und du lebst trotz allem.

laur // 27

[thewinterclown]

A list of my 50 favorite things [3/50] “This is new for me. I didn’t have a moment to deal with anything, you know? I had a little calm in Wakanda. Other than that I just went from one fight to another for 90 years.” Sebastian Stan as BUCKY BARNES • THE WINTER SOLDIER 2011— | Marvel Cinematic Universe

[moonshynecybin]

have you guys ever seen a crocodile with its fingies out

[moonshynecybin]

[devilishdescent]

[64mpg]

it has always been a dream of mine to relax

[64mpg]

it’s just not possible

[princessdelacruz]

[wesandresons]

THE PITT 2.12 “6:00 PM”

[mirrorballbarnes]

RAHHHHHHHHHHHH

[radiqueer]

Human relationships are not transactional but they are reciprocal, which I think many of you with your ‘i don’t owe anyone anything’ shtick are too happy to forget

[aromanticduck]

Transactional: everything has to be exactly 50/50 all the time, pay me back for the £5 sandwich or buy me something worth exactly £5, I refuse to make an effort for you if there’s nothing in it for me

Reciprocal: you were there for me when I needed help, and I’m going to do the same for you, it doesn’t matter if one of us needs more or is capable of less, because the point is not equivalent exchange but mutual care

[glowingemberz]

This bit for everyone who fears they are a burden to the friendship everytime they need the other person

[heldbybarnes]

everything is romantic

pairing: bucky barnes x reader | 10.2k words | modern soulmate au

warnings: explicit sexual content (18+), soulmate bond/past life memories, multiple lifetimes, memory flashes, discussions of war, brief references to trauma/recovery, love at first sight across lifetimes, wedding night smut, destiny vs choice, happy ending

summary: when you and bucky reach for the same bag of lemons at the farmer’s market, the touch triggers flashes of the many lifetimes you’ve spent loving each other. as those memories keep surfacing, the two of you have to figure out what it means to fall in love again in the life you’re living now.

authors note: this is very loosely inspired by everything is romantic by charli xcx, and by “loosely” i mean i took several lyrics, made them devastating, and then built an entire soulmate reincarnation love story around them. many many thank you's for this fic! thank you to @/iamthatonefangirl and @/barnesonly for organizing our bwat summer collab; go check out everyone else's work! thank you to my baby, @/pinksplace for giving this idea and listening to me continuously crash out about it🫶 and a very special thank you to @/buckybsdoll for not only beta reading it, but for also encouraging this fic is indeed NOT buns, and i can do hard things. love you all🩷

----------

Saturday mornings belong to James Buchanan Barnes.

That is what Bucky tells himself, anyway—what he has been telling himself for the better part of three years, ever since recovery stopped feeling like a cliff edge and started, slowly, cautiously, feeling like a road. Not an easy road, not a straight one, but a road all the same. Something he can wake up and keep walking.

Saturday means the same coffee stand on the corner where the barista with the chipped purple nail polish starts making his drink the second she sees him coming. It means the farmer’s market under the green-striped awnings in the square, where he buys a loaf of crusty sourdough from the old Polish couple in stall fourteen and fresh eggs from the woman who always insists the yolks are brighter in spring. It means peaches if they’re in season, because one summer in Wakanda he had bitten into one so ripe it had run down his wrist and made him laugh out loud in the middle of a field, and ever since then peaches have felt like proof of life. It means flowers some3times, too, if the apartment feels especially bare. Something cheap and cheerful in a mason jar on the kitchen counter. Something that says a man can make a home even if he was taught for years he did not deserve one.

It is a good routine. A hard-won one. Bucky likes the honesty of it, the way these small rituals ask nothing of him except that he show up.

This morning, June sun already warming the pavement, his paper cup of coffee hot in his hand, he feels almost light. The market is crowded enough to buzz but not so packed he gets hemmed in. A violinist near the fountain is playing something bright and quick. Someone’s kid is trying to pet every dog within reach. The air smells like basil and strawberries and the faint yeasty sweetness of fresh bread.

Bucky buys his loaf first. Then tomatoes. Then a bunch of green onions. He pauses at the peach stand, testing one for give with his thumb, and decides they need another week.

By the time he reaches the citrus table, the vendor is rearranging pyramids of lemons in rough wooden crates, their skins bright and dimpled in the morning light. Bucky reaches automatically, already picturing chicken piccata for dinner, and another hand reaches at the same exact moment.

Your fingers brush his.

The world splits open.

One second he is standing in the farmer’s market with coffee on his breath and sunlight on the back of his neck, and the next—

Neon. Laughter. Chapel bells tinny through cheap speakers. Your mouth, painted the color of a ripe cherry, open on a breathless laugh. White satin clinging to your hips. A fake Elvis in a rhinestone jumpsuit grinning around too-big teeth beneath a plastic crucifix bolted crooked over the altar.

Bucky gasps.

The bag of lemons slips from both your hands and tumbles to the pavement, yellow fruit rolling in wild directions as if they’ve been startled too.

The vision doesn’t stop there. Visions of different lifetimes flash through his eyes like he’s watching the life of ten different couples all at once. 

A steering wheel under his palms, worn smooth with use. Summer wind through open windows. You in cutoff shorts, feet on the dashboard, singing badly and loudly while the road curls ahead of you like a dare.

White sheets. Lace curtains breathing in a warm midnight breeze. Gold band on your finger catching moonlight where your hand presses against his chest. Your mouth moving against his throat with a broken little sound that is half laughter, half prayer.

A rough cabin wall. Splintered pine under his palm. You in a wool shift with your hair braided down your back, cheeks wind-burned, smiling over your shoulder as foxes cry somewhere out in the dark and a baby sleeps in a cradle by the fire.

Smoke and jazz and blackout curtains. East London. Silk black as sin against your skin. Your hand catching his by the wrist before he can disappear back into the war.

A beach. Bright afternoon. Children shrieking at the tide. Orange drinks sweating in glass pitchers while he kneels in the sand with his sleeves rolled up, helping a little girl press shell fragments into the turret of a sandcastle, and you walk toward him laughing, sunlight at your back so fierce it turns you to gold.

Then all of it is gone.

The market snaps back into focus so suddenly it hurts. Sound crashes in—vendors shouting prices, stroller wheels rattling, the violinist sawing away by the fountain. Bucky stumbles backward a step. Across from him, you catch yourself on the edge of the citrus crate, looking exactly as wrecked as he feels.

Your eyes lock on his.

“Oh my God,” you whisper.

Bucky’s heart is pounding hard enough to bruise. “You saw that too.”

It isn’t a question.

In this world, everybody knows about soulmarks and first-flashes. Knows that when you meet the person your soul is tied to, memory can strike like lightning. Some people get a single image. A porch swing. A train platform. A hand in a hospital room. Some get a rush of several lives at once, enough to leave them reeling for days. Most people dream of it when they’re young. Spend adolescence looking at every stranger a little too long. Wondering when it will happen, if it will happen, whether the person on the other end of them is alive or halfway across the planet or just around the corner.

Bucky stopped wondering a long time ago.

HYDRA did not leave much room for destiny.

You swallow. “That was not normal.”

“No,” he says, voice rough. “No, that was… not.”

The lemon vendor is gathering the fallen fruit with admirable indifference, the kind that says he has seen stranger things at this market and will see stranger still. “You two need a minute?” he asks.

You make a sound that could be a laugh or a near-sob. “Maybe five.”

Bucky buys the entire bag of lemons because it feels like the least insane thing he can do, then follows you blindly toward the edge of the square where there’s a row of benches under a sycamore tree. The shade dapples your face when you sit, and for one unmoored second he knows the pattern of it. Not from now. From somewhere else.

He stays standing until you glance up at him and pat the spot beside you with a shaky hand.

“You’re real?” you ask once he sits.

He almost laughs. “I was about to ask you that.”

You rub your palms over your knees as if trying to ground yourself. You’re wearing denim shorts and a white tank top and sunglasses pushed up into your hair, and you look like someone who belongs to summer. Not delicate exactly, but bright. Alive in a way that makes Bucky’s ribs ache. “I know this is a weird question,” you say, “but are you going to tell me your name, or am I just supposed to keep calling you fake-Elvis-groom in my head?”

“Bucky,” he says automatically. Then, because he has spent years relearning how to offer the softer pieces of himself without flinching, he adds, “James. But people call me Bucky.”

Your mouth curves, the first real smile since the vision hit. “I’m glad to know at least one of us looked better in Vegas.”

He huffs out a breath that is almost a laugh. “I looked good.”

“You looked reckless.”

“That too.”

You tell him your name, and the moment it lands between you something in his chest settles with a frightening kind of certainty. Not because fate says so. Not because the universe stamped your names together in some cosmic ledger. Because the sound of it moves through him like recognition. Like stepping into a room he did not realize he had been trying to get back to his whole life.

For a while neither of you says anything. The market hums on around you. Somewhere nearby, a dog sneezes. Someone drops a crate. Bucky stares at the paper sleeve around his cooling coffee and tries to swallow around the strange thickness in his throat.

“I’ve heard of people getting strong first-flashes,” you say at last, quieter now. “But not like that. That was… a lot.”

“A lot,” he agrees.

You tilt your head toward him. “How many do you remember already?”

He thinks of the chapel. The truck. The bed with the lace curtains. The cabin. The club in London. The beach. “Six,” he says. “You?”

“Same.”

A breeze stirs the leaves overhead. It smells like sun-warmed bark and citrus oil.

“I don’t know what to do now,” you admit.

That, strangely, is what steadies him.

Because Bucky knows that feeling. Knows what it is to be handed something overwhelming and not know where to put it. Knows that survival sometimes looks like doing the next smallest thing instead of solving the whole impossible shape at once.

He glances toward the coffee stand, then back at you. “You want to start with coffee?”

You look at him for one long beat, then laugh softly, incredulously, like maybe you can’t believe that is the question that just saved you from bolting. “Yeah,” you say. “I think I do.”

So that is how it begins.

Not with thunder. Not with immediate declarations. Not with some cinematic collision that resolves every loneliness in a heartbeat.

With coffee. With your hand wrapped around a paper cup. With the two of you sitting at the edge of the market, dizzy on each other’s borrowed memories, learning the outlines of the present slowly enough to survive it.

He learns that you come to the farmer’s market most Saturdays too, though usually later. That you always buy flowers you don’t strictly need. That you live twenty minutes away in an apartment with bad plumbing and excellent light. That you work in graphic design and keep odd hours and have a weakness for peaches even when they’re underripe. You learn that he is in therapy. That he likes routine because sometimes routine is the difference between drifting and staying. That his apartment in Brooklyn is small but his windows face west and the light there in the evening is good. That he cooks. That he bakes bread when the weather turns cold because kneading something until it rises feels like a miracle he can participate in.

He does not tell you everything that morning. Not about HYDRA, not about the winter that lasted decades, not about the names he no longer answers to. But you do not push. Maybe because you can feel, in the strange echoing chambers of whatever ties the two of you together, that he has already been dragged open too many times to count.

When you part, it is almost noon.

You both hover awkwardly by the fountain, neither one wanting to be the first to say goodbye.

“So,” you say, shifting the bouquet of daisies and feverfew you bought somewhere along the way into one hand. “Do soulmate rules say we’re supposed to immediately move in together now, or is there like a grace period?”

Bucky smiles before he can stop himself. “I think there’s paperwork.”

“Tragic.”

He glances at the lemons peeking out of your canvas bag. “You still owe me half of these.”

You grin then, bright and quick and devastating. “That sounds fake.”

“Maybe,” he says. “But it’s a reason to see you again.”

Something softens in your expression. “Okay,” you say. “Then I’ll take the fake reason.”

He gives you his number. You type your own into his phone and hand it back, your fingers brushing his again. No flash this time. Just warmth. Just the sharp, impossible awareness of skin.

“All right, Bucky Barnes,” you say. “Text me when you want to split custody of the lemons.”

He watches you walk away.

At the corner, you turn and look back.

The city seems to hold its breath.

Then you smile at him one more time and disappear into the crowd.

Jesus Christ on a plastic sign

The Vegas lifetime comes back first.

Not all at once. In drips. In flashes that catch Bucky at strange moments over the next few days, as if the memory has been jarred loose and is still deciding how much of itself to reveal.

He is washing dishes on Tuesday night when he looks down at a ring of soap suds circling the drain and suddenly he is twenty-six—or thirty, or some other age in some other body—and the air smells like desert heat trapped in asphalt. He can hear slot machines from the lobby below the motel balcony and your laugh from inside the room, where the air conditioner is fighting a losing battle and you are standing in front of the cracked mirror pinning your hair up with bobby pins you bought from the gift shop downstairs.

“Tell me again,” you say, smiling at him through the mirror, “why exactly we’re doing this.”

Because you had met forty-eight hours earlier in line for dollar margaritas and spent the night talking until sunrise on the motel roof. Because you had missed your flight on purpose. Because he had looked at you over watery eggs in a diner the next morning and known, with the same bone-deep certainty he feels now on a Brooklyn Tuesday in a kitchen lit by one warm overhead bulb, that life was sometimes simplest when it was ridiculous.

Because you had asked if he wanted to get married as a joke and then kept grinning at him after he said yes.

“Tax benefits,” he answers solemnly, sitting on the end of the bed in his borrowed suit jacket.

You laugh. “Romantic.”

“Practical.”

“Liar.”

You cross the room barefoot, white dress swishing around your thighs. It is not really a wedding dress. It is a satin slip from a resale shop with a tiny champagne stain at the hem and thin straps that make him forget his own name every time he looks at you. You stop between his knees and hook your fingers in the lapels of his jacket.

“Tell me not to do it,” you whisper. There is laughter in your voice but something trembling under it too, a softness that asks to be taken seriously. “Tell me we’re being insane and I’ll call it off.”

He looks up at you and feels his whole impossible life narrow into one clean, brilliant line. “I think,” he says, resting his hands on your hips, “that if we don’t do this, I’m gonna spend the rest of my life wondering why I let the best idea I ever had walk out of a motel in Vegas.”

Your expression cracks open into something so nakedly happy it almost undoes him.

The chapel is tiny and tacky and perfect. The plastic crucifix is screwed above a velvet curtain backdrop. The fake Elvis officiant keeps winking like he personally invented love. You say your vows through laughter because your bouquet is made of silk roses that smell faintly like dust and the minister’s sideburn is half detached. Bucky can barely get the ring onto your finger because his hands won’t stop shaking.

Afterward, you run into the sun with your shoes in one hand, your new husband’s name in your mouth as if you were born to say it.

On the sidewalk outside the chapel, there’s a sign for a twenty-four-hour wedding package with JESUS CHRIST LOVES YOU printed above a blinking arrow in red bulbs, and the whole thing is so absurd that you double over laughing. Bucky catches you around the waist before you can fall.

“Mrs. Barnes,” he says into your hair, tasting the words.

You lift your face to his, eyes wet from laughing. “That sounds made up.”

“Probably is.”

You kiss him anyway.

In the present, water runs cold over Bucky’s hands in the sink. He blinks hard and finds himself staring at a plate gone slippery in his grip.

He dries his hands, sits on the edge of the counter, and texts you before he can think better of it.

Got another one. Vegas.

The reply comes so fast it is almost a breath.

me too

Then, after a beat:

did we really get married because the line for margaritas was too long and we needed something else to do?

Bucky smiles helplessly at his phone.

we were committed to the bit

You start texting every day after that.

At first it is practical. Did you remember this detail? Did the chapel carpet have stars on it or was that just me? Do you think the fake Elvis was secretly judging us? 

But the practical gives way to easy almost before either of you notices. He sends you a picture of a dog in a raincoat outside the bodega. You send him a photo of the flowers you bought even though your rational brain said you didn’t need them. He tells you when therapy goes badly. You tell him when work is making your eyes cross. By Friday, your name on his screen feels less like a surprise and more like the continuation of something that was already in motion long before lemons hit pavement.

The next Saturday, he finds you at the market before he reaches the citrus stand.

You are standing at the peach table, frowning at a fruit in your hand with the seriousness of someone evaluating a gemstone.

“You know those need another week,” he says.

You glance up and smile in a way that makes his whole body wake up. “I know. I’m being optimistic.”

“Reckless.”

“Wow. You meet one man in Vegas and suddenly he thinks he knows you.”

He laughs, and there is no fear in it this time.

You spend the morning together again. Coffee, bread, flowers. At the tomato stall your shoulder brushes his and warmth skates down his spine, but no memory comes. At the herb table he tucks a stray basil stem behind your ear and your breath catches, but still nothing.

It hits later, when the two of you are leaving the market and pass an old pickup truck parked crooked by the curb, windows down, classic rock spilling tinny from the speakers. You stop dead. So does he.

Your head turns toward him.

His chest caves in around a heartbeat that is no longer entirely his own.

Winding roads, doing manual drive

In that life, you are eighteen and everything feels enormous.

Summer stretches in front of you like a dare. The town is small enough to suffocate if you stay still too long, so you never do. Bucky has a beat-up blue truck with a sticky clutch and a radio that only works when you slap the dashboard in exactly the right place. He teaches you how to drive manual in the abandoned church parking lot at the edge of town, laughing every time the engine stalls because you keep popping the clutch too fast.

“You’re mean,” you tell him, gripping the steering wheel.

“I’m helpful.”

“You’re laughing at me.”

“Because you cuss like my grandpa.”

You cut him a glare so ineffective it makes him grin wider. He reaches across the bench seat to guide your hand to the gearshift, his palm warm over your knuckles.

“Slow,” he says. “Feel it catch. Don’t force it.”

Outside, cicadas scream in the heat. The sun is dropping behind the trees, turning the windshield gold.

You try again. This time the truck lurches, shudders, then rolls forward smooth as breath.

“Oh my God,” you say, startled into laughter. “I did it.”

Bucky looks at you the way boys in movies are always supposed to look but almost never do in real life—like the sight of you happy is enough to rearrange his whole future. “Yeah,” he says softly. “You did.”

Once you know how, you drive everywhere with no destination at all. Back roads. County lines. Winding stretches of blacktop between soybean fields and creeks and gas stations with flickering signs. You drive because gas is cheap and the cab of the truck is a world no one else can enter. You drive because Bucky’s knee pressed against yours feels better than anything either of you have a name for yet. You drive because being young and in love can make movement feel holy.

Sometimes you pull over on the shoulder just to watch the sky bruise purple over the fields. Sometimes you kiss at red lights until the truck behind you honks. Sometimes you park at the overlook above the quarry and share a bag of gas station peanuts while Bucky tells you all the places he wants to see one day, voice gone soft with wanting.

