening without being able to name it yet.
You told yourself it was school. Exams were coming, everyone was disappearing into the library, that was normal. You told yourself he was busy, stressed, in his head about the end of semester and the hockey team. You were busy too. You had your own readings, your own papers, your own life that existed completely separately from the off campus house and always had.
You kept coming over. Tucker needed someone to watch the game with and you'd promised him a recipe you'd been meaning to show him and you were not going to rearrange your life over a shift in text frequency.
But you noticed.
You noticed the way Dean would come into the kitchen when you were there and open the fridge and not look at you the way he used to. Not hostile, just absent. Like you were furniture. Like the awareness he'd always had of you in a room had been switched off at a source you couldn't locate. He ate the food you made without commenting on it. He answered direct questions. He didn't start anything.
You didn't push. That wasn't who you were.
But by the second week of December you were lying in your room at night doing the math and the math was not coming out well, and you were tired of pretending it wasn't.
You went over on a Thursday.
Tucker was at a class. You'd known that, you'd checked, because you wanted the house quiet, because you wanted five minutes of honesty without an audience. Garrett's truck wasn't in the driveway either. You knocked on Dean's door and he opened it in sweats and a Briar hoodie, textbook open on his desk, and the look on his face when he saw you was almost nothing, which was its own answer.
"Hey," you said.
"Hey." He stepped back to let you in, which you took as an invitation, and you came in and stood in the middle of his room and he closed the door and leaned against his desk with his arms crossed. Not aggressive. Just closed.
You looked at him for a moment.
"What's going on with you?" you asked. Quiet, direct. No accusation in it, just the question.
He shrugged one shoulder. "Nothing. Finals."
"Okay," you said. "That's not what I mean and you know it."
A beat. Something moved behind his eyes and then went still.
"I don't know what you want me to say," he said.
"I want you to say what's actually happening."
He looked at you. Then he looked away, jaw tightening slightly, and you recognized the particular quality of someone deciding something, not discovering it, deciding it, and some quiet part of you braced.
"I think this has run its course," he said. Flat. Careful.
You kept your face even. "Okay. What does that mean."
"It means —" He stopped. Started again. "I don't want this anymore. Whatever this is. I don't want it."
"Okay," you said.
He looked at you, and something in your steadiness seemed to irritate him, which you hadn't expected, and that was maybe the thing that cracked something open in him that should have stayed closed.
"I don't know what you thought this was," he said, and his voice had an edge now, "but it wasn't — I wasn't —" He made a short, almost contemptuous gesture. "You've been coming over here for months like you live here. Cooking, watching movies, acting like this is some kind of —"
"I never called it anything," you said.
"No, but you acted like it was something. You act like everything is fine and nothing bothers you and you're so —" He stopped, and the word he landed on was quiet and precise and clearly chosen to land: "You're so comfortable here. Like you belong here. And you don't."
The room was very quiet.
You looked at him. He looked back, and you could see the moment he heard what he'd just said, saw something flicker across his face that might have been regret but came too late to matter.
"You're right," you said. Your voice was completely level. "I don't."
He opened his mouth.
"I'm not going to make this into something," you said. "You don't want it, that's fine. I went in knowing what it was." You picked up your jacket from where you'd set it on the edge of his bed. "I hope finals go okay."
"Hey —"
"Good night, Dean."
You left. You closed the door behind you, not hard, just closed, and you walked down the stairs and through the front door and out into the December cold and you kept your shoulders straight the whole way home.
You didn't cry until you were in your own room with the door locked, and even then it wasn't for very long, because you'd known, you'd always known, and knowing didn't make it nothing but it made it survivable.
You texted Anna: you were right.
She called immediately. You let it ring twice, then picked up.
"I'm okay," you said, before she could ask.
"I know you are," she said. "Tell me anyway."
The hard part came later, at midnight.
You were lying in bed and you saw a link, a restaurant that had just opened, a tasting menu you'd been meaning to mention and you had his name pulled up in your contacts before you caught yourself. Thumb over send. The restaurant unremarkable and the gesture everything.
You put your phone face down on the mattress and looked at the ceiling for a while.
You'd known. You'd always known. That didn't make it nothing. It made it survivable, which was what you'd agreed to, and you were keeping that agreement.
The next afternoon you went to the off campus house.
Not because of Dean. Tucker had texted you at noon — i made something and i think i made it wrong, come look at it — and you'd said what did you make and he'd sent a photo that made you genuinely concerned for his wellbeing, and you'd said I'm coming over because that was what you did.
You showed up at three in the afternoon in your good boots and your coat, hair done, bag over your shoulder, because you had a study session after and you were not rearranging your life. You walked into the kitchen and Tucker was standing over something on the stove that smelled questionable and turned around with the expression of a man who needed saving.
"What is that," you said.
"I was trying to do the thing you showed me with the —"
"Tucker."
"I know."
You put your bag down and took your coat off and hung it over the stool and rolled up your sleeves and looked at whatever was happening in the pot, and Tucker stood next to you like a man watching a surgeon assess a patient.
"It's salvageable," you said.
He exhaled. "I knew it."
"Get me the garlic."
You cooked. Tucker hovered and passed things when you asked and made commentary that you ignored selectively and the kitchen filled up with something that smelled the way the kitchen was supposed to smell, and it was normal. It was completely normal. You were fine.
Logan came through at some point, stopped in the doorway, looked at the pot. "That smells good." Then he looked at Tucker. "Did you make that?"
"We're collaborating," Tucker said.
Logan looked at you. You said nothing. He grabbed a water from the fridge and left, which was exactly the right thing to do.
Dean came downstairs at some point, and you heard him stop at the bottom of the stairs, and you stirred the pot and didn't turn around.
"Hey," Tucker said, in the careful voice of someone being very casual.
"Hey." Dean's voice from the doorway. A pause. "What are you making?"
"She's fixing what I made," Tucker said.
You felt Dean's eyes on your back. You reached past the stove for the spice rack.
"Smells good," Dean said.
You said nothing. Not pointedly — just nothing. Tucker handed you the paprika.
Dean didn't leave. You could feel him still standing there, which told you something you set aside for later. You plated what you'd made, put Tucker's portion in front of him, put the extra in a container that you labeled with a piece of tape and a marker the way you always did, and started washing the pan.
"There's extra," Tucker said, to the room.
"I can see that," Dean said.
Tucker ate a bite. Made a sound of profound relief. "You're genuinely talented, you know that?"
"I know," you said, drying the pan.
You stayed another forty minutes, finishing your tea, going over the recipe with Tucker so he could try again, answering a text from Anna. Normal. Easy. The house the same as it had always been, Tucker the same as he'd always been, you the same as you'd always been.
When you left you said, "Bye Tuck, don't touch the leftovers until tomorrow, they're better the next day."
"Noted," Tucker said.
You pulled on your coat. Picked up your bag. "Later," you said, generally, to the room, and you walked out.
Dean stood in the kitchen after the front door closed.
Tucker was eating. Not looking at him. The kitchen smelled incredible and there was a labeled container in the fridge and the pan you'd used was clean and back on the rack like you'd never been there.
"She labeled it," Dean said.
"She always labels it," Tucker said.
Dean looked at the fridge. "For who."
"I don't know, Dean." Tucker turned a page in whatever he was reading. "Whoever wants it, I guess."
He couldn't focus in class the next morning.
The professor was talking and Dean had his laptop open and his notes half-started and none of it was going in because he kept coming back to the same thing, the same image, which was you standing at his stove with your back to him like nothing had happened.
Not performing like nothing had happened. Actually fine. The difference between those two things was something he understood logically and couldn't reconcile emotionally and it was making him insane.
He'd expected — he didn't know what he'd expected. Something. Some sign that what he'd said had mattered, that he had mattered, that the months of you being in his space and in his kitchen and in his bed and knowing how he took his coffee and showing up when Tucker texted you and falling asleep on his couch and leaving your chapstick on his nightstand —
You'd taken the chapstick. He'd noticed.
You'd taken it and labeled the leftovers and said later to the room and walked out and that was it, apparently. That was the whole thing. He'd said you don't belong here and you'd said you're right and you'd meant it, and that was the part he couldn't get past. You'd meant it not because you believed it but because you weren't going to fight him on it. Because you didn't need to.
You act like you belong here. And you don't.
He'd said that. He'd actually said that.
He stared at his laptop screen.
You'd been coming to that house since before he'd ever spoken a full sentence to you. Tucker's mom had called you, you'd shown up, you'd been folded into the house slowly and completely the way only people who actually fit somewhere ever are, Tucker texting you unprompted, Garrett knowing your coffee order, Logan moving over on the couch without being asked, and Dean had stood in his own room and told you that you didn't belong there and you'd looked at him like you were giving him the chance to hear what he was saying and he hadn't taken it and you'd left.