“Anywhere specific?” you ask.

He shrugs one shoulder. “As long as you’re there.”

You laugh because you think he is teasing. Then you look at him and realize he is not.

The air changes.

He reaches up, pushes a strand of hair behind your ear with trembling fingers. “I know we’re eighteen,” he says, trying for casual and failing spectacularly. “I know people say that means we don’t know anything. But I know this.”

Your breath catches.

Behind you, the truck ticks and cools in the dusk.

“I know,” he says again, “that I could drive with you forever and never get tired of the road.”

Then he kisses you, and the whole wide summer tilts.

The memory drops away while a bus sighs to the curb and someone nearby curses over a jammed stroller wheel.

You are breathing hard. So is Bucky.

“That one hurt,” you say quietly.

He knows what you mean. Not because it was bad. Because it was good in the simple devastating way only youth can be. Because watching some other version of yourself love with that much unguarded certainty feels like pressing a bruise you didn’t know you had.

“You drove stick,” he says.

“I was bad at it.”

“You were terrible.”

You laugh then, startled and watery, and he thinks he would do almost anything to keep hearing that sound.

There is a diner half a block away with cracked vinyl booths and a waitress who calls everyone honey. He nods toward it. “Come on.”

“Is this where we process our cosmic psychic episodes now?”

“Pancakes seem medically necessary.”

So you sit across from each other in a booth smelling faintly of syrup and coffee grounds while the waitress tops off your mugs and pretends not to notice that the two of you keep staring. The market bag rests by Bucky’s boots. Your flowers lie across the seat beside you like a witness.

“You ever think about what it means?” you ask after a while.

He traces a thumb over the seam of his coffee cup. “The past lives?”

“The soulmate thing. Any of it.” Your gaze is steady on his. “Like… are we supposed to just trust that because we loved each other before, we automatically will now?”

Bucky is quiet for so long, the waitress comes by to ask if he wants more bacon.

When she leaves, he exhales. “I don’t know,” he says honestly. “I think maybe it’d scare me if it worked like that.”

You nod once. “Me too.”

Because obligation is not love. Because destiny without choice starts to look too much like a cage.

Bucky leans forward, forearms on the table. “I don’t want this to be automatic,” he says, surprising himself with the urgency in his own voice. “I don’t want you because of… cosmic paperwork.” Your mouth twitches at that. He presses on. “I want to know you. Now. Here. I want whatever this is to be because we choose it.”

Something in your face softens so completely it leaves him winded.

“Okay,” you say.

“Okay?”

“Okay,” you repeat. “Then we do it the hard way.”

His mouth curves. “Dating?”

“Scandalous, I know.”

He looks at you across the table, sunlight striping the booth through the blinds, and feels a piece of his life click gently into place.

“Yeah,” he says. “Dating.”

The smile you give him then follows him home and waits with him through the week and sits with him at the edge of sleep. It is still there when he picks you up for your first actual date on Thursday, when you buzz him into your apartment building wearing jeans and a green top that makes your eyes look unfair, when he spends ten whole seconds forgetting why he came.

You cook together in his kitchen because restaurants feel like too much too soon. Lemon chicken. Roasted potatoes. Salad with too much parmesan because you insist there is no such thing.

It is simple. It is easy in the kind of way Bucky once would have distrusted on principle. You move around his kitchen as if you’ve already learned its shape. You lean against the counter and steal bites from the pan. You laugh when he pretends to guard the sauce from you and do not look startled when he laughs back.

After dinner, you help him wash dishes. After dishes, you stand by the open window drinking wine while the city breathes warm and loud below.

“I had a nice time,” you say, glancing at him over the rim of your glass.

His pulse kicks. “Good.”

“I’m serious. For a man who hoards lemons as a manipulation tactic, you clean up pretty well.”

He snorts. “I’ll put that on my dating profile.”

“You should. Honest branding.”

He smiles, and you smile back, and the air between you changes.

It is not sudden. Not violent. Just the slow, unmistakable tightening of a thread.

He sets his glass down first.

You do the same.

When he steps closer, you do not move away.

“Can I kiss you?” he asks, because in every life he has ever loved you there has been want in it, but in this one he wants the shape of your yes more than he wants air.

Your eyes go soft. “Please.”

He kisses you carefully at first, because he is not eighteen in a truck anymore and he is not some reckless fool in Vegas with rings in his pocket and a grin too wide for his face. He is a man who has taken years to learn how to touch gently. Who knows what damage carelessness can do.

But then your hand lifts to his cheek and your mouth opens beneath his and the careful part of him turns molten.

The flash hits so hard he breaks the kiss with a gasp.

You are hit by it too. He sees it in the way your pupils blow wide, the way your hand clutches the front of his shirt.

“Oh,” you breathe.

The apartment falls away.

Early nights in white sheets with lace curtains

The room is small and gold with lamplight.

In that life, you have been married for six hours.

Your shoes are by the door. Your veil lies in a pearly heap over the chair back. Somewhere downstairs the last of the wedding guests are still laughing over cake and champagne, but up here the inn is quiet except for the tick of rain against the lace-curtained window and your own uneven breathing.

You stand with your back to Bucky near the bed, fingers trembling where they rest at your throat. The silk of your nightdress skims the backs of your knees. Your wedding band glints like a promise.

He has never seen anything more beautiful.

You are not delicate. Nor candlelight that makes you look like something painted. You are real in all the ways that matter most—nervous and wanting and trying to be brave.

You glance at him over your shoulder, and the vulnerability in your face brings him to his knees faster than reverence ever could.

“We don’t have to,” he says softly.

Your brows draw together. “I want to.”

“I know.” He steps closer, slow enough to stop if you need it. “But I want you to know we don’t have to do anything tonight except be married.”

Something in you loosens. Relief. Love. A tenderness so intense it almost aches to look at.

“I want to be married,” you whisper.

He smiles, cupping your jaw. “You already are.”

“No,” you say, eyes luminous. “I mean like this. Here. With you.” Your breath shakes. “I want tonight.”

He kisses you then, gentle enough to ask, deep enough to answer.

The nightdress slips from your shoulders a little at a time. He learns your skin by lamplight and fingertips, by the soft sounds you make when he touches somewhere that matters, by the way you cling to him when pleasure finally starts to outrun nerves. The white sheets twist around your legs. The lace curtains stir in the open window. Rain cools the room, but your bodies are all heat.

You are not shy for long.

He kisses his way down the column of your throat, your collarbones, the slope of your breast. Your fingers knot in his hair when his mouth finds your nipple and he sucks gently, then harder at the sound that tears from you. By the time he lowers you onto the bed your hair is loose around your shoulders and your face is flushed and he is so hard it hurts.

“Bucky,” you whisper, reaching for him.

“Tell me what you need.”

You laugh softly, dazed with wanting. “You. Obviously.”

He smiles against your mouth, then works two fingers between your thighs and nearly loses his mind at how wet you are for him already. Your hips jerk. Your eyes flutter shut.

“That’s it,” he murmurs. “There you go.”

He takes his time because he can. Because there is no war waiting outside this room, no clock to race. Because after the vows and the music and the endless hands grabbing at you all day, he wants this moment to belong only to the two of you. He strokes you until your body learns the shape of pleasure under his hands. He brings you apart once with his fingers, your back arching off the bed, then again with his mouth until you are clutching the sheets and crying his name into the rain-soft dark.

When he finally settles between your thighs, braced on one forearm, your gaze on his is wrecked and certain all at once.

“You still sure?” he asks, voice gone rough as gravel.

You wrap a hand around the back of his neck and pull him down until your foreheads touch. “I have never been more sure of anything.”

He pushes into you slowly, giving you every inch with a care that feels like worship. The stretch of you around him steals the breath from his lungs. Your mouth opens on a gasp. He stills.

“Okay?” he whispers.

You nod, biting your lip. “Move.”

So he does.

Slow at first. Then deeper when your nails dig into his shoulders and you lift to meet him. The bed creaks softly. Rain taps the window. He kisses you whenever your face crumples with feeling, every thrust turning more desperate as your body opens for him. You cling to him, legs wrapped around his hips, whispering his name like a secret you intend to keep forever.

When you come, it is with your mouth against his throat and tears bright at the corners of your eyes.

He follows with his forehead pressed to yours, his whole body shaking with it.

Afterward, you lie tangled in white sheets gone warm and wrinkled around you, the lace curtains stirring like breath. He draws lazy circles over your stomach while you trace the line of his mouth with one sleepy fingertip.

“This counts as a successful wedding night,” you murmur.

He laughs softly. “Good. I was hoping.”

You turn into him, already half asleep. “Anywhere is home,” you whisper, the words blurred at the edges with exhaustion, “if you’re in the bed.”

He never forgets them.

When the memory releases you both, Bucky is still standing in his apartment with his chest heaving and your hands fisted in his shirt.

The kitchen light is too bright. The city outside the window too loud. He can taste you without ever having had you in this life.

Your face is flushed all the way down your neck.

“Well,” you say after a stunned second, voice frayed. “That was wildly inconvenient timing.”

He laughs once, brokenly, because if he does not laugh he might combust.

“You okay?” he asks.

Your gaze lifts to his, honest and heated. “Ask me in five minutes.”

He brushes his knuckles over your cheek, a touch so careful it is almost absurd after what you both just saw. “I mean it.”

“I know.” Your hand slides down to cover his where it rests against your face. “Yeah. I’m okay. A little overwhelmed. A lot turned on. But okay.”

Heat hits him hard and immediate. He closes his eyes for a second.

You laugh softly. “Right. Sorry. That was—”

“Don’t apologize.”

When he opens his eyes again, your expression has gentled. “Bucky.”

He knows what you are asking. Not just whether he wants you. That is almost insultingly obvious. You are asking whether he can separate memory from present. Whether he can stand in this kitchen and want what is in front of him without letting the weight of every before crush what could be now.

He answers by leaning down and resting his forehead against yours.

“I want this,” he says quietly. “But I want our first time in this life to be ours.”

Your breath leaves you in a rush. So does some tightness in his chest he hadn’t fully realized he was carrying.

“Okay,” you whisper.

He kisses you once more, soft and lingering. Then he walks you home because if you stay the night he is not sure either of you will survive your own restraint, and because there is something holy in wanting badly and still choosing patience.

At your door, you touch his wrist before he can step back.

“For the record,” you murmur, eyes warm, “that other us had very good taste.”

He grins helplessly. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. I get it now.”

Then you kiss him quick and disappear inside with a smile that haunts him for days.

The weeks that follow feel like being built from the inside out.

The flashbacks do not stop, but they become less like ambushes and more like weather—still sudden, still powerful, but no longer catastrophic. A scent, a sound, a patch of light can call one up. Sometimes you text each other in the middle of the workday with fragments: did you remember the red truck in the mountain life had one broken taillight? or I think Bucharest-you stole that robe from the hotel. Sometimes a memory arrives whole when you are together and leaves both of you laughing or aching or red-faced in its wake.

In between, you date.

Real dates. Present-tense ones.

You go to a bookstore in Cobble Hill and accidentally spend two hours arguing about whether people who dog-ear paperbacks can be trusted. You sit in the park eating takeout and watch a wedding party take photos under the arch. You make pasta in your kitchen and burn the garlic because you are too busy kissing against the fridge. You let him meet your friends, who like him immediately and try not to look too smug about it. He tells Sam about you over beers and gets stared at for a full ten seconds before Sam breaks into the kind of grin that means Bucky will never hear the end of this.

And slowly, because slowness is another name for mercy, you get used to the fact of each other.

One night in late July, you fall asleep on Bucky’s couch halfway through a movie. Your head ends up in his lap, your bare feet tucked under his thigh, the credits rolling blue light over the room. He does not move for an hour because the weight of you there feels too precious to disturb.

When you wake, drowsy and disoriented, you blink up at him and smile.

“There you are,” he says before he can stop himself.

The words do something strange to the air.

You sit up slowly, blanket slipping down your shoulders. “What?”

He swallows. “Nothing. I just—”

But then the memory comes, not violent this time. Gentle as smoke.

You see it in each other’s faces as it arrives.

Sleepyhead ’cause all the fucking foxes kept me awake last night

The cabin is barely more than one room and a stubborn prayer.

In that life, winter has a vendetta against you. The land is raw and half-finished around you—trees felled and stacked, fields only partly cleared, the nearest neighbors hours away by horse. Everything aches. Your hands, your backs, your hope.

And still, you build.

By day Bucky swings an axe until his shoulders burn and your tiny patch of earth starts, slowly, to look like something that might feed you come spring. By day you mend, cook, scrub, carry water, keep accounts in a little ledger with cramped neat writing, and somehow still find the energy to laugh when the hen gets loose again and wreaks havoc under the table.

By night you sit by the fire mending his shirts while he carves handles for tools and the baby—your daughter, round-cheeked and solemn—sleeps in a cradle made from wood Bucky planed himself.

It is not easy. God, it is not easy. There are weeks when the roof leaks and the wind gets through the chinks in the walls and your flour goes sour and the loneliness of so much open land makes your chest feel flayed raw. There are days Bucky comes in from the field looking so worn you have to bite the inside of your cheek not to cry.

But there is you. There is him. There is the little sleeping weight of your child and the fire and the bed you built with your own hands.

Sometimes that is enough to make hardship look almost like devotion.

One night in early autumn, the foxes scream outside the cabin so long and loud that neither of you gets any real sleep. By dawn you are cross and bleary-eyed, hair half falling from its braid as you stand over the hearth trying to stir cornmeal mush that refuses to thicken.

“Sleepyhead,” Bucky says softly when he comes up behind you.

You elbow him weakly. “I’ll kill you.”

He laughs into your hair and wraps his arms around your waist anyway, his chin settling on your shoulder. Outside, the new fence leans and the world is still cold and demanding. Inside, his body is warm all along your back.

“We’re doing it,” he murmurs after a while.

You blink at the pot. “Doing what?”

“Building it.” He turns his face into your temple. “A life.”

The words are simple. They hit with the force of revelation.

You tip your head back against his shoulder and close your eyes. In the other room your daughter stirs. The foxes have gone quiet. Morning light pushes pale and stubborn through the little window above the table.

“We are,” you whisper.

He kisses your cheek. “Told you I’d build you something.”

You smile, tired and full to aching. “You built me everything.”

The memory fades with the warm dim glow of Bucky’s living room around you.

You are still on his couch, the television a muted wash of menu screens no one bothered to turn off. For a while neither of you says anything.

Then you reach out and lace your fingers through his.

“That one felt different,” you say.

He nods. “Yeah.”

Not youthful. Not fevered. Not all heat and spark and want. That life had been built plank by plank. Through work. Through weather. Through choosing each other when the choosing was made of practical things—fences, soup, babies, roofs, morning fires.

It lands in him heavier than some of the others. Maybe because recovery has taught him what it means to build anything worth having by hand.

“I liked them,” you say quietly. “That version of us.”

He rubs his thumb over your knuckles. “Me too.”

You glance around his apartment then, at the bookshelf he assembled crooked and fixed himself, at the herb pot on the windowsill, at the loaf of bread cooling under a dish towel on the counter.

“You’re doing it too, you know,” you murmur.

He looks at you. “Doing what?”

“Building a life.”

The thing in his chest, scarred and careful and too often braced for loss, goes very still.

You squeeze his hand. “It’s a good one.”

He kisses you then because there is no other answer big enough.

By August, you keep a toothbrush at his place.

By September, there is a sweater of yours folded over the back of one of his dining chairs, two hair ties on his bathroom sink, a half-used bottle of your fancy conditioner in his shower that he is under strict orders not to touch. None of it is dramatic. None of it is announced. The shape of your presence simply grows until it feels absurd to remember the apartment before it.

The flash that takes you next comes in early October, on a rainy Thursday when you duck with him into a jazz bar in the West Village to escape a downpour.

The room is all amber light and low ceilings and cigarette-scarred booths preserved from another era. A singer in a black dress stands by the piano, crooning into a microphone. Bucky goes still before you even make it to the bar.

You know before the memory hits what it will be.

The note hangs in the air.

Then London rushes in.

late nights in black silk in east london

The war has made everything look dimmer around the edges.

Bucky is young in the way only war can make a man young—old enough to be exhausted by it, young enough to still be surprised by beauty. He is stationed overseas for too long in a city stitched with blackout curtains and ration books and the bruise-colored exhaustion of people trying very hard to act as if life is still ordinary.

Then one wet December night, a fellow soldier drags him down a narrow stairwell off an alley in East London and the whole world changes shape.

The club is hidden beneath a tailor’s shop with no sign out front. Music seeps through the floorboards before the door even opens. Inside, the room glows low and gold around the edges, tables crowded close, voices pitched just above the band. Women in silk and men in uniform and civilians with danger in their smiles. Someone is laughing at the bar like the war has never existed. Someone else is dancing with one shoe off.

And there you are.

You should not stick out. You’re not center stage or demanding attention. You’re leaning one hip against the bar in black silk gloves and a slip dress that gleams when you move, listening to the pianist with your head tilted slightly as if you know a secret about the song.

Bucky sees you and forgets how war works.

Maybe he forgets how breathing works too.

“Careful,” his friend  mutters, following his line of sight. “That one looks expensive.”

Bucky barely hears him.

When you look over and catch him staring, you smile. Not coy. Curious, amused, entirely too direct. Then you lift your glass in a tiny salute.

He is doomed.

Later, after he has found enough courage or foolishness to cross the room, you tell him your brother runs supplies out of the docks and your mother thinks this place is scandalous and your favorite thing in the world is men who look like they’d fall apart if a woman in black silk talked to them too long.

“I am not falling apart,” he says, already half gone.

You laugh, low and delighted. “No? That’s a shame. You’d be awfully handsome doing it.”

You dance with him before midnight. Then again after. The band slows, the room blurs, and you fit against him so easily it feels less like meeting and more like remembering a step he somehow learned before birth.

Outside, the rain has stopped. The alley smells like wet brick and smoke.

“Are you always this easy?” you ask when he walks you to the corner.

“Only in London.”

“Convenient.”

You stop beneath a streetlamp draped in wartime dimming paint. Your lipstick has worn soft at the edges. His gloves are damp. Somewhere far off, a siren starts and then dies.

“I don’t know how long I’m here,” he says, because war steals the illusion of endless time from a man pretty quick.

You look at him with that same level, fearless steadiness you will carry in every life. “Then don’t waste the nights you’ve got.”

So he doesn’t.

He spends every free hour he can find with you in that black silk East London life. Dancing in hidden clubs. Eating chips from newspaper parcels by the river. Kissing in doorways while the city holds its breath between bombings. Falling in love so fast it would look irresponsible to anyone not living under the same shadow.