And then you'd come back the next day and cooked Tucker's disaster and labeled the leftovers and said later.
Later. Like you'd see them around. Like the house was still just a place you came to, unconnected to Dean, existing independently of whatever he'd decided.
Because it was. Because Tucker was your friend. Because you'd built something there that had nothing to do with Dean DiLaurentis and apparently had no intention of dismantling it on his account.
He wrote something down without reading it.
The thing was and this was the part that was sitting in his chest like something he couldn't shift, he'd ended it because it was getting too real. That was the honest answer, the one he hadn't said out loud to anyone including himself until approximately right now, which was not ideal timing. He'd felt it getting heavier and closer and more like something that had a name and he'd panicked, and when Dean DiLaurentis panicked he went cold, and when he went cold long enough he said things he couldn't take back.
You don't belong here.
He closed his laptop. Opened it again.
You hadn't fought for it. He'd said something genuinely cruel and you'd said you're right and you'd left, and the version of events he'd been running in his head where you'd be upset, where you'd pull back from the house, where he'd see the evidence of having mattered somewhere in your behavior, none of that had happened. You'd come back with your boots and your coat and your labeled container and your later and you were fine.
He was not fine.
That felt deeply, profoundly unfair, and he was self-aware enough to recognize that he had no one to blame for it but himself, which made it worse.
Wait, said something in the back of his head, quiet and inconvenient.
He picked up his pen. Put it down.
Wait.
He didn't finish the thought. He stared at his notes until they stopped meaning anything, and outside the window the Briar campus went on being cold and grey and completely indifferent to the fact that Dean DiLaurentis was sitting in class slowly understanding something he wasn't ready to understand yet.
The problem with ending things, Dean was discovering, was that it only worked if the other person let it end.
You hadn't made a scene. Hadn't texted him anything he had to respond to, hadn't shown up at his door, hadn't done a single thing that gave him something to push against. You'd just continued. Existing in the house, in the kitchen, in Tucker's orbit, completely unchanged, like Dean's opinion of the situation was one data point you'd received and filed appropriately and moved on from.
He ate everything you made. That was the humiliating part. Every single time you left something in the fridge he ate it, sometimes within the hour, standing at the counter in the kitchen alone like some kind of punishment he was administering to himself. Tucker never commented on this. Tucker never commented on anything, which was its own form of commentary.
You'd left soup once. Labeled, like always — back burner, twenty minutes, don't let Tucker have more than one bowl he'll eat the whole thing. Dean had read the label four times. Eaten two bowls. Stood at the sink washing the pot afterward feeling like a man losing an argument he wasn't allowed to be having.
Garrett had found him standing there once, staring at nothing, and said "you good?" and Dean had said "yeah" and Garrett had looked at the labeled container still on the counter and said nothing further, which somehow made it worse.
He started noticing everything.
The way you'd laugh at something on your phone and not share it with the room, just smile to yourself and put it face down. The way you always took your shoes off at the door and lined them up neatly to the left, always the left, and he'd started checking for them when he came downstairs, the presence or absence of your boots telling him things about the afternoon before he'd even gotten to the kitchen. The way you said Tucker's name — comfortable, fond, like a shorthand — and the way you had, at some point, stopped saying Dean's name at all. Not pointedly. Just it didn't come up. He wasn't who you were talking to.
He'd done that. He understood that he'd done that.
He just hadn't understood what it would feel like to have done it.
He tried, for a while, to be reasonable about it.
He made a list, mentally, of all the reasons this was fine. He didn't do relationships. He'd never done relationships. He had a plan for his life that had been in place since he was sixteen, and that plan had no room in it for whatever you were. Whatever you'd been. The comfortable weight of your presence, the evenings when you were in the house versus evenings when you weren't, the way he'd started coming across things during the week and thinking you'd have something to say about this —
That was the problem right there. That was the thing he kept running into.
He'd been having conversations with you in his head for weeks. Full conversations, with your actual responses, because he knew how you thought well enough to fill both sides, and that was, that was not the behavior of someone who was fine.
He talked to Garrett on a Tuesday night, which he never did, and talked around the subject for twenty minutes before Garrett said, flatly: "Just tell me what she did."
"She didn't do anything," Dean said.
A pause. "Then tell me what you did."
Dean stared at his ceiling. "I ended it."
"And?"