On his last night before shipping out again, this time to Bucharest, he finds you in the club after closing, curled barefoot on the stage in your black dress with your knees drawn up, humming to yourself while the pianist smokes by the door.

He sits beside you. The stage creaks.

You do not ask him if he is leaving. You already know.

For a long moment you just lean into him shoulder to shoulder, breathing in the dark.

Then you take his hand and lace your fingers with his as if you have always had the right.

“I hate war,” you say flatly.

“Yeah.”

“I hate that it teaches people to love in a hurry.”

He turns to look at you, but your face is tipped toward the empty room. “Maybe,” he says after a while, “it just teaches people not to waste time pretending they don’t.”

That makes you smile a little, though your eyes shine.

When you finally kiss him, it feels like grief and promise all tangled together.

“I’d have found you anyway,” you whisper against his mouth.

He believes you.

Presently, the jazz bar swims back around you in amber and brass.

Your hand is flat over your heart. Bucky is gripping the edge of the bar hard enough his knuckles ache.

“You were terrifying in that one,” he murmurs.

You blink at him. “Terrifying?”

“You had me done in about twelve seconds.”

Your laugh spills out warm and bright enough to make nearby heads turn. “Good.”

He stares at you, at the woman in front of him and the woman in black silk and the impossible thread between them, and something old in him loosens. That London memory is the first one that brushes directly up against the era he remembers in his bones. The first one that lets him feel, without the cold hand of history around its throat, that he once had youth. Flirtation. A version of himself that existed before damage became the loudest fact in the room.

Later, walking you home under a shared umbrella, he tells you more.

Not everything. Not all at once. But more.

About Brooklyn in the forties. About enlisted men and too much bravado and the way the world sharpened at the edges when war started circling. About the years after, in pieces, with pauses long enough to breathe in between. You listen without interrupting except to ask where it hurts. Not where it happened. Where it hurts. The difference matters so much he nearly stops in the middle of the sidewalk.

At your building, rain dripping from the umbrella’s edges, you cup his face and kiss him like he is something to return to, not something to be rescued.

That night he sleeps six straight hours for the first time in weeks.

The last of the big memories comes in November.

By then, the market has become yours together. Saturday mornings are no longer Bucky’s alone. They are yours in the plural, so natural now he sometimes forgets to be startled by it. Coffee for two. Bread for two. Peaches finally back in season for a heartbeat before the weather turns. Your fingers hooked through one of the canvas bag straps while he carries the heavier side.

At the stall with the glass-bottled lemonades and orange sodas, you reach for a bright neon-orange drink at the same time he does.

The glass knocks against his ring finger.

Sunlight slams through him.

Neon orange drinks on the beach

Salt lives in the walls of that house.

Here, you and Bucky live in a little coastal town where everyone knows everybody’s business and no one minds much as long as you bring enough food to the potluck. The house is white clapboard with a porch swing and chipped blue shutters. Sand collects in the doorway no matter how often you sweep. Wind rattles the windows in winter and smells like sunscreen in summer.

You have children in that life. Three of them.

A girl with your laugh and Bucky’s serious eyes. A boy who climbs everything he’s told not to. A baby still soft at the wrists who rides your hip with one fist full of your shirt.

The beach is five minutes from your front door. On hot afternoons you walk there loaded like pack animals—blankets, towels, snacks, toys, a cooler that bumps against Bucky’s leg every other step, the toddler already whining for the ocean before you’ve even crossed the dune grass.

It is a beautiful chaos. Your favorite kind.

The day memory gives you is bright enough to ache.

The sky is clear blue from edge to edge. Your youngest is asleep under the shade tent with one plump foot sticking free of the blanket. Your son is digging a moat around a sandcastle with all the focus of a man handling explosives. Your daughter, solemn with purpose, is handing Bucky shell fragments one by one so he can decorate the towers properly.

“No, Daddy,” she says with immense patience. “That one goes there.”

Bucky, thirty-something and sun-browned and already half buried in sand because the children have no respect for rank, nods gravely. “My mistake.”

You come down from the boardwalk carrying a tray of neon-orange lemonades in plastic cups, ice clinking. Condensation slicks your fingers. The sun catches on the rims of the cups until they glow like tiny lanterns.

Bucky looks up when your shadow falls across the sand.

Even after years, even with sunscreen on your nose and beach hair whipping your cheeks, he looks at you like there has never been anyone else worth the trouble of sight.

“You’re my favorite person,” he says as you hand him a drink.

You arch a brow. “Even over the tiny tyrants?”

“Depends. Are they giving me lemonade?”

Your daughter takes her cup in both hands and squints up at you. “Mama, Daddy made the castle wrong.”

You laugh. “I’m shocked.”

“It was sabotage,” Bucky says.

The children shout over each other. The baby wakes and starts fussing. A gull swoops dangerously low near the pretzel bag. The tide inches closer. Everything is loud and sandy and sticky and imperfect.

It is paradise.

Later, when the children are collapsing in a sugar crash on towels striped green and white, Bucky stretches out beside you and tugs you down until your head rests on his chest. The ocean hisses and folds itself a few yards away.

“You think,” he says after a while, fingers combing absently through your damp hair, “we’ll ever get tired of this?”

You tip your face up. “The beach?”

“This.”

The life. The family. The ordinary miracle of it.

You can feel the answer in him before he says it. In the steady beat under your ear. In the salt-warmed skin of him. In the children making sleepy, disgruntled sounds nearby because even paradise requires snacks and naps and somebody always getting sunscreen in their eye.

“No,” you say softly. “I don’t think so.”

His mouth brushes your forehead. “Good.”

Because in every lifetime, it turns out, what the two of you build is not grandeur.

It is a table. A bed. A road. A cabin. A dance floor. A beach towel in the sun. A thousand tiny places where love gets to put its shoes by the door and stay awhile.

When the memory loosens its grip, you are back at the market with cold glass sweating in your hand.

You are crying.

So is Bucky, though he only realizes it when you reach up and wipe at his cheek with your thumb.

“That one was rude,” you say thickly.

He laughs through the ache in his throat. “Yeah.”

It isn’t the children, not really. Though that got him. It’s the ordinariness of it. The ease. The way love in that life had settled into the bones of things so thoroughly that joy looked almost plain. A beach day. Lemonade. Sand. A family.

A future.

You look at him with tears still bright in your eyes. “Do you ever think maybe that’s why it keeps happening?”

“What?”

“Us.” You glance down at the bottle in your hand, the impossible orange brightness of it. “Not because we’re destined in some giant dramatic way. Maybe just because every time the universe throws us somewhere new, we keep making the same choice.”

The market blurs around the edges.

Bucky takes the bottle from your hand and sets both your drinks down on the stall so he can hold your face in both palms.

“I think,” he says, voice low and unsteady, “that no matter where I find you, you keep teaching me that a life doesn’t have to be extraordinary to matter.”

You inhale sharply.

He goes on because he has spent too much of his existence losing time, losing names, losing chances to say what needed saying. Because he will not waste this one.

“I loved you in a chapel with a plastic sign. In a truck on back roads. In a bed with lace curtains. In a cabin when we had almost nothing. In London when the whole world was on fire. On a beach with kids climbing all over me and sand in places there should never be sand.” Your mouth trembles around a laugh. His thumbs catch the tears on your cheeks. “And every time, it wasn’t because things were perfect. It was because it was you.”

Your hand covers one of his. “Bucky—”

“In this life,” he says, holding your gaze, “I don’t care what fate says. I don’t care what we were before unless it helps me be better to you now. I just…” He exhales, helpless in it. “I just know I am more myself when you’re in the room. And I want to keep choosing that. For however long I get.”

Something breaks open in your face.

Then you are kissing him in the middle of the farmer’s market, November wind cold around your ears and strangers surely staring and lemons probably within a three-yard radius somehow, and Bucky does not care about any of it.

When you finally pull back, you rest your forehead to his and laugh wetly.

“You took forever to say that,” you whisper.

He blinks. “I did?”

“Yes.” You kiss him once, quick and smiling. “It’s okay. I was going to let you.”

That night you come home with him.

Home, because that is what it is now no matter how recently he learned to say it.

The apartment smells like the rosemary chicken you cooked together and the bread he baked that morning and the cold air that followed you in when he opened the door. Your overnight bag sits by the couch. Your laughter is still in the walls from where you nearly dropped the oranges while making cocktails because he kissed your neck and ruined your concentration on purpose.

There are no visions this time.

No past lives pouring through the cracks.

Just the two of you in the warm gold hush of his bedroom, lamplight soft on the sheets, your sweater slipping from one shoulder as you sit on the edge of the mattress and look up at him.

“This is ours,” you say quietly.

He nods. “Yeah.”

You reach for him.

The first time you make love in this life is not a reenactment of any before. There are echoes, maybe. The same reverence. The same hunger braided with tenderness. But this is its own living thing, shaped by who you are now—older in different ways, scarred in different places, more careful and more certain all at once.

He undresses you slowly, like unwrapping something he intends to keep. You do the same for him, kissing each mark on his body as if introducing yourself to every chapter. When your fingers brush the long scars at his shoulder and side, you do not hesitate. You just look at him for permission and then kiss them too.

His throat goes tight.

On the bed, he takes his time. He is afraid this time, rather he wants to feel every second of being chosen with full knowledge. Your skin under his mouth. Your breath hitching when he drags his thumb over your clit. The way you smile against his lips when he says your name like a marvel. He works you open with his hands first, then his mouth, until you are clutching the sheets and half laughing, half sobbing because pleasure in this body, in this life, feels new and familiar all at once.

“Bucky,” you whisper when he comes back up over you, eyes dark and wrecked.

“I’ve got you.”

You nod, hands framing his face. “I know.”

When he pushes into you, slow and careful, your mouths are open against each other. He feels your body welcome him in inch by inch, feels your legs tighten around his hips, feels the tremor that runs through you when he finally settles deep. It is overwhelming in the simplest way. Not because of memory. Because of presence. Because you are here. Because he is too.

He moves. You move with him.

Outside, the city keeps being itself. A siren in the distance. Somebody laughing on the street. Heat clanking faintly through old pipes. Inside, his bedroom narrows to breath and skin and the soft wreck of your voice. You scratch lightly through his hair and murmur yes against his mouth and he nearly comes from the sound alone. He holds himself back long enough to watch the exact moment pleasure overtakes you, the way your eyes go bright and your body arches up into his with a cry he feels all the way to his ribs.

He follows soon after, buried deep, forehead pressed to yours, your names tangled together in the dark.

Afterward you lie under the sheets while the room cools around you. Your head rests on his chest. His hand drifts up and down your bare spine. The curtains are plain cotton, not lace. The sheets are soft gray, not white. The city outside is Brooklyn and not some inn in another century. It does not matter.

You draw lazy circles over his sternum.

“You know,” you murmur sleepily, “I think I liked every version of you.”

His fingers still for a second. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You tilt your chin to look at him. “But this one might be my favorite.”

Emotion catches him so hard it almost hurts.

He bends and kisses your forehead because if he tries to speak right then, he will probably embarrass himself beyond repair.

Months later, when winter gives way to spring and then, at last, to summer again, Saturday morning finds the two of you at the farmer’s market under the same green-striped awnings where everything began.

Bucky has two coffees in a cardboard carrier. You have a bouquet of sunflowers tucked under one arm. The bread guy waves. The peach stand is finally, gloriously in season. The lemon vendor clocks you both and grins like he has been expecting to see how this turns out.

“Need a bag today?” he asks.

You glance at Bucky. Bucky glances at you.

Then, smiling, you both reach for the same lemon on purpose.

No flash comes.

There is no need.

Your fingers lace together instead, easy as breath.

The square is bright with morning. The violinist by the fountain is playing something warm and sweet. Coffee steams between you. Peaches perfume the air. Beside you, your soulmate—your chosen person, your present-tense miracle—squeezes your hand.

And because love, in the end, is often this simple, you walk the market together like you have done it all your life.

Maybe you have.

Maybe you will again.

Either way, the peaches are ripe, the bread is warm, and Bucky Barnes is laughing at something you said with his whole face open to the sun.

It is not a dramatic ending.

It is better.

It is a life.

And every ordinary second of it feels, impossibly, like falling in love again and again.

tags: @firingstars @iamthatonefangirl @its-in-the-woods @houseofhyde @superbassbuck @chateaubarnes @earthsmightiestbenders @barnesonly @54nboo @winterdecember18 @unificsation @blowingbarnes @grumpysunnybarnes @missvelvetsstuff @daisynotquake @colettebarnes @lokirogersgirl @sapphire882 @justadaydreamingfangirl @venigrantrogers @overwintering-soldier @domitaylorsversion @multiversefanfics @meowrz1a @pinksplace @globetrotter28 @mariamorales1998 @okaytrashpanda @icantfindanamenottakenn @infinitewithenvy @herejustforbuckybarnes @yexbarnes @sassandscribbles @ozwriterchick @spdrveil @r1ssa@imtoooldforthis82 @niyaniyapantsonfiya @minminswag04 @yvesjgk @phantom-wolf-girl @frombkjar+ add yourself here

[vin-di-kate-or-deactivated20211]

[8nin]

"There's millions of Tumblr users" to you. To me There's only about 12 and we all reblog the same five posts from each other

[puckingcuckbunny]

𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡 𝐦𝐞 𝐮𝐩 ✪

𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐲𝐞𝐫 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐟𝐢𝐥𝐞 : john logan x fem!reader 𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐤 𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭 : smut, its all smut, implied squirting, teasing, f! fingering, teasing, slapping. probably more. established relationship.

𝐞𝐯𝐚𝐥𝐮𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 : you ask Logan for a very specific thing- and neither of you expected for him to like it so much.

𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞 𝐨𝐧 𝐢𝐜𝐞 : 2.7k words 𝐛𝐮𝐧𝐧𝐲’𝐬 𝐥𝐨𝐜𝐤𝐞𝐫 : so it started out as a Drabble, turned into this. enjoy I hope this turns all of you on and it turns into a masturbation session <33 @enchanthings [they deleted their blog :( ]

It was a normal, intimate night between the two of you. You rocking rhythmically on his lap while his hands gripped tightly beneath your jeans, fingers pressing into your ass hard enough that it would 200% leave a mark in the morning.

He slipped out of your pants to drag up your shirt slowly, hissing appreciatively through his teeth at your bra choice, " jesus, it's like you're tryin' to kill me."

You giggle breathlessly against his lips, leaning back to tease him, " dunno what you mean baby," your finger slips coyly past your unbuttoned waistband and into the lace band of your thong, the pretty blue peaks out behind the denim, just enough for Logan to bite his lip and glance up at you from below his lashes.

"yea?" He grips your wrist and hooks the elastic under his thumb, snapping it against your abdomen- laughing when you jolt and moan under your breath, "y'sure you have no idea what I mean?"

you shake your head and slink off his lap, "not a clue." you planted your knees onto the carpet and lay your cheek against his thigh, pushing your elbows together and boosting your tits up, presenting a shameful image for him to admire.

Logan threads his hands through your hair, "what d'ya want pretty? hmm?" he strokes your face, pushing the odd strand away from your eyes and tucking it behind your ear.

you shuffle a little beneath him, biting your lip.

Logan grins down at you, "you thinking about something baby?" you nod your head slowly, "you can tell me. it's just us here."

"wantyoutoslapme" you mumble, your fingers playing with the zipper of his fly, barely noticing the obvious tent brushing against your nose- more occupied with the sudden dryness of your throat and the burning of your cheeks.

Logan tilts his head, squinting at you, "might need you to enunciate a little darling." his index finger taps your pouted lips, pretending to not enjoy your embarrassment, he definitely didn't feel his head swim at the way your chest heaved with the weight of his stare and he swears that the sight of your pressing your thighs together didn't make his dick even harder than it was.

You glare at him, but there wasn't any heat behind it, "I said it clearly enough."

"I dont think you did baby," He leans down to peck your mouth, holding himself back from licking into your mouth and devouring that sweet, peachy taste of your lipgloss.

you whine and almost bury your head into the crook of where his thigh meets his pelvis, ignoring how he stifles a laugh, eventually you sigh. What did your mother always say? closed mouths dont get fed.

You don't really want to be thinking about your mum right now, but she always had words of wisdom that were multi-faceted.

"I want you to..." you blink up at him, "slap me."

Logan pauses above you, the hand that was playing with the ends of your hair and running along your shoulder froze.

"what?"

"see I knew you'd do that-" You huff, noncommittally shrugging your shoulders "it's fine, take off your pants, I'm more than happy-"

Your fingers are held in place with his, "let a guy buffer for a bit baby. It's not everyday your girlfriend asks you to slap her."

"yea but not in like a weird way" you justify, "in like a kinky way. you don't need to full palm bitch slap me, just like. a little one."

"a little one?"

"yea, try it"

"now?"

"babe start acting your IQ and slap me"

Logan huffs, and against every single nerve in his body, against his rational judgement, against his brothers parenting and beatings into his brain that under no circumstances do you ever lay your hand on a woman, jackass.

"okay..." he brings his hand up and pulls back very slightly.

well to him it was.

but you jerked back as you watched him bring his hand out, further and further like a rubber band and you weren't prepared to feel snap against your face.

"woah!" you grab his wrist and place it, maybe 4 inches away from your cheek, "the fuck you winding up for?"

"I'm not" he jumps, "babe I dont want to hurt you, I dunno how I feel about hitting you."

you cock your head at him, "I get that, but you're not hurting me, its more like.." you chew your lip racking your brain for an example, "oh."

you slap his thigh.

Logan hesitates, staring at the spot that you slapped, "huh..." he nods slowly. It wasn't so much of a slap than a firm pat against his skin, sure his muscles tingled a little beneath his jeans, but the area warmed just as quickly. maybe he could see the appeal.

you rush to interrupt his thoughts, "sorry- that probably was so random. and I won't force you to do anything you dont want to, I'm more than happy with what we do right now plus we can find other things."

"no..."

"no?"

"no- I mean yes- no." He shakes his head and wraps his hands around your shoulders, "I'll slap you."

What a weird sentence, and whats weirder is that your panties flooded almost instantly.

"yea?"

"yea ill slap you."

"ok, but don't like warn me before, it's the surprise that-"

you swallow the rest of your words with a gasp, your cheek burned deliciously and Logan's hand hovered by the area in question. Slowly you returned back to your position, your breathing stutters and fingers quake as red, hot pleasure burns through your body.

"like that?" Logan's cocky smirk makes you want to simultaneously stick your fingers down his throat and beg him to fuck the living daylights out of you.

"yea, just like that. do it again. m'dont care that it hurts"

He does it again, gaining confidence- instead of hovering and waiting for your approval his hand forms a choker over your neck, his fingers bracing against your jaw, "pretty baby doesn't care that it hurts huh? Just wants me to slap her" He brushes his knuckle against your face, "So fucking gorgeous, fuck, you wouldn't think that you're such a filthy girl from your face darling."

You whimper, barely noticing that your hand had started to slip under your panties and rub slow circles over your clit.

"turns y'on? never would've thought that you're into this, not in my wildest dreams." Logans eyes flutter from your face, where moans slip from your puckered lips to your fingers that begin to quicken.

He tsks, watching your hips roll into your palm, "naughty girl," He slaps the other cheek. Not letting you register the tingles blooming through your face before he manhandles you onto the bed.

You laugh, sitting up onto your shoulders as Logan kneels between your legs, dragging his arms backwards to slide off his t-shirt, gripping the neckline and throwing the article somewhere onto his floor.

He lowers himself, staring up at you predatorily, his lips dragging up from your stomach, biting the skin until you fall back with an appreciative hum- head bouncing on the soft pillow beneath you. He lifts again, one palm pressed to where his lips were teasing you, the other caressed your neck, pushing your hair away.

"this," he murmurs lowly, pointer finger ghosting from your throat down to your cleavage and circling your nipple through the flimsy fabric. The bud hardened and you arched into his touch- gasping softly, "off." he flicks the puckered nub.

You struggle to contort your arms to your clasp, shoulders straining against the stretch.

Eventually it falls limp and you graciously throw it in the general direction of where his shirt was carelessly thrown on the floor.

Logan hums from above you, "hmmm, this is the perfect view, in fact.." he trails off, grabbing your jeans and tugging them harshly down your legs, contributing to the pile on the other side of the room. You moan when he presses a finger against the ruined fabric of your panties, "there she is..my pretty girl."

You blush and attempt, albeit pathetically, to whine against his arms placing your legs wide apart, bending at the knee so he can slot comfortably between them, still rubbing and teasing you over the lace of your underwear.

The protests die on your tongue when he pulls the barrier to the side and delivers another slap, this time to your pussy, which clenches hopelessly around nothing. Logan brings his hand up in awe, fingers glistening under the yellow glow of his lamp.

"oh my god" he glances at you, grinning when he sees you nearly at the point of tears, "you are so into this. The whole tough guy, dominant thing really does it for ya?"

You shield your face from his teasing, "I didn't fucking know asshole," you peak at him between your fingers, "and don't act like you dont love this." you angle your knee to grind into his bulge.

"you play dirty, baby," he punches out, gripping your knee in place while he taps against the hand covering your mouth.

You lower your palm hesitantly and startle against his fingers that bury themselves into your mouth, the taste of your arousal bursts over your tongue, and you delicately hold his wrist, keeping the two digits firmly in place as you coat them with a thick layer of your saliva.

he hisses, watching you intently make a show out of sucking his fingers, tongue swirling and weaving in between the knuckles. Logan chuckles to himself when you try to force more into your throat, barely gagging when your swollen lips meet the webbing of his hand.

"what's got you so worked up pretty?" you roll your eyes and discreetly shift your hips towards him- the answer is pretty obvious, but Logan decides to toy with you a little bit more.

Maybe he really is loving this whole dominant thing.

He takes his fingers gently from your mouth, skimming them down your body and into your underwear.

"fuck! Logan," Your hand shoots down to grip his forearm, eyes rolling back and fluttering shut when he rolls your clit between his soaked fingers.

"nuh uh baby," He breathes against your lips, arm bracketing over your head to hold himself up, "look at me. wanna see your gorgeous eyes." his fingers drum against your temple until you meet his gaze.

You jump forward and bite his lip, not hard enough to hurt, but firm enough to drag him closer to you while free hand snakes under his arm, digging your nails into his back.

Logan swears against your mouth, "or you could do that." You laugh at his surprise, but it turns into a guttural moan when he delves into your face, mouth devouring yours whilst his tongue strokes and licks any inch of you he can reach.

"please" you whisper when you break apart for air, breathing into each others mouths, "Logan, you gotta do something- pleaseeee," you whine and buck your hips when his fingers stop circling your clit and tease your hole.

"patience baby," He snickers, thoroughly enjoying watching you suffer.

"fuck you, and fuck your patience." you grit out, squeezing your eyes shut when he barely breaches you with the tips of his digits, "fuck you more than your patience, ohmygod, god I'm going to kill you logan. As soon as we're done fucking, and we fuck a little bit more, I'm breaking up with you. How humiliating is this, I'm so wet baby- please come on."

Logan nods along, almost condescendingly to your babbles, eyes widening in the right places and pouting his lips at the better ones. But when your voice breaks into that breathy whine, his resolve shatters along with it and he can't help but swallow the gasp you let out when he sinks in, knuckles deep.

"fuckkk" you both say in unison, granted yours is more muffled because you've arched so far back that your mouth is in the pillow, but Logan compensates, his voice is significantly deeper than when you started and the obscenity is breathed against your sternum- where his mouth is peppering kisses whilst watching your chest bounce with each hard thrust of his wrist.

Your moans are choppy and sound more like sobs when Logan sits up onto his haunches, staring at where his fingers disappear inside of you, a wet trail left along them every time he pulls back.

"You're doing so well baby," he bites his lip, angling the hell of his palm into your clit, so with each push the bundle of nerves is bumped with the calloused skin, "look at you, doing so well f'me." he leans down briefly to kiss your pussy, but stays longer when he feels how wet you are against his lips.

"Logan," you whimper warningly, both hands scratching his scalp as you fight against the momentum to trap his head between your thighs, "Logan m'gonna cum if you do that."

He glances up at you, almost as if he forgot you were present whilst he got lost in your pussy, the lower half of his body now bent along and off the bed- it seems he took you with him, your knees now hooked onto his shoulders.

"I mean I'm not complaining," He shrugs, huffing in amusement when you roll your eyes, which widen comically when one of the hands that was wrapped around your thigh and rested on your hip came down in a harsh smack.

You let out a broken moan when his head dips again, this time working in tandem with his fingers. The sounds are lewd and you feel inexplicably sorry for whatever poor soul was getting the free show- but it was overshadowed by the overwhelming amount of pleasure that spiked through your entire body.

Logan slurped and nipped at your pussy, tongue lavishly stimulating your clit with harsh sucks that ended in debauched pops, making your head spin and cheeks flush.

"what were you saying pretty?" he mumbled against you, removing his mouth to kiss the inside of your thigh. You whimpered in response, barely able to bring your head up to meet his gaze, "what?"

"that," His fingers sped up and mouth parted when you jolted, gripping your breasts whilst gaping at him, " 's soon as we're done fucking, and we fuck a little bit more,' " his voice is pitched slightly higher, mimicking you, breaking at bits when he leans down to spit on down onto your hole where his fingers disappear, "what was the end bit? I cant seem to remember."

His fingers slow, much to your dismay, as he waits for your response,

"No! nono, baby," you words are slurred as you blindly reach for his wrist, "baby," you coo at him, stroking his hair, "I don't even remember, you know what they say, bitches be crazy. all that jazz."

He snorts at you, "really?"

"yea, but I'm bitches. please make me cum."

"You're not a bitch pretty," He kisses your cheek.

"John," You grind your hips down into his fingers, "Can we talk about the feminist meaning of the phrase and the wider effect on society. after you make me cum."

"Oh so I'm John now?" He pecks your hip, curling his fingers slowly.

"No," You stroke his face and whisper, "Logan."

He hums happily, increasing the pace slightly whilst crowding over you with his body, "And?"

Your chests brush together as you grind out a deep groan, hands limply hung from his shoulders.

You hook your ankles over his hips, welcoming him into your space, "Baby," You murmur, noses brushing together. Logan speeds up, plunging fast inside of you, the promiscuous sound of your wetness makes you arch your back.

"Anything else?" He prompts, breath fanning over your neck- you moan and bury your finger in your hair,

"F-fuck" You legs quiver around his torso, "I don't fucking know, daddy? sir?"

Logan nips at your throat, "Not what I was looking for, but I'll take it." He takes a nipple into his mouth, sucking harshly and rolling it between his teeth.

"Shit," Your hands fly to cradle his face against your breast, "cumming, yes Logan, don't stop" You sob into his hair, body convulsing against his.

A silent scream parts your mouth as wetness gushes onto Logan's fingers, you twitched and writhed as he continued to fuck you with slow thrusts- his fingers making hollow and wet sounds against you.

Only when your orgasm subsided is when he removed his fingers, eyes glistening as he sucked off your arousal. You watched, heavy pants still billowing out between your lips.

"So..." He slumped next to, already moving to grab a wet wash cloth, "You got any other requests for me?"

𝐭𝐚𝐠 𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭: @harls-sturn, @https-dandelion, @watergirl85, @brianna28483, @irishone11

[sc3ptre]

I absolutely loved your last Dean story!! I was wondering if you would be able to write about a reader who has never been able to finish, with herself or anyone else, and dean helps her learn.

Beautiful writing!

I would've done that sober

Pairing: Dean Di Laurentis x childhood best friend!reader

⟡ Main Index | ⟡ Archive for Earth-66

a/n: Well that was long, but such a delight to write and soooo so sexy

Classification: Smut +18 | Talks of ex's and sexual dysfunction/insecurity, emotional vulnerability, recreational drug use (NOT DURING SEX), dry humping/grinding, getting caught, fingering, tension and arousal descriptions, orgasm, praise and partial undressing/lingerie.

Word count: 12k

Divider by me ;)

You sat across from the fire pit in the boys’ backyard, elbows resting on the armrests of your chair while the flames cracked softly in front of you both. The night air had turned colder hours ago, but neither of you had gone inside. Dean kept talking and you kept letting him or trying to.

Every time he opened his mouth, you exhaled slowly through your nose as if physically releasing air might stop you from interrupting him.

“He’s an arrogant son of a bitch,” Dean repeated for probably the fifth time that night. He took another drag from the blunt before passing it toward you, smoke curling past his lips as he leaned back deeper into the chair.

“That’s what pisses me off the most,” he continued, staring hard into the fire like your ex-boyfriend personally offended him. “He had no clue what he was doing in the relationship from day one and still had the confidence to ask you out.” His jaw tightened slightly. “Usually I respect delusion like that, but that guy’s a fucking disaster.”

You accepted the blunt with a quiet sigh.

Dean had been ranting for nearly a week straight now. Anyone overhearing him would’ve assumed he’d been the one publicly dumped in the cafeteria instead of you but he’d been there when it happened, front row seats to your ex fumbling through excuses while half your friends sat frozen around the table pretending not to listen. Maybe that was enough for Dean.

Now, instead of being out partying with the rest of the team, he sat outside with you night after night, sharing weed and acting personally victimized by your breakup.

“Dean,” you finally interrupted, tone firm.

He stopped talking immediately.

You inhaled slowly before looking over at him through the smoke, holding his gaze while you exhaled. “It’s okay.”

Dean’s expression flattened instantly. “We have very different definitions of okay.”

His eyes drifted back toward the fire for a second, replaying the memory again. You could practically see it happening behind his eyes, the cafeteria, your expression and your ex stumbling through his speech.

“You should’ve let me talk to him,” he muttered.

“What good would that have done?” You brought the blunt back to your lips, inhaling before handing it over again. “It’s not his fault.”

Dean’s head snapped toward you so fast he nearly dropped the thing. “The fuck does that mean?”

You almost rolled your eyes at the offense in his tone. Instead, you looked away toward the fire again, watching orange light flicker against the patio stones.

“I’m lost here,” he scoffed. “Is being wrapped around another girl at a party three hours after dumping you not a dick move now?”

A laugh slipped out of you before you could stop it. “Dean,” you said gently, finally turning your head toward him again. “I think I’m the only person who wasn’t surprised by the breakup.”

His brows furrowed.

You shrugged one shoulder lightly. “He just beat me to it.”

“Oh.” The word left him quietly. Dean looked away immediately afterward, dragging a hand over his mouth while he gathered his thoughts before glancing back at you. “That’s the first time I’m hearing about that.”

He passed the blunt over again.

You took it carefully, staring down at it between your fingers for a second before answering.

“Yeah, well...” You inhaled deeply, smoke burning pleasantly in your lungs before you let it back out slowly. “You’ve got other business to worry about.”

Dean huffed out a laugh instantly. “You are my business.” The certainty in his voice made your lips curl before you could stop them. “So start talking.”

He always did that. Dean had this way of making honesty feel inevitable. The two of you talked about everything, always had. He knew things about you your closest friends didn’t. Hell, he’d bought condoms for you the first time you planned on sleeping with someone because you’d been too embarrassed to walk into the store yourself.

You moved deeper into the chair, pulling one leg beneath you while you searched carefully for the right words. “Um…” You inhaled again, then blurted it out before your brain could stop you. “I suck at the sex thing.”

Dean’s face twisted immediately in disagreement as you passed the blunt. “Bullshit.”

You laughed softly. “No, seriously. I do.” You rubbed awkwardly at your neck before continuing. “Turns out not being able to cum eventually becomes an issue when your partner realizes you never actually have with them.”

Dean’s expression changed instantly. Every conversation you’d ever had about sex clearly started replaying in his head at once because confusion hit him violently.

“But you told me–”

“I lied.” The words came out easier than expected. You shrugged lightly, though your stomach still tightened. “I’ve been lying for years...Faking it until I got tired of faking it and started bruising egos.” A humorless smile tugged briefly at your mouth. “Including mine.”

Dean stayed quiet now so you stared into the fire instead.

“I just…” You exhaled slowly. “I don’t think sex is really my thing.” Your shoulders lifted. “I like the idea of it. I enjoy parts of it…but everyone talks about this huge explosive ending and I just…” You shook your head. “Don’t get there…naturally people stop believing you when you say it was still good.”

Dean watched you carefully. “Was it?”

“The sex?” You let the silence drag for a second before shrugging again. “I think so.” Your lips twitched faintly. “It was good enough to build better stories around afterward.”

Dean stopped smoking entirely after that. The blunt burned slowly between his fingers while he stared down at it, suddenly looking far more sober than either of you probably were. He looked like he was trying to organize his thoughts before speaking again.

“How about alone?” The question came softly, carefully.

If you didn’t know him so well, you might’ve mistaken the look on his face for pity. Thankfully, you did know him, which meant you recognized concern immediately.

You shook your head slowly. “That’s why I’m saying it’s not his fault.”

“It’s not yours either,” Dean argued as he flicked the rest of the blunt into the fire pit before continuing. “It just hasn’t happened yet.” His voice softened further. “Doesn’t mean it never will.”

You let out a slow breath, eyes closing briefly as the weed finally started loosening the tension sitting on your shoulders. “It’s definitely not from lack of trying.”

You could feel him staring at you even with your eyes closed.

The silence stretched comfortably after your confession, softened by the crackling fire and the distant chorus of crickets surrounding the backyard. The flames had started dying down, wood collapsing inward with quiet snaps while smoke drifted lazily into the cold night air.

Dean still hadn’t looked away from you. “So what now?” he asked finally.

You swallowed slowly, still keeping your eyes shut. For a second or maybe an entire minute, Dean genuinely thought you’d fallen asleep mid-conversation.

Then your lips twitched. “Celibacy.”

The offended sound that tore out of him made your smile widen. You heard him trying to hold it back too, which honestly made it funnier but this was Dean. Subtle outrage had never once existed in his body.

“Think I’d look hot as a nun?” you asked lazily.

“You’d look hot in a banana costume wearing clown shoes six sizes too big,” he replied instantly. “And you’re absolutely not dropping out of Briar to become a nun. End of discussion.”

His tone came out firm enough to sound ridiculous considering he had absolutely no authority over your life whatsoever.

You finally peeled your eyes open to look at him. The weed had settled into your bones now, leaving you heavy and relaxed against the chair. Dean looked hazy too, hair falling perfectly while the firelight flickered warm across his face.

“You’re not giving up because some five-eleven idiot couldn’t be patient long enough to figure you out.”

You grinned. “He’s six-one.”

Dean scoffed. “He tried out for the Hawks freshman year. Trust me, he’s five-eleven.”

Your brows lifted. Dean kept going without needing encouragement, already slipping into that protective streak he pretended wasn’t there. He always collected information about people around you, quietly filing it away for future use whenever he deemed necessary.

“He was wearing lifts during tryouts,” Dean added smugly. “One bad pivot and the guy almost snapped an ankle.”

A laugh escaped you softly.

“If you wanna stop having sex altogether, God forbid–”

“You should become a priest,” you interrupted.

Dean barked out a laugh, tipping his head back. “Yeah,” he nodded. “It’d probably take a year and a half to cleanse my sins.” He pointed toward himself loosely. “And that’s assuming I don’t burst into flames the second I walk into a church.” His eyes drifted back to you. “Can I continue now?”

“Yes, Father,” you replied through a chuckle.

Dean shook his head, smiling despite himself before settling deeper into his chair again.

“If you really wanna do the celibacy thing, fine.” He shrugged dramatically. “I’ll support you. We’ll find support groups together and hold hands through the trauma.” His mouth twitched. “Though personally, I’d go through withdrawals first.”

“How solidary of you.”

He nodded solemnly. “Exactly. Plus I can probably add it to my extracurriculars somehow.”

You laughed harder at that, shoulders shaking slightly as you leaned back into the chair. “You’re so fucking stupid.”

Dean watched you carefully while you laughed. The sound came out lighter than anything he’d heard from you all week, chest rising and falling unevenly while your eyes squeezed shut again for a second and suddenly the conversation stopped feeling funny to him.

Because underneath the jokes, underneath the weed and the teasing, he kept thinking about what you’d actually said earlier. About you trying and nothing happening.

Dean loved sex. Everyone knew that much about him but you did too or at least you loved wanting it, loved feeling desired, loved the intimacy, the heat and everything wrapped around it and now all he could think about was how frustrating that must’ve been for you. Wanting something everyone else talked about so easily only for your body not to cooperate no matter how hard you tried.

The thought sat badly in his chest. Dean looked down at the dying fire for a second before his eyes lifted back to you.

“Use me,” he blurted out.

Your laughter faded gradually after his words, the smile still lingering at the corners of your mouth while your eyes settled back on him even more carefully this time. 

“What do you mean?”

Dean didn’t even hesitate. “I’ll be your last resort,” he repeated easily, like he’d already thought this through far more than he probably had. “Aren’t you always telling me to make myself useful?”

You narrowed your eyes, blinking slowly through the haze settling heavier behind them.

“What exactly are you suggesting?” You rubbed at one eye with the heel of your hand. “Because I’m starting to think I hallucinated that sentence.”