"And she's fine."
"That's it? She's fine and you are like this?"
"She's too fine," Dean said, and hated how that sounded.
Garrett was quiet for a moment. Then: "Dean."
"What."
"You absolute idiot."
January settled over Briar cold and grey and Dean settled into a particular kind of misery that he was too proud to name properly. He went to class. He did his readings. He played well enough at practice that Coach didn't get on him, which required more effort than it should have because his head was not where it was supposed to be.
You came over on Saturdays, usually. Sometimes Thursdays. Tucker had apparently taken to texting you about things that had nothing to do with cooking, Dean had seen the thread once, accidentally, and it was just the two of you sending each other increasingly unhinged videos with no context, a friendship that existed completely on its own terms, owed nothing to Dean, and was apparently thriving.
Logan had said, once, carefully, over breakfast: "She was here yesterday."
"I know," Dean said.
Logan looked at him. "Just saying."
"I know," Dean said again.
Logan went back to his cereal and didn't push it, which was the right call, and Dean appreciated it and resented it in equal measure.
He watched you from across rooms and told himself he wasn't doing that.
You never looked uncomfortable. That was the thing that was going to actually kill him. You'd come in, take your boots off, left side of the door, say hey to whoever was around, drift toward the kitchen with the ease of someone in a place they belonged, and it would be normal. Warm. Real. And Dean would be somewhere in the same house eating himself alive and you would be completely, genuinely fine.
He thought about the things he'd said. You act like you belong here. And you don't.
He thought about those words with a frequency that was becoming a problem.
It was a random Wednesday in late January.
Dean came home from a late class tired and cold and in the specific bad mood that came from hours with a professor who seemed to find his suffering amusing. The house was lit up when he got there, which meant people were home, and he could hear voices from the kitchen before he'd gotten his coat off.
Tucker's laugh. And then yours.
He stood in the hallway for a second with his coat half off.
"—absolutely not, that's not how that works—" Tucker, indignant.
"I'm telling you, Tucker, I watched you do it, that's exactly how you did it—"
"I was recovering, there's a difference—"
"There is no difference, the result was the same—"
Tucker said something Dean didn't catch and you laughed, full and real, the kind of laugh that meant you'd actually been caught off guard by it, and the sound of it hit Dean somewhere undefended and just stayed there.
He finished taking his coat off. Hung it up. Walked to the kitchen doorway.
You were at the island, Tucker leaning on his elbows across from you, some kind of card game between you that Dean didn't recognize. You had a mug of something and your hair was down and you were still smiling from whatever Tucker had just said, and Tucker was looking at you with the expression of someone who had won a point. Garrett was on the couch in the next room, feet up, barely paying attention, the way Garrett existed in the house like ambient weather.
"Dean," Tucker said. "Tell her that recovering from a bad move is a valid strategy."
"Depends on the move," Dean said, automatically.
"See," Tucker said to you.
"That's not what he said," you said, and glanced at Dean briefly,not long, not loaded, just a glance, the kind you'd give anyone and looked back at Tucker. "Your move."
Dean got a glass of water. Stood at the counter. The card game continued. Tucker accused you of cheating, you denied it with the specific serenity of someone who was absolutely cheating, Dean watched and said nothing and felt the sensation of standing outside something warm.
An hour later you started putting your coat on.
"Okay," you said, gathering your things. "Tucker. Rematch Thursday."
"Thursday," Tucker confirmed. "I'll win."
"You won't." You pulled your bag onto your shoulder. Looked at Tucker with something genuine and warm. "Bye, Tuck."
"Bye." Tucker was already looking back at his phone.
"Later, Garrett," you called toward the living room.
"Later," Garrett called back, not looking up.
You walked toward the door. Past Dean, close enough that he could have said something, close enough that the window was right there, and he stood at the counter with his glass of water and said nothing, and you pulled the door open and walked out, and the door closed, and that was it.
Tucker looked up from his phone.
The two of them sat in the quiet kitchen, the card game still spread out on the island, your mug still on the counter.
"She forgot her mug," Dean said.
"She'll get it Thursday," Tucker said.
Dean put his glass down. Picked it back up.
"She said bye to you first," he said.
Tucker looked at him for a long moment. Set his phone down. "Yeah," he said. "She did."
The kitchen was very quiet.
"Tucker —"
"I'm not doing this, Dean."
"I'm not asking you to do anything."
"Good." Tucker picked his phone back up. "Because I really, genuinely, am not getting involved."