“I hold my weed better than you,” he reminded you smugly.

That part, unfortunately, was true. Dean leaned forward in his chair, elbows resting against his knees now, all lazy amusement gone strangely sincere beneath the teasing.

“You wanna quit? Fine.” He shrugged. “Quit when you’re actually out of options.”

A quiet huff left you, somewhere between disbelief and laughter. “Didn’t realize Six Flags counted as an option.” Your lips twitched faintly. “I hate rollercoasters.”

Dean nodded decisively. “Then I’ll go out of business.”

“You’ll close the park?”

“I’ll shut the whole thing down,” he promised solemnly. “Just so you can ride the teacups.” The grin spreading across his face warned you half a second too late. “Remember when you threw up on the–”

“Yes,” you cut him off immediately, flat and horrified. “I remember.”

Dean laughed anyway. Full-bodied, warm and entirely too pleased with himself as he pointed at you. “You were crying,” he accused through the laughter. “You kept saying your stomach hated you–”

“I was fifteen.”

“And dramatic.” He added. “But so cute…less mouthy too.”

“You held my hair while I threw up into a trash can behind the funnel cake stand.”

Dean’s laughter softened slightly at that memory. Back then he’d been genuinely terrified something was wrong with you. He’d hovered beside you the entire night looking pale enough to pass out himself while you recovered on a bench wrapped in his sweatshirt. Now he just looked fond.

You glanced away first, eyes dropping back toward the dying fire while your thoughts started turning over his earlier suggestion again despite yourself.

It could go horribly. Actually, no, it would go horribly. There were at least seventeen reasons this crossed every boundary imaginable. You already hated rollercoasters, hated fast turns and hated giving up control over literally anything involving your body and Dean…Well, Dean was Dean.

Confident, experienced, annoyingly good-looking and unarguably good at sex if campus rumors counted for anything and unfortunately they definitely did. You hadn’t exactly conducted research firsthand but after years of hearing stories from girls around campus, the reviews were embarrassingly consistent.

“You really think that highly of your dick?” you asked finally.

Dean shrugged lazily against the chair. “Nobody said anything about using it.”

That made your eyes snap back to him fully. “And if nothing works?” you asked quieter this time.

The question slipped out more honestly than intended because suddenly you weren’t thinking about sex anymore. You were thinking about aftermaths, about what happened if this ruined things between you. Dean had woven himself into your life years ago so naturally that imagining him gone felt impossible now.

You genuinely didn’t know how you’d survive losing him too.

Dean studied you for a second and for once the confidence in his face softened into something steadier. “Then we fail,” he decided.

You swallowed.

His grin returned slowly afterward, softer around the edges. “Fail with me,” he corrected. “Fail better.” He pointed between you both lazily. “Fail together.”

A laugh escaped you despite every effort not to give him one.

You rolled your eyes hard enough to make him grin wider, shaking your head while the weed continued smoothing the sharp corners off your thoughts. The night air no longer felt cold against your skin and embarrassment had slowly stopped existing somewhere during the conversation. Maybe that was the dangerous part and not Dean’s suggestion but how easy it suddenly felt to consider it.

You didn’t bring it up again for the rest of the night and neither did Dean.

When the rest of the guys stumbled back into the house loud and half-drunk sometime after midnight, he changed back into normal so smoothly it almost irritated you. He made sure you had food, water, your charger and then bullied one of the sober freshmen into driving you home while standing outside by the car until you pulled away like he always did.

You slept absurdly well afterward.

A heavy sleep and dreamless night, the type that glued you to the mattress the next morning until sunlight was already cutting aggressively through your blinds. By the time you shuffled out with an oversized hoodie you were certain was your ex’s, your phone was buzzing with unread texts from Dean sent hours earlier, probably before morning practice.

You ignored every single one and it wasn’t because of regret. Embarrassment simply crawled into your chest somewhere between the first and third spoonful of cereal and decided to settle there permanently.

The entire conversation replayed so clearly now that you were sober. “Use me,” You nearly groaned into the bowl.

Three hours of class helped, at least temporarily. You sat near the back of the massive amphitheater classroom while your professor rambled enthusiastically about the new book he’d conveniently written himself and would definitely require students to purchase before midterms. You probably would’ve absorbed more information if you weren’t scrolling mindlessly through Instagram the entire lecture.

The doors behind you opened quietly midway through class.

You barely paid attention at first since nobody descended the stairs toward the lower rows and a second later the seat beside you groaned softly under someone’s weight.

You recognized the cologne immediately.

“How hard do you think you need to scrub for that scent to leave your skin?” you whispered without looking up.

Dean grinned beside you, leaning closer enough for warmth to brush your shoulder as his eyes dropped toward your phone screen.

You locked it quickly and finally looked at him. “You’re not in this class.”

“I see your phone works perfectly fine,” he replied.

The professor thankfully dismissed class early before you could answer, students immediately growing louder as backpacks zipped and people exited the space.

You stood quickly and started gathering your things. “Did you need something, Di Laurentis?” you asked flatly.

Dean remained seated on purpose, forcing you to awkwardly climb past him to leave the row. The asshole looked entirely too pleased with himself while you muttered under your breath and stepped over his legs.

The second you reached the aisle, he stood and followed.

You walked fast, actually, aggressively fast. Dean almost struggled to keep up at first, his legs clearly still wrecked from morning practice while you marched out of the building like escape itself was the objective. He finally caught you outside near the steps leading toward the quad.

“We need to talk.”

You slowed at last before turning toward him. “What we need is space,” you corrected, motioning firmly between your bodies.

Dean looked down between you both thoughtfully, then took exactly one step backward.

You almost laughed, especially because he looked unbearably smug afterward, standing there grinning in the middle of campus like he deserved a reward for basic listening skills.

“You’ve gone to New York with me enough times to know I don’t need more space,” he pointed out. “But fine.” His expression softened slightly afterward, amusement fading as he studied your face more carefully. “What’s going on?”

Of course, he was right. Dean practically crawled into people’s personal bubbles recreationally, so the fact he’d backed off at all made it harder to flee the conversation entirely.

You exhaled slowly. “We said stuff last night.”

He nodded once, blinking at the tension written all over your face. “Yeah. That’s usually how conversations work.”

“Stuff you might regret,” you clarified.

Dean’s brows lifted before a quiet laugh escaped him. “Regret?” He pointed toward himself loosely. “C’mon. It’s me.”

His voice gentled slightly after and the worst part was he looked relieved, because apparently the phrase ‘stuff you might regret’ translated in Dean’s brain to ‘good, she’s not upset’.

“I would’ve said that sober,” he assured you.

His eyes stayed fixed on yours while your attention darted briefly around campus before returning to him again exactly like he knew it would. Dean stepped closer instinctively, lowering his voice enough that the passing students around you blurred into background noise.

“You want me to repeat it?” he asked quietly. “Let me help you cum.”

Your stomach tightened at his tone of voice. “It might not work,” you reminded him softly.

You hoped your face conveyed the actual problem because this had never been about his ego. Dean could survive failure, he’d probably laugh through it, so that wasn’t what scared you.

Dean shrugged anyway, maddeningly calm. “What if it does?”

“And what if it doesn’t?” Frustration finally slipped into your voice. “Dean, I don’t want us to get weird.” You shook your head hard once. “I don’t need ‘optimistic Dean’ right now,” you muttered. “I need ‘realistic Dean’, so pull him out of your ass.”

“You already are weird,” Dean corrected easily, smiling down at you. “I accepted that years ago.” His grin widened then. “Actually, I encourage it.”

You rolled your eyes, though the corner of your mouth betrayed you.

“Let me try,” he insisted again, the confidence in his voice should’ve irritated you more than it did.

Instead, you found yourself studying him in silence, searching for something off in his expression. Some sign this was ego, curiosity or boredom disguised as concern but he just looked…earnest. Enthusiastic, sure, because he was Dean and apparently incapable of approaching anything halfway but not creepy about it and maybe this was partially your own fault.

You’d spent years talking openly with him about sex, relationships and attraction. About wanting something good someday instead of tolerable, about how when you were old and exhausted with kids running around, you still wanted a partner who looked at you and wanted you back because you were almost certain you’d still want them too.

Dean remembered everything you said…unfortunately.

You sighed heavily. “We need rules.”

“Fine.” He agreed so fast it almost startled you. Dean straightened afterward, nodding once with ridiculous seriousness like the two of you were entering business negotiations instead of whatever disaster this actually was.

You almost reconsidered your next words. Almost.

“No kissing.”

Dean’s shoulders visibly dropped. “Why?”

“Because!” you hissed. “And if we’re doing this, you don’t get to question the rules.”

His face twisted in disbelief. “We’ve kissed before.”

You crossed your arms tighter. “That was different.”

Dean scoffed softly. “We were literally each other’s first kiss.”

Again, he was right. You weren’t just each other’s first kiss either, a few firsts existed between you both scattered through years of friendship and growing up side by side, all except for sex. There was awkward teenage curiosity, truth or dare disasters and one regrettable spin-the-bottle incident Garrett still occasionally referenced against your will.

Which was exactly why kissing now felt dangerous. This couldn’t spiral into some ‘why didn’t we do this sooner’ conversation. It needed boundaries and structure, something detached enough that neither of you accidentally ruined the friendship orbiting underneath all this and selflessly, you also didn’t want the group dragged into the fallout if things exploded.

“We’re adults now,” you said firmly. “So no kissing.”

Dean stared at you for another second before exhaling dramatically. 

“Okay,” he relented…Too easily, which immediately made you suspicious he’d already started planning arguments against it for later.

“I’ve also thought about what you said last night,” you continued carefully. “About Six Flags.”

Dean’s brows lifted.

“And shutting down the entire park feels unfair to you,” you explained. “Potentially devastating, honestly.” Your lips twitched slightly. “So you can still hook up with other people if you want. I genuinely don’t care.”

Dean actually looked offended. “Didn’t realize I needed permission.”

“You know what I mean.”

“No, I don’t.” His voice sharpened for the first time since the conversation started. “But no thanks.” He shrugged once. “It makes this more exciting anyway.” A grin tugged briefly at his mouth again. “I’ve got one ride right now and that’s all I need.”

Your face scrunched at his words. “Does weed somehow make you an even bigger asshole?”

Dean ignored that completely. “I’m not doing anything with anyone else until we’re done here,” he repeated firmly. The teasing disappeared entirely from his voice that time and there was no smugness either, just certainty.

You quieted automatically when a group of students passed nearby, a few of them recognizing Dean instantly and greeting him as they crossed the quad. He responded absentmindedly without taking his eyes off you once.

The second they moved far enough away, you continued. “Why?”

Dean’s expression softened at the question. “Because I need you comfortable,” he answered simply. “And I need you to trust me more than you already do.”

You groaned. “Oh my God,” you muttered, dragging a hand down your face. “You’re making this weird.”

He grinned at your reaction while you grabbed his sleeve and started pulling him further across campus before more people stopped to talk to him. Dean let you drag him along without resistance, looking far too entertained by the whole thing.

“We don’t even know how long this will take,” you pointed out.

“My fist works perfectly fine in the meantime,” Dean decided easily.

You looked up at him so fast your neck almost hurt.

Dean pressed his lips together, visibly trying not to laugh at the pure disbelief written across your face. His head tilted slightly, hair strands falling over his forehead while he watched you stare at him like he’d just confessed to tax fraud.

Your gaze dropped away first.

Contrary to what everyone on campus believed, Dean didn’t actually need constant hookups to survive. He liked the reputation, liked exaggerating it even more whenever it annoyed you enough to argue back or laugh at him but underneath all that, he could handle himself perfectly fine.

Unfortunately for you, he seemed almost smug about proving that now.

“Can I add rules too?” he asked.

You sighed dramatically. “Sure.”

The two of you kept walking through campus side by side, your pace slower now that the conversation had moved on from terrifying to merely humiliating.

“No scheduling things specifically for this,” Dean decided. “If it happens, it happens.”

You blinked once before nodding slowly. “Yeah. Okay.” Relief actually loosened something in your chest at that. “That’s good. I’ll stress less.”

Dean glanced sideways at you, probably pleased you agreed so quickly…Except his rule immediately created entirely new problems.

“Uh…” Your steps slowed slightly. “How do you…” You scratched awkwardly at your eyebrow. “Take it?”

Dean stopped walking altogether. “How do I take what?” he asked carefully. “My coffee?”

You groaned. “No.” Your hand motioned vaguely between the two of you in a series of gestures that explained absolutely nothing. “Like…how do you like it?”

Dean’s brows lifted as realization hit him almost visibly.

You looked away at once. “Fuck,” you muttered under your breath. “Do I need to be clean shaven constantly or not?” Your voice lowered progressively through the sentence while your eyes darted around campus to make sure nobody nearby overheard you discussing grooming preferences in broad daylight.

Dean stared at you for half a second too long before answering.

“Y/n.” The seriousness in his tone made your eyes flicker back toward him. “The day I tell you what to do with your body, you better knock me unconscious.”

Your mouth parted slightly.

“I’ll literally kneel for it if that makes it easier,” he continued firmly. “Do whatever makes you comfortable.”

And he meant it. Dean would enjoy it either way, obviously, but that wasn’t what mattered to him here. What mattered was getting you out of your own head long enough to actually enjoy yourself instead of performing comfort for someone else.

You blinked slowly at him because suddenly your ex’s comments replayed in your head with uncomfortable clarity. Little preferences disguised as jokes and suggestions repeated enough times to become expectations and judging by the expression tightening briefly across Dean’s face, he’d realized exactly where your question came from too.

That only made you feel worse somehow. Your attention drifted toward the students moving around campus nearby.

You suddenly wondered if people would notice eventually. The same way older women always claimed they somehow knew when girls became sexually active. Weird comments about posture and confidence, wider hips and glowing skin that sounded fake until suddenly you became the target of them too.

Your stomach tightened faintly. “What are we supposed to tell people?”

Dean barely hesitated. “To mind their own fucking business.”

You snorted softly.

He looked over at you again, entirely serious despite the amusement still lingering around his mouth. “Just like I’m doing mine.”

The rest of the week passed almost painfully normal.

There were parties, late-night food runs, afternoons sprawled around the boys’ house while someone yelled at a video game in the background and hockey games while Dean acted exactly the same as always. You spent time with Hannah and Allie between classes and after them, listened to Garrett complain dramatically about assignments he’d started twelve hours before they were due, watched Tucker cook enough food for six grown men while Logan disappeared upstairs with company more often than not.

Nothing changed.

Dean still touched your shoulder when he walked past you, still stole fries off your plate and still looked at you too long whenever you laughed at something stupid and somehow that made the entire thing worse because half the time you genuinely convinced yourself you’d imagined the whole conversation by the fire pit entirely.

Maybe the weed had made you both insane and none of it was real.

You sat curled up on the floor of the boys’ living room later that week with your knees tucked to your chest, a notebook balanced across your thighs while formulas blurred together across the page. Your back rested against the couch and the TV played quietly in the background though neither of you actually paid attention to it.

Dean sat opposite you in the armchair, long legs spread comfortably while he hunched over his own notebook with far more concentration than anyone would expect from him or maybe not because he took hockey so seriously. He took school seriously too, despite pretending otherwise whenever possible but unfortunately for you, he also looked unfairly good doing homework.

You tried focusing on your own work, tried hard. Instead, your eyes kept lifting toward him between equations, your brain repeatedly snagging on the memory of everything he’d said days earlier and the fact neither of you had taken any of it back…or done a single thing about it.

“What’d you get for number three?” Dean’s voice pulled you from your thoughts but still didn’t look up from his notebook.

You blinked down at your own page, trying to remember where your brain had abandoned the assignment entirely.

“C,” you answered eventually. “But I’m not confident about it.”

Dean hummed thoughtfully. “I’ve done the math twice and I keep getting B.”

You reread the problem slowly, trying to force your attention into place. “Then it’s probably B.”

Dean finally looked up at that, one brow lifting. “You’re admitting you’re wrong?”

You snorted softly. Honestly, it was extremely possible. Your brain hadn’t functioned properly all week because you kept thinking about him offering himself up like some absurdly confident science experiment. 

“Don’t need to dig through my family tree to know I’m not descended from Isaac Newton.”

A smile tugged slowly across Dean’s mouth as he leaned back in the armchair. “If you are,” he said, eyes dragging over your face, “I’m glad the ugly recessive genes skipped you.”

Your nose scrunched instantly. “What kind of compliment is that?”

“The kind I’m hoping gets you over here to help me.” He motioned you closer lazily with his pointer and middle fingers.

You sighed before setting your notebook on the coffee table and padding across the room toward him. The house was quieter this late afternoon, though not empty. Hannah was upstairs with Garrett, Logan had disappeared into his room hours ago and Tucker was outside training.

“Let’s see,” you murmured.

You bent slightly over Dean and the notebook resting on the armrest, attention dropping fully to the equations scattered across the page. The movement loosened the collar of your shirt enough for cool air to brush your skin.

Dean noticed and his throat cleared quietly.

Your attention remained on the notebook while his eyes betrayed him completely, dropping for one dangerous second to the visible lace of your bra before forcing themselves back upward toward your face instead.

Dean had promised himself he’d take this slow and naturally because the second he acted weird about it, you would too. You’d overthink every movement, every look and accidental touch and unfortunately for him, you’d always been terrifyingly good at reading him.

He moved the notebook slightly farther from you as one hand settled carefully against your hip, guiding you.

You reached automatically for the notebook before he moved it entirely out of reach, successfully grabbing it just as he tugged you forward enough for your balance to tip. A second later you settled directly onto his lap, knees falling naturally to either side of his thighs.

You blinked once. “Smooth,” you muttered, adjusting yourself carefully without looking at him. “I’ll give you that.”

Dean grinned openly now. You balanced the notebook against his chest like it was a table and reached backward for the pen loosely held in his free hand. His fingers brushed yours before letting go.

“Should be a five,” you corrected while marking over the equation. “Not a seven.” Your brows furrowed slightly. “Your handwriting’s gotten worse over the years.”

“You still read it.”

“I’m not the one grading you.” Your eyes lifted straight into his.

You’d sat on Dean’s lap before, during packed car rides, group trips and random stupid moments over the years where proximity stopped mattering because he was just Dean. This didn’t feel like that, not even close.

“Not in math,” he said quietly.

Only one of his hands touched you still, resting warm and steady against your hip like he was making a conscious effort not to overwhelm you. Whether it was intentional or not, it worked. His eyes drifted downward slowly toward your mouth.

“You should be rating everything else though.” A grin ghosted briefly across his lips. “Pretty sure Six Flags has customer surveys.”

You shook your head once, slow enough that your hair brushed lightly against your cheek. “No ride, no survey.”

Dean’s mouth twitched. His legs spread slightly wider underneath you then, subtle enough that you still felt the change as the apex of your thighs aligned more directly with his. The hand on your hip tightened enough for you to notice. “Go on then,” he murmured.

Your gaze dropped before you could stop it, down to the visible tent pressing insistently against the front of his sweats. Heat climbed your throat immediately.

“Interesting moment you picked,” you muttered softly, eyes flicking briefly toward the rest of the house.

You felt comfortable there. Comfortable enough to leave clothes behind, to wander into the kitchen without asking and to nap on the couch when you got tired during movie nights but knowing the others were still around somewhere made your pulse jump harder instead of calming it.

Dean noticed. “Just focus on me,” he instructed quietly.

Not ‘look at me’, just ‘focus’ which you could do.

You looked at him, seeing the genuine curiosity and lack of judgment in his eyes and for the first time, the wall you'd built around your sexuality felt more like a shield and less like a cage.

Slowly, tentatively, you moved as the gravity of the moment pulled you toward him. You settled your weight directly onto him, feeling the distinct, blunt shape of his cock through the layers of your clothes. He wasn't fully hard yet, just a semi-firm pressure against your clothed pussy but it didn't make you recoil. In fact, it sent a low thrum of anticipation through your nerves.

The air between you grew thick, charged with a tension that felt heavy enough to touch. You remembered your own rule: no kissing. So, you kept your face inches from his but you didn't close the gap. Instead, you focused on the sound of his breathing, which had hitched the moment you sat down. You could feel the warmth of his breath ghosting over your lips, a teasing, invisible touch that made your skin prickle.

Dean’s hand still hovered near your waist, trembling slightly but he didn't grip you. He seemed to be fighting every instinct to pull you closer, respecting the fragile boundary you had set.

"I'm gonna keep my hands off," he whispered, his voice strained and rough. "You just keep moving. Take whatever you're comfortable with."

He pulled his arms back, resting them flat against the seat beside him, leaving you in complete control. The sudden lack of physical contact made the friction between your pelvises feel even more intense. You knew what you were doing, you had enough experience to know how your body worked, even if the 'explosive ending' always eluded you. You began to rock, a slow, tentative grind that pressed your pussy firmly against the length of him as a sharp, jagged exhale escaped his lungs. 

You felt him react instantly, the semi-firmness beneath you surged, his cock thickening and hardening rapidly against your center. You rolled your hips in a circular motion, aiming for the sweet spot, feeling the dampness beginning to soak into your underwear. You were getting wetter, the friction creating a sliding, sensual heat that radiated upward into your stomach.

"You still okay?" he breathed out, voice barely a murmur.

You simply nodded and tried to focus entirely on him, wanting to give him something perfect, something that would leave him breathless. You pushed down harder, grinding your clit against the hard ridge of his dick. You watched his face, head falling back against the headrest, leaving his throat exposed and pulsing but he forced his eyes to stay open. He wanted to see you. He wanted to witness the way your expression changed as you found a rhythm that worked.

The intimacy was suffocating in the best way. There was no kissing to distract you and no wandering hands to break the spell, just the raw, rhythmic pressure of friction. You could feel the heat radiating off his thighs, the way his chest heaved in time with your movements as your own breathing became ragged, mirroring his, the sound of your synchronized gasps filling the quiet space.

You felt a small, involuntary moan escape your throat, a soft sound of pleasure that made Dean’s hips jerk upward instinctively, trying to meet your descent. You pressed closer, your mind racing, trying to synchronize your pleasure with his but as the tension built, a familiar frustration began to creep in. You were so close to that peak, that elusive edge but the more you focused on his perfection, the more you felt yourself slipping away from your own. You wanted it, you wanted to break through the ceiling you'd lived under for years and the frustration made you grind harder, more desperately.

You were just beginning to lose yourself in the friction, your body humming with a desperate, electric need, when the spell was shattered.

The heavy thud of footsteps hit the wooden porch outside, then came muffled voices.

Tucker.

The sound slammed into you like ice water dumped straight down your spine.

You jolted backward instantly, panic snapping through your body so violently that your balance disappeared completely. The friction, the heat, the dizzy haze clouding your brain shattered in one humiliating second as you scrambled away from Dean in pure instinct.

Dean’s hands had actually stayed off, so when you lurched backward, there was nothing anchoring you in place, no arm catching your waist or grip steadying you. You slipped right off his lap in a graceless tangle of limbs and landed hard beside the chair with a muffled curse, your pulse hammering violently against your ribs.

Dean moved at the same time you did. One hand grabbed the nearest couch pillow and yanked it straight into his lap while the other instinctively reached toward you, fingers brushing empty air because you were already halfway onto your feet.

The front door opened and you froze.

Your breathing came embarrassingly uneven as you tried forcing your body back under control, thighs trembling faintly from the abrupt stop, nerves buzzing so hard beneath your skin it almost hurt. Dean leaned back into the chair with his head tipped toward the ceiling for one brief second, chest rising sharply beneath his t-shirt while tortured frustration flashed openly across his face before he forced himself together enough to look toward the entryway.

Tucker walked in distractedly, phone pressed to his ear while he kicked the door shut behind him with his shoe.

“–No, because that’s not what I said,” he argued into the phone before finally glancing up.

Dean’s voice came out rough and annoyed. “Can't you knock?”

The irritation in it made your eyes widen and before thinking better of it, you reached over and smacked lightly at his arm which made him look offended for half a second.

Tucker’s brows pulled together slowly as his gaze moved between the two of you…You standing there awkwardly and Dean spread out in the armchair with a pillow aggressively covering his lap.

The TV was still playing, forgotten in the background too.

“Wait,” Tucker muttered into the phone, eyes narrowing slightly. “Hold on.” He lowered the phone away from his ear and motioned vaguely around the living room. “I live here,” he pointed out flatly. “If you two wanna study in complete silence maybe turn the TV down or go to the library.”

Your mouth pressed into a painfully tight smile.

“Hey, Y/n.” he greeted, much more gently.

“Hi,” you replied weakly with an awkward nod.

Tucker gave you one more lingering look before wandering toward the kitchen, already returning to his phone conversation while opening the fridge like absolutely nothing life-altering had just occurred in his living room.

The second he was no longer looking, your eyes snapped back toward Dean, his were already on you, wide and still dark with frustration and lingering heat and approximately ten other emotions you absolutely did not have time to unpack right now.

You hurried toward where you’d abandoned your bag near the couch and started shoving your things inside far too quickly.

Dean muttered a curse under his breath behind you as the fridge door opened again. “Wait, wait, wait,” he whispered urgently.

You ignored him completely, nearly dropping your belongings while trying to zip your bag shut.

“You don’t have to leave,” he continued quietly, unable to stand for reasons both of you were painfully aware of. The pillow remained trapped over his lap while he leaned forward slightly, voice dropping lower. “Stay for dinner.” Then louder, “Right, Tucker?”

From the kitchen, still mid-conversation, Tucker lifted a distracted thumbs up without even looking over. Of course you could stay, you were always welcome there and it somehow made this infinitely worse.

“Y/n, c’mon,” Dean tried again, even softer this time.

You finally looked at him, at his flushed face and the way he still looked wrecked from you despite the interruption.

Your stomach flipped painfully. “You can text me that survey of yours,” you muttered.

Dean groaned quietly at the reminder, watching as you grabbed your bag and headed straight for the front door before your embarrassment could physically consume you alive.

You didn’t say goodbye or looked back. You slipped outside into the cold early evening air and shut the door behind you, immediately dragging in one huge breath like you’d been underwater too long.

Fresh air hit your lungs sharply, cool and tensionless.

Your legs felt weird as you walked down the porch steps and somewhere beneath the embarrassment sat an even more irritating realization. You needed to change your panties and somehow, you still hadn’t come.

For the first time in your academic career, you were thankful exam week existed.

The chaos of midterms had given you and Dean something else to focus on besides the fact you’d nearly climbed him in the middle of his living room while Tucker casually walked through the front door. Between study sessions, essays, last-minute cramming and the general emotional collapse that overtook Briar every semester, things had settled back into something manageable.

You and Dean had talked afterward, though absolutely not alone.

He’d insisted on meeting in a crowded coffee shop near campus where old women typed aggressively on laptops and students cried quietly over textbooks in the corner booths. Dean had spent most of the conversation reassuring you Tucker didn’t know anything, swearing repeatedly that if Tucker had known, the entire hockey house would’ve heard about it within twelve minutes. More importantly, he’d made sure you still wanted this and despite the embarrassment, the frustration and how badly your body still reacted whenever he looked at you too long, you did.

“Are you seriously not coming?” Allie paced dramatically across the apartment while speaking, changing outfits for what had to be the fourth time in under an hour. Both you and Hannah tracked her movements from the couch like spectators at a tennis match while she disappeared into her room only to emerge seconds later wearing something slightly tighter each time.

Hannah finally peeled her attention away from Allie to look at you instead.

“She’s right,” she agreed. “Exams are over. Maybe partying would actually help.”

You smiled lazily from your spot curled into the couch cushions, blanket draped across your legs while exhaustion sat heavy behind your eyes.

“What’ll help me is eight uninterrupted hours of sleep,” you informed them. “Which I plan on pursuing aggressively the second both of you leave.” Your mouth twitched slightly. “Now see some boys and make questionable use of your mouths elsewhere.”

Allie barked out a laugh loud enough to echo while Hannah groaned.

“When are we finding your rebound?” Allie asked as she finally settled on an outfit and bent down to tug on her boots.

“It’s too soon,” you decided immediately.

“It is,” Hannah agreed with a firm nod. “She doesn’t wanna think about men right now and we’re respecting that.”

You pointed gratefully toward her. “See? Emotional maturity.”

“Sure,” Allie snorted. “I’m still passing your Instagram around tonight though.” She grinned wickedly while crossing toward the couch. “You can decide what to do with the options later.” Before you could answer, she leaned down and squeezed you tightly against her side. “Don’t wait up for us.”

You watched them drag out the goodbye process intentionally, moving toward the door with exaggerated slowness like they expected you to suddenly change your mind and throw on heels at the last second.

You sighed and stood from the couch, physically herding them toward the exit. “Just go,” you laughed while they protested loudly.

“We tried,” Hannah reminded you with a smile while Allie opened the apartment door. “We’ll send you the address anyway.”

“I won’t change my mind.”

“You say that now...”

You waved them off anyway and finally shut the door behind them once they disappeared down the hallway already talking excitedly about shots and music and whatever terrible decisions the night would inevitably produce.

Silence settled across the apartment immediately afterward.

You exhaled slowly…now what? You considered your options while wandering aimlessly through the living space. You could curl up on the couch with your laptop and a movie or crawl into bed and disappear beneath blankets for twelve straight hours like a Victorian woman with mysterious exhaustion. Or…Your thoughts drifted elsewhere automatically, toward your room and the drawer beside your bed.

You grimaced slightly. Maybe tonight was the night you tried again, actually committed to figuring yourself out instead of giving up midway through frustration like usual. You’d bought enough toys over the years based entirely on optimistic reviews and late-night curiosity alone.

Were they even charged? You were approximately two steps away from your bedroom when knocking sounded at the front door.

You groaned at the sound. “Did you guys forget your condoms again?” you called out while turning toward the entrance. Honestly, it happened often enough that the assumption came naturally now.

You unlocked the door and pulled it open. Then blinked at who you saw. “Dean.”

Dean stood casually in the hallway wearing a baseball cap and dark sunglasses despite the fact it was nighttime indoors, which might’ve worked better if he wasn’t also carrying an enormous black bag beside him.

“I always carry condoms,” he informed you smugly.

Your face scrunched instantly as his answer only emphasized how thin the apartment walls actually were. You narrowed your eyes at him while glancing suspiciously down the hallway. 

“Why aren’t you at the party?”

Dean lowered the sunglasses enough to properly look at you over the frames.

You looked soft tonight, comfortable. Wearing sweatpants and an oversized shirt, hair messier than usual from lying around all day. The sight quickly made something warm settle low in his chest.

“Because I’m here with you.”

“No,” you corrected. “You wanted to be here with me.” You pointed vaguely toward campus. “Past tense…You should currently be at that party.”

“No can do.” Dean slipped smoothly past you before you could stop him, nudging the apartment door shut behind him with his foot.

Only then did you fully notice the bag. It was large, rectangular, black and rigid with no visible branding whatsoever. It completely ruined the whole incognito outfit.

Your eyes narrowed harder while Dean looked far too pleased with himself.

“I come bearing gifts,” he announced, then he walked straight toward your bedroom like he paid rent there.

“How did you know I didn’t go to the party?” you asked while following him toward your bedroom.

Dean set the bag carefully onto your bed before finally turning around, fingers hooking beneath the brim of his cap as he pulled it off. The sunglasses followed next, revealing eyes already fixed on you with far too much satisfaction.

“I have my sources.”

You grimaced again. “That sounds vaguely threatening.”

“Hannah asked me the other day to convince you to come out tonight.” He shrugged casually. “I didn’t.”

You crossed your arms. “Who says I would’ve agreed anyway?”

Dean smiled instantly. “Me.” The confidence in his answer came without hesitation. “I’m very persuasive.”

You rolled your eyes before your attention dragged back toward the massive black bag sitting suspiciously at the foot of your bed. “What is that?”

Dean glanced over his shoulder toward it. “Our entertainment for tonight.” His mouth twitched slightly. “Well…mine.”

You narrowed your eyes harder at him before stepping around him toward the bed. The bag gave nothing away from the outside, rigid and sleek and annoyingly mysterious.

Cautiously, you reached inside and your fingers brushed lace first. You blinked then slowly pulled the item free into the light between you both, pinching it delicately between two fingers like it might suddenly attack you.

“Lingerie?” you asked, genuinely confused.

Dean nodded once. “I had to get rid of the boxes,” he explained. “Turns out Agent Provocateur packaging isn’t exactly subtle.”

Your eyes widened immediately. “Agent Provocateur?” You stared at him in disbelief before looking back into the bag. “Are you insane?”

One by one, you started pulling more pieces out. Black lace…cream silk and tiny straps. Things so soft they barely felt real against your fingertips.

Dean watched your growing expression carefully and only then seemed to realize he may have gone slightly overboard. “I got lost on the website,” he admitted. “And then there was free shipping after a certain amount which felt financially irresponsible to ignore.”

You straightened slowly, still clutching one lace bodysuit in your hands while looking at him like he’d lost his damn mind.

“Explain to me,” you said carefully, “how exactly this counts as entertainment.”

“Besides the obvious?”

Your stare sharpened. Dean exhaled quietly before answering, his tone softening as the teasing faded from his expression.

“When you were on my lap the other day…” His eyes flickered briefly toward the floor before returning to you. “You stopped focusing on yourself after a while.”

Your fingers tightened slightly around the lace.

“You started trying to get me there instead,” he continued gently. “Like you were more worried about proving something than actually feeling good.”

Heat crept onto the nape of your neck because he was right. Dean noticed everything.

“And I get it,” he added quickly, voice staying careful. “Probably instinct. You wanted me to enjoy it.” His mouth twitched faintly. “Which I definitely did, by the way. Don’t start doubting that part.”

You stayed quiet while watching him and actually listened instead of acting on your urge to flee.

“Tonight,” he said after a beat, nodding lightly toward the lingerie scattered across your bed, “the lingerie can be for me.” His eyes moved back to yours. “So the rest can just be yours.”

The room went quiet afterward. The plan had probably sounded more coherent in Dean’s head at one in the morning while online shopping half-awake with his laptop balanced on his stomach but somewhere beneath the absurdity of it, you understood what he meant.

Lingerie wasn’t only about someone else seeing you in it, women bought it for themselves too, to feel pretty, desired and confident. Sometimes just to stand in front of the mirror and reclaim something private but eventually, with partners, it often became performative too, something shared and visual. Dean was trying to remove that pressure from everything else.

Your gaze drifted slowly back down toward the pile of lace but you still weren’t entirely sure what happened next. You tried things on and then, what?

Your voice lowered slightly. “What kind of mind games are you playing?”

You hoped it didn’t sound accusing because it wasn’t meant to. You were just struggling to process the fact Dean had seen through you so clearly after one failed attempt, that he’d gone and actually thought about it, considered it and returned with something tangible instead of empty reassurance and blind confidence.

Dean shook his head immediately. “No games.” His voice stayed soft and patient, ready to leave the second you told him this was too much. “Let’s just give it a shot.”

Silence stretched again before you finally reached for a pair of panties instead. The lace slid smoothly through your fingers as you lifted the panties between you both for further inspection.

Dean’s eyes dropped instantly and despite himself, one very clear thought crossed his mind.

‘Yeah. Definitely one of my favorites.’

“How do you even know these will fit?” you asked honestly. The fabric looked expensive enough to disintegrate if handled incorrectly, soft lace brushing against your fingertips while you inspected the tiny details stitched into it.

Dean opened his mouth…closed it and opened it again. “I’m…observant?”

Even he sounded unsure of the answer.

Your lips twitched as you bit back a laugh while digging through the pile until you found the matching bra, then gathered both pieces in your hands.

“Observant and persuasive,” you mused while backing toward the bathroom. “Let me know when there’s something substantial to add to that list.”

Dean nodded solemnly like you’d given him serious criticism to reflect on. “Will do.”

The bathroom door clicked shut behind you and the second it did, Dean exhaled sharply and looked down at himself...for fuck’s sake.

He adjusted himself miserably through his pants while staring at your closed bathroom door in defeat. Lately everything about you affected him differently, your voice, your teasing and the way you looked at him for half a second too long depending on the day.

It was becoming genuinely embarrassing.

Dean barely moved from the spot you’d left him in.

He stayed planted near the foot of your bed, one hand dragging occasionally through his hair while his eyes remained fixed on the bathroom door like staring hard enough would somehow let him see through it. Every few seconds he twitched awkwardly in his pants, dealing unsuccessfully with the consequences of occasionally hearing your hums through the thin wall while knowing exactly what you were changing into behind it.

Inside the bathroom, you stood frozen in front of the mirror for far longer than necessary.

You tried very hard not to think about how closely Dean must’ve paid attention to you over the years to somehow get the sizing exactly right because it fit perfectly.

The lace sat snug against your skin without pinching anywhere, soft black patterns curling over your chest and hugging your hips beautifully. The bra lifted your breasts enough to make your posture straighten instinctively while the matching panties rested low against your hips, delicate enough to feel expensive but comfortable enough not to make you tug at them every two seconds.