From the living room, Garrett said nothing, which meant he was listening to every word.
Dean looked at the door.
"She left her mug," he said again, quieter, to no one in particular.
Tucker said nothing. Which was, as always, its own kind of answer.
He lasted four days.
Four days of your mug on the counter — Tucker had washed it and left it there — four days of picking up his phone and putting it down, four days of being a reasonable adult who had made a decision and was living with it, and then on Sunday night at eleven p.m. he put on his shoes and his coat and walked across campus to the Kappa house like a man who had exhausted every other option.
He stood outside in the cold and looked up at the second floor windows and felt genuinely insane.
He found a handful of small rocks from the landscaping border. Looked at them. Looked up at the windows.
He threw one.
It hit the wrong window. A light came on and someone looked out — not you, someone he didn't recognize — and he stepped back into the shadow of the tree until the light went off again.
He tried the next window. Nothing. The one after that.
The window opened.
You leaned out, hair messy, clearly pulled from sleep or close to it, and looked down at him in the dark with an expression that moved through several phases: confusion, recognition, disbelief. Before settling on something that was almost exasperated and almost amused and fully of course.
"Dean," you said, not loud. "What are you doing."
"I need to talk to you."
"It's eleven o'clock."
"I know. You weren't answering my texts."
You stared at him. "You texted me twenty minutes ago."
"You didn't answer."
"I was asleep."
"Can I come up?"
The expression on your face did something complicated. "You want to climb the sorority house."
"There's a trellis."
You looked to the left, apparently confirming the existence of the trellis, then looked back down at him. "Dean."
"Five minutes," he said. "I just — five minutes. Then I'll go."
You looked at him for a long moment, and he stood in the cold and let you look, because he'd run out of ways to manage how this went. You could close the window. That was a real option and he'd accept it.
You didn't close the window.
"The trellis is on the left," you said. "Don't break anything."
He made it up without incident, which he felt was frankly more than he deserved. You'd stepped back from the window to let him climb through, and he came in trying not to knock anything over and stood in the middle of your room feeling the full absurdity of the situation settle over him.
Your room was small and warm. Books on every surface, a desk lamp on low, a quilt on the bed that looked like it had been in your family for a while. It smelled like you, something warm, something that had been living in the back of his brain for months without his permission.
You sat on the edge of your bed and looked at him with your arms loosely crossed, not hostile, just waiting. Giving him the floor.
"I need to say something," he said.
"Okay."
"And I need you to let me say it without — I need to actually get through it."
"I'm not stopping you," you said.
He looked at you. You looked back, and there was something in your expression: patient, steady, not giving him anything, and he understood suddenly that you were going to make him do this himself. All the way. No half measures.
He took a breath.
"I said things to you that I can't take back," he started. "That night in my room. And I knew when I said them that they weren't — I knew they weren't true. I said them because I was scared and I was trying to make you leave and I wanted it to work so I made it as —" He stopped. Tried again. "I wanted you gone and I made sure you'd go and then you went and I've been —" He stopped again.
You waited.
"I've been losing my mind," he said. "For weeks. You keep coming over and cooking Tucker's food and laughing at his jokes and you left your mug on the counter and you said bye, Tuck and walked out like I wasn't standing right there and I —" He stopped. The words that needed to come next were the ones he'd been circling for weeks and he was done circling. "I'm in love with you."
The room was quiet.
"I'm in love with you," he said again, because it had come out steadier the second time and it was true and he was done with it living only in his head. "I have been for a while. I didn't know what to do with it so I — I did what I did. And I know that's not an excuse. I know what I said. But I needed you to know that it wasn't because you didn't matter. It was because you mattered too much and I didn't know how to —"
"Dean," you said.
He stopped.
You looked at him for a long moment. Something in your expression that was careful and real and not entirely closed.
"I know," you said quietly.
He blinked. "You —"
"I knew." You said it simply, without cruelty. "I've known for a while. I needed you to know it too." A pause. "And I needed you to say it. Out loud. To me. Without me making it easy for you."
He held your gaze. "Because you're not going to make it easy for me."
"No," you said. Not meanly. Just honestly. "I'm not."
He nodded slowly. That was fair. That was completely fair.
"I'm sorry," he said. "For what I said. You don't belong here — I knew that wasn't true when I said it. That's the worst part. I knew and I said it anyway."
You looked at him. And he watched something in your expression shift, not all the way, but enough, a small careful opening.