You looked good, not just tolerable under dim lights or acceptable after strategic positioning and reassurance and maybe that was what scared you most because now you had to walk back out there and let someone else see it too.

With one last glance toward your reflection, you finally reached for the doorknob and stepped back into your room.

Dean looked up immediately, the reaction was almost embarrassing.

He stopped breathing for half a second entirely, eyes dragging over you slowly enough to make heat climb straight into your throat. He barely blinked while following your movement across the room as you drifted toward your full-length mirror, fingertips lightly tracing the lace resting over your shoulders before moving lower toward the small details connecting the cups together.

The silence stretched thickly.

You kept looking at yourself mostly because looking directly at him felt dangerous right now, even as he moved behind you slowly without touching. He was just standing there close enough for warmth to gather along your back while his eyes followed yours through the reflection. Wherever you looked, he looked too, until eventually your gazes met in the mirror.

You swallowed. “What do you think?”

Dean inhaled deeply through his nose. “I think,” he said slowly, “Six Flags might be going out of business soon.”

Your brows lifted immediately before a quiet laugh escaped you despite yourself.

You turned around to face him fully then, stepping closer until only inches separated you both. Your hands settled carefully against the center of his chest, fingertips brushing lightly against the fabric of his shirt while you looked up at him.

Dean held your gaze steadily, too steadily, sometimes it genuinely felt like he could read your thoughts if he stared long enough. “What do you think?” he echoed softly.

You hummed quietly, eyes flickering downward toward his mouth before lifting back up again.

“I think…” Your hands began sliding slowly down his chest, fingertips grazing over the hard planes beneath his shirt one inch at a time. “Maybe…” Your voice softened further as your palms drifted lower. “I could show you something I actually know how to do.”

Dean’s jaw tightened as your fingers brushed the bulge straining against his pants.

“With my mouth,” you finished quietly.

You didn’t move afterward and neither did he.

In your head, the logic made sense. Dean already thought you were beautiful, so you didn’t need him witnessing your frustration firsthand too. You could give him something good instead, something you knew how to control.

For one dangerous second, he looked like he was genuinely considering it. Then Dean exhaled sharply and turned you around instead, guiding you gently back toward the mirror until your back rested against his chest.

A startled breath caught in your throat as your ass pressed unintentionally against the hard outline of his erection.

Your eyes met his again through the reflection.

“I don’t doubt you can do those things,” he murmured near your ear. “All of them.”

One of his hands settled carefully against your waist while the other slid slowly downward, fingertips brushing beneath the waistband of your panties enough to make your stomach tighten. 

His eyes never once left yours in the mirror. “So why do you?”

The reflection showed the two of you, a study in tension and longing. You could see the intensity in his eyes, the way he watched you not just with desire but with a focused, intentional kind of devotion.

His hand didn't push further, he stopped before his fingertips brushed the outer lips of your pussy, leaving a teasing spark of contact. He held himself there, gaze locking onto yours in the mirror, waiting. He wasn't going to take a single inch more without your explicit permission.

You felt your heart hammer against your ribs, chest heaving. You looked into his eyes and gave a small, shaky nod.

The moment you did, he slid deeper. His fingers glided through the slick already gathering between your thighs, parting you with a gentle pressure that could’ve made your toes curl. He didn't rush, he navigated the wet lips until his fingertip found the small, swollen bud of your clit. He began to circle it slowly with agonizingly steady rotations that sent ripples of electricity shooting straight to your core.

"Tell me what you see," he whispered, voice a low and gravelly vibration against your ear.

You swallowed hard, voice trembling as you focused on the reflection. "You...you touching me," you breathed.

As you spoke, you watched your own body react. Your breathing picked up, turning into shallow, jagged gasps. In the mirror, you saw your breasts heaving, the nipples peaking and hardening into tight, sensitive points through the lace of your bra. As if reading your thoughts, Dean’s other hand reached around, his fingers finding one breast and gripping it. He massaged the hardened peak, rolling it between his thumb and forefinger and you let out a sharp, involuntary swallow, head tilting back slightly.

"And what's at the end of me?" he asked, voice humming with a dark, sensual curiosity.

"Me," you whispered, the word barely leaving your lips.

"What else?" he pressed, fingers continuing that relentless, circling motion. He was forcing you to stay present, stripping away your ability to hide in your head or focus on his pleasure. He wanted you trapped in your own skin.

You stared at yourself, hyper-aware of every inch of your anatomy. "Beauty marks," you murmured, noticing the small moles on your thighs and torso that you usually ignored.

"And here?" he asked, his thumb flicking the tip of your nipple.

"Hardened nipples," you gasped, eyes fluttering.

"And on your skin..." he prompted, his fingers quickening their pace, the friction against your clit becoming more insistent and demanding.

"Goosebumps," you whimpered. You could see them breaking out across your shoulders and arms, a physical manifestation of the arousal peaking within you.

The sensory overload was dizzying. Every time you named a part of yourself, the pleasure seemed to intensify, as if acknowledging your own body was unlocking a door you'd kept bolted shut. Dean’s fingers were no longer just circling, they were fluttering, vibrating against your most sensitive spot with a precision that made your hips instinctively buck back against him. You felt the wetness flooding out of you and coating his fingers, making the sounds of his touch wet and explicit in the quiet room.

You tried desperately to keep your eyes locked on his in the mirror but as the pleasure climbed, the world began to blur. Your eyelids grew heavy, the edges of your vision darkening as the sensation centered entirely on the point where he was rubbing you. You started to moan, the sounds raw but still shy, escaping your throat without your permission. You pushed your backside harder against the rigid length of his erection, craving the friction, the completion.

The tension in your lower belly coiled tighter and tighter, a spring winding up to the point of snapping. You were right there, on the precipice, the beginning of an orgasm shimmering just out of reach. Your breath became a series of broken sobs as your body trembled in anticipation. Was this it?

"I think...I–" you started, voice breaking as the first wave of a climax seemed to form but just before it solidified, just as you were about to believe it would, Dean abruptly pulled his hand away.

The sudden void was shocking. You gasped, body jolting from the abrupt loss of stimulation, the orgasm denied at the very last second of creation. You were left vibrating, aching and halfway undone but before you could process the frustration, he gripped your waist and turned you around in his arms so you were facing him. 

Your eyes were wide, glazed with lust and confusion, chest heaving as you looked up at him.

"What the hell are you doing?" you asked, voice a breathless wreck.

Dean didn't answer immediately. He just looked at you, taking in the desperate hunger in your eyes. He gripped your hips firmly, knuckles white and began backing up toward the bed, pulling you with him.

"Trusting you to do it first," he murmured.

As the back of his knees hit the mattress, he let himself fall back, laying flat on his back and spreading his arms wide, leaving himself completely open and vulnerable to you.

You climbed over him, your movements determined, fueled by a desperate, humming need that had been wound tight in the mirror. You braced your knees against his sides, feeling the hard muscle of his thighs beneath you and planted one hand firmly on his chest. Beneath your palm, you could feel his heart hammering a frantic rhythm, a mirror to your own. With a renewed sense of determination, you slipped your other hand beneath the fabric of your panties, your fingers finding the slick, swollen heat of your pussy.

As you began to touch yourself, you closed your eyes for a moment, repeating the litany he had forced you to acknowledge in the mirror. You focused on the hyper-awareness he had instilled in you, turning that mental lens inward. You found your clit, already engorged and sensitive and began to circle it. Your breathing became ragged, each exhale a shaky shudder that vibrated through your entire frame.

You opened your eyes and looked down at your hand on his chest. You watched the way his pectorals heaved under your touch, his skin flushed and warm. Then, you felt his hands slide up your legs, his large palms gripping your thighs firmly. The sheer intensity of his gaze, the way he watched your every movement with a hunger that felt almost tangible, made a low moan escape your throat.

You had never reached this point before, never felt this close to the edge of something so profound. The pleasure was a rising tide, threatening to pull you under.

"Be patient," Dean breathed, his voice a low, grounding rumble that seemed to vibrate through the mattress and into your bones. "Listen to your body."

You nodded, eyes locked onto his and focused entirely on the sensation. You ignored the noise in your head, everything except the friction of your own fingers. You kept your hand working at a speed you liked, a steady, rhythmic pressure that built a coil of tension in your lower belly. You began to squirm, hips rocking in a slow, undulating motion against your own hand, chasing the spark.

In your haze of arousal, you shifted, pressing your soaking wet clothed cunt directly onto the rigid length of his erection through his pants. The sudden, blunt pressure against your clit sent a shockwave of pleasure through you and you let out a loud, uncontrolled moan. Dean groaned in response, a sound of pure, tortured restraint as he kept his hips from jerking upward to meet you.

You quickly lifted your hips again, holding them high in the air, body arching as you fought to maintain the rhythm.

“Holy fuck,” You were so close now, the world was narrowing down to the point where your fingers met your flesh.

"Attagirl. That's it," Dean whispered, voice thick with praise. "You're doing so good. Just like that...look at you, taking it all in. So fucking worth it."

His words were like fuel to the fire. The praise made you bolder and movements more frantic. You pressed harder, your fingers fluttering with an urgency that bordered on desperation until the tension reached a breaking point, a white-hot spark that suddenly ignited into a roaring flame.

The orgasm hit you like a physical blow. Your head snapped back, your spine arching as the first wave of pleasure crashed over you. Your lips parted and an unreal, unabashed sound, a high, keening cry of release slipped out of you, echoing through the room. It was your first time ever coming and the sensation was overwhelming. It didn't just peak and fade, it rolled through you in long, rhythmic pulses that seemed to last forever, shaking your entire body, leaving your muscles twitching and your mind a complete blank.

Dean didn't move. He looked at you, completely mesmerized, eyes wide and unblinking. He watched the way your throat worked as you gasped for air, the way your breasts heaved and the way your body shuddered under the aftershocks. Beneath you, his cock throbbed and twitched painfully against the constraint of his pants, a visible manifestation of the agony and ecstasy of watching you shatter.

As the waves finally subsided, leaving you limp and floating, you collapsed onto his chest with a sultry whine, skin damp with sweat and breathing heavy and synchronized with his as you caught your breath.

The silence of the room was thick, charged with the lingering electricity of the moment.

You swallowed hard while still catching your breath, voice a mere whisper against his skin. "Is it too soon to say that was the best orgasm I've ever had?"

Dean let out a heavy, uneven breath beneath you, the sound shuddering straight through his chest and into yours. Only then did his hands finally leave your thighs. Slowly, almost cautiously, they slid upward along your sides until his palms settled against your back.

Gone was the restraint that had kept his fingers tense and controlled earlier. Now he touched you lightly, almost reverently, fingertips drifting along the curve of your spine over the lace while he tried to steady his breathing. Every few seconds his hands flexed against you instinctively, like he still couldn’t quite believe what had just happened.

“Definitely the best one I’ve ever had,” he murmured.

His voice sounded wrecked, dizzy, like simply watching you come apart on top of him had pushed him somewhere dangerously close to losing it himself.

You lifted your head slowly from where it rested against his chest, pushing up enough to properly look at him.

Dean blinked up at you lazily, pupils completely blown.

You swallowed once. “Did you…?”

The question barely finished forming before Dean’s expression morphed into something sheepish and amused all at once. He swallowed too before nodding once against the mattress.

Your eyes widened slightly as his hand slid upward from your back, fingertips brushing softly along your jaw while he looked at you with an expression so openly fond it almost hurt to hold eye contact with him.

“Am I still not deserving of a kiss?” he asked quietly. Half joking, half absolutely not.

You hummed thoughtfully like you were genuinely considering it. “You want a cookie and a gold star too?”

Dean’s grin spread slowly across his face, matching yours instantly despite the pleasure still weighing down his features. “Better than the survey.”

You laughed softly through your nose before finally leaning down the rest of the way.

The kiss was warm, searing and long overdue.

Dean’s hand moved instantly to the back of your head, holding you in place like he’d been waiting weeks to finally do exactly this. It started slow for approximately two seconds, soft lips parting against yours carefully, almost disbelievingly, before weeks of tension snapped apart all at once.

You melted into him with a breathless sound as his mouth pressed harder against yours.

Dean kissed like he did everything else, thoroughly.

His thumb pushed lightly beneath your jaw, tilting your head back enough for him to deepen the kiss, tongue sliding against yours slow at first, exploratorily, before the restraint he’d been clinging to all night dissolved completely. The taste of him, the warmth of his mouth and the low groan that rumbled out of his chest when you kissed him back with equal desperation made your stomach tighten all over again.

The kiss quickly turned messy, hungry. You could barely catch your breath between them, mouths reconnecting instantly every time you pulled apart for air like neither of you could tolerate the distance anymore. Dean’s grip tightened on your hair as his other hand spread wide against your back, dragging you flush against him while his tongue swept against yours again, deeper this time, making heat rush straight through your body.

So much for rules.

Seems like Six Flags had just been privatised for a single Agent Provocateur wearer…indefinitely.

a/n: Comments, likes and reblogs really do mean the world and help more than you know! More stories will be added to the archive soon, so stay tuned for new content. Thank you so much for reading! 🤍

[daydreamfiles]

Emergency Contact - John Logan

ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀʟɪꜱᴛ

blurb: You were determined not to call Logan for help. The sink had other plans.

warnings: 18+, explicit smut, sexual tension, dirty talk, teasing, brief apartment emergency

꒰১Taglist໒꒱ @littlemissclairebiggs, @legendarychrattgirl

The leak started as a soft, irritating drip beneath the kitchen sink.

At first, you tried to ignore it. Hannah and Allie had left for the weekend with a list of instructions that made the apartment feel less like a place to live and more like something you had been trusted not to destroy, and you refused to be the person who called for help over a little water.

By the time you opened the cabinet, the bottom shelf was already wet.

“Great,” you muttered.

You shoved a towel under the pipe, then another when the first one soaked through faster than you liked. The water was not pouring out, not yet, but it was steady enough to make your stomach tighten. You crouched in front of the cabinet with your phone balanced on your knee, watching some man on a repair video explain the shutoff valve like every sink in the world had been made by the same person.

You found what looked like the right valve and twisted it with more hope than confidence.

The dripping slowed, and for one brief second, you thought you had handled it.

Then something under the sink gave a sharp little sputter, and water sprayed straight across the front of your shirt.

You scrambled back with a gasp, bumping into the cabinet behind you.

“Shit.”

Your eyes went straight to the fridge.

Hannah’s post-it was still there, bright yellow and impossible to ignore.

logan — if something leaks, breaks, explodes, or you panic. do not let him flirt his way out of doing the job.

You stared at his name for a long second.

“No,” you said to the empty kitchen.

The pipe sprayed again.

You grabbed your phone.

It rang twice before he answered.

“Please tell me this is the part where you say you need me.”

You closed your eyes. “I need a wrench.”

There was a small pause, and then Logan laughed under his breath. “That is a devastating downgrade.”

“I might need a plumber,” you said, looking at the water spreading across the tile. “Or an exorcist.”

“Which apartment?”

“Hannah and Allie’s.”

“Yeah, figured. Hannah told me she left my number.”

“She also told me not to let you flirt your way out of doing the job.”

“She wrote that down?”

“In pink ink.”

“Wow.” You could hear the grin in his voice. “She knows me so well.”

“Can you fix a sink or not?”

“Probably.”

“Probably?”

“I haven’t seen the sink yet.”

“Logan.”

“I’m five minutes away.”

You looked down at your wet shirt clinging to your chest, then at the puddle near your feet. “Make it four.”

His voice softened slightly, though the amusement stayed. “You okay?”

“I’m wet, annoyed, and my kitchen is flooding.”

“That sounds like a yes with attitude.”

“It’s a yes with a time limit.”

“I’m on my way.”

He was there in four.

When Logan showed up, you were standing in the kitchen with damp socks, a soaked shirt, and the deeply unfair feeling that the apartment had chosen to embarrass you in front of the one person who would enjoy it.

He knocked twice before you opened the door.

John Logan stood in the hallway in sweats and a dark T-shirt, hair slightly messy, mouth already tilted like he knew the night had handed him something good.

His gaze flicked over you, quick enough to almost be polite, then lifted back to your face.

“Bad sink?” he asked.

You stepped aside. “Evil sink.”

He walked in, glanced at the towels on the floor, then at the bowl under the cabinet. “Yeah, I can see that.”

“I had it under control for about twelve seconds.”

“That’s longer than most people.”

You looked at him.

He held his hands up, fighting a smile. “That was supportive.”

“It sounded judgmental.”

“It was both.”

Despite yourself, you almost laughed, which annoyed you more than the leak.

He crouched in front of the sink and opened the cabinet, leaning in with one shoulder braced against the counter. The easy joking faded just enough once he saw the pipe, and that was somehow worse. He was still Logan, still too relaxed in your kitchen, but now he actually looked like he knew what he was doing.

You passed him the wrench when he asked for it, then a dry towel. His fingers brushed yours both times, and you told yourself it was only because the kitchen was cramped.

“So,” he said from under the sink, voice muffled. “Boyfriend couldn’t come save the day?”

You leaned back against the opposite counter. “That would require having a boyfriend.”

He paused with his hand still under the sink.

Not long. Just enough.

“Good to know.”

Your stomach dipped, and you hated that he probably heard the silence that followed.

“That was not an invitation.”

“Didn’t say it was.”

He turned the wrench again, but there was a smile in his voice now, low and pleased and impossible to miss.

You looked down at the towel in your hands instead of at him. “Fix the sink, Logan.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

A small laugh slipped out before you could stop it.

Logan glanced back at you like he had caught something he wanted to keep, and that annoyed you more than if he had actually said something about it.

You busied yourself with the towels, wringing one out over the sink while he went back to the pipe. The kitchen settled into the sound of water dripping into the bucket, his hand moving against metal, and your own very poor attempt at not watching him work.

After another minute, he reached out without looking. “Towel.”

You handed it over.

He wiped beneath the pipe, then adjusted something near the valve with a focus that made you regret how much you were watching his hands.

“You sure this is fixing it?” you asked.

“No faith in me?”

“I met you through a post-it on the fridge.”

“That post-it had my number for a reason.”

“Hannah also warned me not to let you flirt your way out of doing anything.”

Logan looked up at that, grin slow but not overdone. “Smart girl.”

“I meant her.”

“I didn’t.”

Your stomach dipped, and he ducked back under the sink before you could come up with anything decent to say.

After another turn of the wrench, he said, “Relax. I’m good with my hands.”

You almost dropped the towel.

He noticed without even looking directly at you.

“That came out exactly the way you meant it,” you said.

“Did it?”

“Logan.”