"I know," you said again. Softer this time.
"Can we —" He stopped. Tried to find the right shape for the question. "Is there a way back from this. Is that something that exists."
You were quiet for a moment that felt very long.
"Come here," you said.
He crossed the room and you stood from the bed to meet him and he kissed you carefully, like he was asking, and you kissed him back like you were answering, and it was nothing like the first time and nothing like any of the times in between, because those had all been about desire and this was about something that didn't have the same kind of ceiling.
His hands came to your face, gentle, and you let him, and he kissed you like he was trying to say the things that words hadn't been sufficient for the weeks of watching you from across rooms, the soup, the mug, the way your boots on the left side of the door had started to feel like something he needed, all of it, moving through the kiss like it had somewhere to go now.
You pulled back after a moment and looked at him.
"Say it again," you said quietly. Not a test. Just you wanted to hear it again.
"I'm in love with you," he said, without hesitating.
You looked at him for one more second. Then you kissed him again and this time you meant it differently, your hands in his collar pulling him in, and the tenor of the whole thing shifted from careful to something warmer and more certain.
He walked you back to the bed gently, and you sat and pulled him down with you, and he went willingly, propping himself above you, and looked at you for a moment. Your hair on the pillow, your expression open in a way he hadn't been allowed to see in weeks.
"Hi," he said, quietly.
The corner of your mouth moved. "Hi."
He kissed you again, slower this time, and his hands moved over you with a deliberateness that was different from anything before not performing, not proving anything, just present. Your shirt came off and his followed, and he pressed his mouth to your collarbone, your shoulder, the soft curve of your throat, taking his time in the way of someone who wasn't going anywhere.
"Dean," you said softly, fingers in his hair.
"I know," he said, against your skin. "I've got you."
You exhaled like something releasing.
It was slow and close and almost unbearably tender, the kind of thing that didn't have anything to hide anymore. He was attentive in a way that felt different now not just knowing what worked but wanting you to feel it, wanting you to know he was there, all the way there, not halfway out the door. You made soft sounds against his jaw and pulled him closer and he went, and you moved together in the small warm room with the desk lamp still on low and neither of you suggested turning it off.
When you came it was quiet and deep and you said his name and he held you through it with his face pressed to your temple, and afterward he stayed close, closer than strictly necessary, and you didn't move away.
When he followed he was holding your hand, fingers laced, which hadn't been planned and was completely true, and you held on.
Afterward you lay in the small bed in the quiet and the lamp was still on.
Your head was on his chest. He had his arm around you. Neither of you had suggested otherwise.
"You really threw rocks at my window," you said, to the ceiling.
"Small rocks."
"You hit Anna's window first."
"She didn't see me."
"She definitely saw you." A pause. "She texted me twenty minutes ago asking if I had a 'nighttime visitor.'"
Dean closed his eyes briefly. "Great."
You laughed, quiet, against his chest, and he felt it more than heard it and thought: there it is. there's the thing I've been missing.
He pressed his mouth to your hair.
"For the record," he said, "you do belong there. In the house. That was — I need you to know that was the opposite of true."
You were quiet for a moment. "I know," you said. "I always knew."
"You're annoyingly self-possessed, you know that?"
"You've mentioned it."
"Not a complaint."
You tilted your head to look up at him. Something in your expression that was warm and a little careful still, not closed, just real. This was going to take time, he knew that. He'd put something between you that didn't disappear overnight and you weren't going to pretend it had, because you didn't do that.
"Tucker's going to be insufferable about this," you said.
Dean thought about Tucker, who had said absolutely nothing for weeks and washed your mug and left it on the counter. "He already knows," Dean said.
"He's known for months."
"I know."
"He texted me two weeks ago," you said, "and said 'just for the record I think he's an idiot.' I asked who and he said 'you know who.'"
Dean stared at the ceiling. "I'm going to kill him."
"You're not."
"No," he agreed. "I'm not."
A beat.
"Garrett's going to say I told you so," you said.
Dean closed his eyes. "Did he tell you so?"
"He texted me a single thumbs up the morning after the speech. No context."
"I'm going to kill Garrett too."
"You're really not."
"No," he said. "I'm really not."
You settled back against him and the room was quiet and warm and your hand was resting on his chest and outside the world was doing whatever the world was doing and in here it was just this, finally, with a name on it.
stormborns
andulkaphoto
amandla
areudirty
gummygunk