“What?” He glanced up, all innocence and none of it believable. “I’m fixing your sink.”

The worst part was that he really was fixing it.

He joked too much, and he looked entirely too pleased with himself every time he made you stumble over a response, but he was not just poking at pipes for show. He knew where to look, what to tighten, when to stop and check the leak. Every few minutes, he asked for something, and every few minutes, you found yourself looking at his hands before you realized you were doing it.

It was getting irritating.

Not because he was annoying.

Because he was annoying and attractive and actually helping.

That combination felt personally unfair.

When he finally told you to turn the faucet on, you did it slowly, one hand on the handle and the other ready to shut it off if the sink decided to attack again.

For two seconds, everything was fine.

Then water burst from under the pipe and hit Logan square in the chest.

“Shit.”

He reached under the sink while you scrambled for the faucet, twisting it too far in the wrong direction before finally getting it right. The spray stopped all at once, leaving behind a dripping cabinet, a wet floor, and Logan kneeling in front of the sink with his shirt plastered to his chest.

He sat back on his heels, water running down his neck, and pushed a hand through his hair.

You meant to look at the pipe.

You looked at him instead.

His shirt clung to him in a way that made the kitchen feel very quiet. You could see the shape of his chest beneath the wet fabric, the way his stomach tightened when he breathed, the water caught along his jaw before it slipped down his throat.

Logan’s eyes lifted to yours.

For once, he did not say anything immediately.

That was worse too.

He stood slowly, reaching for one of the towels on the counter. “That part was not supposed to happen.”

“I figured.”

“You look a little too satisfied about it.”

“I’m deciding whether I should still trust you with the sink.”

He dried his face with the towel, but his eyes stayed on you. “That what you’re deciding?”

The question was simple. The way he asked it was not.

You shifted your weight, suddenly aware of your own shirt sticking to your chest.

“Yes.”

His gaze dropped for half a second, then came back up.

“Okay,” he said, quieter. “Decide.”

The kitchen seemed smaller than it had a few minutes ago. Water dripped softly into the bucket under the sink. Your shirt clung to your skin, and his clung to him, and the space between you felt thin enough to snap.

You looked at the towel in his hand, then at his wet shirt, then at the way his fingers tightened around the fabric like he was stopping himself from reaching for something else.

“You told me you were good with your hands.”

Logan’s expression changed.

The teasing did not disappear, but it settled into something heavier.

“I did,” he said.

A second passed.

Then he stepped closer.

“Was that just about the sink?” you asked.

His eyes dropped to your mouth.

“No.”

That was all it took.

He crossed the space between you in one hard step, and then his mouth was on yours.

It was not sweet. It was not tentative. It was a wet, hungry kiss that shoved the breath out of you and made your back hit the counter before you realized he had moved you. His hands went to your waist, firm and hot through the damp fabric of your shirt, and you grabbed his shoulders because he was already kissing you like he had been thinking about it since he walked in.

Maybe before that.

His tongue slid against yours, and the sound that left you made his fingers dig into your waist.

His hands tightened on your waist. He stepped between your legs, caging you against the counter, and the feel of his body pressed to yours sent a hot, dizzy rush through you.

His shirt was cold and wet against your chest, but underneath it he was warm, solid, all hard muscle and restless hands.

He kissed you until you could barely think through it.

Then his hands slid down to your thighs.

“Up,” he said against your mouth.

You barely had time to react before he lifted you onto the counter.

The casual strength of it made your stomach flip. One second your feet were on the floor, and the next you were sitting on the cold kitchen counter with Logan between your knees, pulling you forward until your legs opened around him.

“Well damn,” you breathed before you could stop yourself.

His grin was instant.

“Already?”

“Shut up.”

He kissed you again, deeper this time, his hand spreading across your lower back as he pulled you tight against him. He did not leave space between you. Not even a little. His chest pressed to yours, his mouth stayed close, and his other hand slid along your thigh, fingers pushing beneath the hem of your shorts.

You shivered.

He felt it.

A pleased breath left him against your jaw. “Still thinking about what I said?”

“About what?”

His fingers skimmed higher.

“My hands.”

Your breath caught.

He kissed the corner of your mouth, then the line of your jaw, then the side of your neck where your pulse was making a fool of you. His arm stayed locked around your back, holding you against him as his hand slid between your legs over your shorts.

The first press of his fingers made you inhale sharply.

Logan paused just enough to look at you.

“Still okay?”

You nodded.

His eyes stayed on yours. “Say it for me.”

“Yes.”

The answer barely left your mouth before he kissed you again.

His fingers moved slowly at first, rubbing over the damp fabric, learning the shape of your reaction. You tried to keep kissing him like you were still in control of any part of this, but then he pressed harder, right where you needed him, and your mouth opened against his.

“That’s better,” he murmured.

You dug your nails into his shoulders.

“Cocky,” you managed.

He smiled against your neck. “You like it.”

“I haven’t decided.”

His fingers slid beneath the waistband of your shorts.

Your whole body tensed.

Logan’s arm tightened around your back, keeping you close as his hand dipped under your panties. His fingers found you wet and aching, and his breath left him in a rough sound that went straight through you.

“Fuck,” he said softly. “You’re soaked.”

“You sprayed me with the sink.”

He laughed under his breath, but it broke when his fingers slid through your pussy, gathering the wetness there.

“Yeah,” he said. “That’s definitely what this is.”

You would have snapped back if he had not started touching you properly.

Two fingers rubbed slow circles over your clit, and every thought you had scattered across the kitchen floor with the towels. You pressed your face into his shoulder, biting back a moan, but Logan was not having that. His hand at your back slid up beneath your shirt, palm warm on bare skin, and he pulled you closer until your breasts pressed hard against his chest.

“Don’t hide from me,” he said near your ear. “I want to hear you.”

The words made your pussy clench around nothing.

His mouth brushed your ear, his smile almost cruel. “Yeah. You liked that.”

You lifted your head and kissed him because it was easier than answering. He kissed you back immediately, tongue sliding into your mouth while his fingers kept moving between your legs. The wet sounds of his hand under your shorts were obscene in the quiet kitchen. You could hear them beneath the drip of the sink, beneath your uneven breathing, beneath the small groan he made when your thighs tightened around his hips.

He was still standing right in front of you, holding you like he wanted every inch of you pressed to him. You could feel his cock getting hard through his sweats, thick against the inside of your thigh.

The realization made heat roll through you.

Logan’s fingers slowed.

“You felt that, huh?”

You looked at him, breathless. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re sitting on the counter with my hand in your shorts.”

You hated how badly you wanted him.

You hated how much he knew it.

Then he pushed one finger inside you, and you stopped thinking about anything else.

Your head fell back, a moan slipping free before you could swallow it. Logan’s mouth moved to your throat as his finger slid deeper, curling slowly, testing what made your thighs shake. He found it too fast. A smooth curl, a press, and suddenly your hips jerked against his hand.

His laugh was soft and wicked.

“Still questioning my hands?”

“Logan.”

“That wasn’t an answer.”

He added a second finger, stretching you with slow, deliberate strokes that made your eyes flutter. His arm stayed around your back the entire time, keeping you upright against him, close enough that every breath dragged your chest against his. Your wet shirt stuck to your breasts, and when he shifted, the friction made your nipples tighten painfully.

He noticed.

His mouth moved lower, kissing over the damp fabric at your chest before his hand left your back just long enough to drag your shirt upward. You lifted your arms because there was no pretending now. The shirt came off and hit the floor with a wet slap.

Logan looked at you.

Really looked.

Your skin burned under it.

“Jesus,” he muttered.

You reached for him, suddenly needing him closer again, and he came willingly. His mouth covered yours as his free hand cupped one of your breasts, thumb dragging over your nipple while his fingers kept fucking you. You arched into him, your knees tightening around his hips.

“That’s it,” he said against your mouth. “Let me feel you.”

His thumb circled your clit while his fingers moved inside you, and the combination made pleasure build fast and hot in your stomach. You gripped the edge of the counter with one hand and his shoulder with the other, trying to hold on to something as your body started to shake.

He kissed you through it.

Messy, deep kisses that stole every sound from your mouth until he wanted them back and pulled away just enough to hear you.

“You had a lot to say a minute ago,” he murmured.

You tried to answer.

He curled his fingers again.

Your words fell apart into a moan.

Logan’s eyes darkened. “That’s what I thought.”

You were close already. Embarrassingly close. Maybe it was the teasing. Maybe it was his fingers. Maybe it was the fact that he still had one arm around you like he had no intention of letting you lean away from a single second of it.

Maybe it was all of him.

His wet shirt. His mouth. His hand. His cock hard against you. His voice in your ear, rough and smug and getting less controlled every time you moved against him.

“Come for me,” he said. “Right here.”

Your thighs trembled.

“Logan.”

“I’ve got you.”

That did it.

The words were softer than everything else, but they hit harder. Your pussy clenched around his fingers as the orgasm rolled through you, sharp and warm and dizzying. You buried your face against his neck, moaning into his skin while he kept touching you through it, slower now, drawing out every pulse until your body went loose against him.

He did not let you fall back.

He held you close, breathing hard against your hair, his fingers still buried inside you until you whimpered from how sensitive you were.

“Fuck,” he said, voice rough. “You look good like that.”

You lifted your head, still trembling.

He kissed you before you could answer.

This kiss was different. Hotter because he had lost some of his patience. His fingers slipped out of you, and you gasped at the emptiness, but then he was reaching for the waistband of your shorts.

Then your shorts and panties were being pulled down your legs, his hand gripping your thigh to lift you enough to get them off. They dropped somewhere near the towels. You barely cared. Your hands were already at his shirt, dragging the soaked fabric upward.

He helped you yank it over his head, and for a second you lost your place in the rush of it.

Because he was right there.

Wet skin, hard chest, hair damp and messy, eyes locked on you like he was trying to decide whether to kiss you again or devour you whole.

You touched him because you had to.

Your hands slid over his chest, down his stomach, feeling the flex of muscle beneath warm skin. Logan sucked in a breath when your fingers reached the waistband of his sweats.

His hand returned to your lower back instantly, catching you, pulling you upright against him again. The closeness made your head spin. Even while you fumbled with his sweats, even while he shoved them down enough for his cock to spring free, he kept you against him like he could not stand the idea of space.

Your eyes dropped.

He was hard and thick, flushed at the tip, and the sight of him made your mouth go dry.

Logan noticed.

“Still full of myself?” he asked.

You dragged your fingers along his cock, and his breath hitched.

“Maybe not full enough.”

His eyes snapped to yours.

For once, he looked like you had stolen the line right out of his mouth.

Then he laughed, low and disbelieving, and kissed you again. “You’re trouble.”

“You asked if I had a boyfriend while fixing my sink.”

“Yeah, and look how well that worked out for me.”

He reached down, wrapped his hand around his cock, and dragged the head through your pussy. The slick slide made both of you go still. Your hands gripped his shoulders. His forehead dropped to yours, and for one breath, neither of you said anything.

Then he did it again, dragging himself over your clit, down to your entrance, then back up until your hips lifted on their own.

“Logan,” you breathed.

“I know.”

“Do you?”

His eyes lifted to yours. “Yeah.”

There was something in his voice that made you ache worse than the teasing had.

He reached to the side, grabbing his sweats from where they had bunched at his thighs. You realized what he was doing when he pulled a condom from his wallet. The normalness of it should have cooled things down.

It did not.

Watching him roll it on while standing between your spread thighs made your stomach twist all over again.

Then he stepped back in, one hand sliding behind your back, the other gripping your thigh. He pulled you to the edge of the counter until your pussy brushed the head of his cock.

You inhaled sharply.

He kissed your cheek. Your jaw. The corner of your mouth.

“This still what you want?”

“Yes.”

“Say it.”

You looked at him, heat blooming in your face despite everything he had already done to you.

“I want you to fuck me.”

His eyes went dark.

“Christ.”

Then he pushed inside.

The stretch made your mouth fall open. Logan groaned, deep and rough, his arm tightening around your back as he sank into you inch by inch. You clung to him, legs locking around his waist, your body adjusting to the thick pressure of his cock filling you.

He stopped once he was fully inside, forehead pressed to yours, breathing hard.

“Fuck,” he said. “You feel so good.”

You could barely answer. He was so close, chest against yours, one hand spread wide over your back, holding you upright while his cock throbbed deep inside you. The counter was cold beneath your thighs. His skin was hot under your palms. The sink dripped behind him like the most ridiculous reminder of how this had started.

Then he moved.

Slow at first, just a pull of his hips and a deep thrust back in that made your nails dig into his shoulders. His mouth found yours, swallowing your moan. His tongue slid against yours as he started to fuck you, still holding you close enough that every thrust rocked you into his chest.

You had expected him to be good.

You had not expected this.

The closeness made it worse. Better. Impossible. He did not give you room to turn away from the feeling. His arm stayed around your back. His hips pushed between your thighs. His mouth kept coming back to yours every time you tried to breathe. It was wet and heated and messy, the kind of kissing that made you feel like he was just as gone as you were.

Your breasts brushed against his chest with every thrust, nipples dragging over damp skin until you were shivering from that alone. He gripped your thigh harder, lifting it higher around his waist, changing the angle so his cock hit deeper.

Your head tipped back.

“Oh my God.”

Logan’s mouth moved to your throat.

“There,” he said. “That’s it, isn’t it?”

You could only nod.

He did it again, and your whole body jolted.

“Words,” he murmured, breath hot against your skin.

“Yes,” you gasped. “There.”

His hips snapped forward a little harder.

Pleasure sparked bright through your body.

“Right there?”

“Logan.”

He kissed you, smiling into it for half a second before the smile disappeared into a groan. “You say my name like that again and I’m not lasting.”

You clenched around him.

His eyes squeezed shut.

“Fuck.”

You would have laughed if you had enough breath for it. Instead, you pulled his mouth back to yours and kissed him until he started moving faster.

The rhythm turned frantic without losing the closeness. He fucked you hard, but he kept you wrapped against him, one arm behind your back, one hand on your thigh, his chest pressed to yours like he needed to feel every reaction. Your hands slid into his hair, tugging when he hit that spot again, and his answering groan vibrated against your mouth.

“Keep your legs around me,” he said.

You did.

You could not imagine doing anything else.

Your heels pressed into the backs of his thighs. Your pussy took every thrust, slick and tight around his cock, the wet sound of it mixing with the harsh pull of his breathing. The counter creaked beneath you. Somewhere behind him, water dripped into the bucket.

It should have been funny.

Maybe later it would be.

Right now, all you could think about was Logan’s cock inside you and his hand moving between your bodies, his thumb finding your clit again with devastating accuracy.

Your body jerked.

He felt it and groaned.

“God, you get so tight when I touch you there.”

You made a helpless sound into his mouth.

He kissed you through it, his thumb rubbing steady circles while his hips kept moving. The pressure built again, hotter this time, deeper because he was inside you, because his cock kept dragging through you just right, because he was holding you like there was nowhere else he wanted to be.

“Next time,” he said, voice rough, “you don’t have to wait for the sink to break.”

The words went straight through you.

“There’s a next time?”

His hips slowed just enough for him to look at you.

His eyes were dark. His mouth was swollen from kissing you. His hair was damp, his chest flushed, his hand still moving between your legs like he knew exactly how close you were.

“You tell me.”

Your answer came out as a kiss.

He took it like a yes.

His hips drove forward again, and the counter dug into the backs of your thighs. You barely felt it over the pleasure gathering low in your stomach. His thumb circled your clit faster, his cock thrusting deep, and you broke away from his mouth with a moan you could not hold back.

“Logan, I’m gonna come.”

“I know.” His voice sounded wrecked. “Come on my cock. Let me feel it.”

You tried to hold his gaze, but then he shifted the angle again, deeper, harder, still pressed so close you could feel his heartbeat against your chest. The orgasm hit fast, a rush of heat and pressure that made your pussy clamp around him as your body shook in his arms.

He cursed into your neck.

“Fuck, that’s it.”

He kept moving through it, fucking you while you came, his thumb slowing only when you started to tremble from too much. You clung to him, face buried against his shoulder, every pulse of pleasure leaving tingles down your thighs, your spine, the tips of your fingers.

Logan’s rhythm faltered.

His grip on your back tightened. His mouth found yours again, rough and desperate, tongue sliding against yours as he chased his own release. You kissed him back, still clenching around him, still shaking, and that seemed to break whatever control he had left.

His hips drove in deep once, twice, then he came with a low groan, his forehead dropping to yours as his body went tense against you.

For a moment, neither of you moved.

The apartment was quiet except for breathing.

And the sink.

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

You started laughing first.

It slipped out of you, breathless and disbelieving, your forehead falling against his shoulder as the full reality of what had just happened came crashing in. Logan lifted his head, looked at the sink, then looked back at you.

“Technically,” he said, still breathing hard, “I did solve the emergency.”

You wanted to shove him. You also wanted to kiss him again, which was deeply inconvenient.

He slid out slowly, making both of you suck in a breath, then helped you down from the counter like he had any right to be sweet after what he had just done to you. Your legs were not entirely trustworthy, and Logan noticed immediately.

His hands went to your waist.

“Whoa.”

“I’m fine.”

“You sure?”

You gave him a look.

He kissed you once, quick and smug, then reached for his discarded shirt and paused when he realized it was soaked.

You glanced around the kitchen. Towels everywhere. Your shorts on the floor. His sweats low on his hips. The sink still dripping into the bucket.

Your phone buzzed on the counter.

Hannah’s name lit up the screen.

did everything survive? did you call logan?

Logan glanced at it before you could move the phone away.

“Nosy,” you muttered.

“She asked about me.”

“She asked about the sink.”

He looked past you, toward the cabinet, where the dripping had finally slowed to almost nothing.

“Same thing.”

You rolled your eyes and typed back.

yes. unfortunately.

Logan laughed under his breath. “Unfortunately?”

“You heard me.”

His smile stayed, but he let it go. For a second, neither of you moved. The kitchen was still a mess, your clothes were still on the floor, and his hoodie hung loose on your body while he stood there shirtless and damp, watching you like he already knew this was not ending here.

Then the sink gave one last quiet drip.

Logan sighed and reached for the towel.

“Give me two minutes.”

This time, you did not pretend not to watch him work.

A minute later, the dripping stopped.

He stood, glanced at the post-it on the fridge, and took the pen from the counter.

You narrowed your eyes. “Logan.”

He only smiled as he wrote beneath Hannah’s note.

good with his hands.

[daydreamfiles]

The List - Dean Di Laurentis

ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀʟɪꜱᴛ

Blurb: You and dean had rules. no dates, No sleeping over, and nothing complicated. Then he asks for one uninterrupted night and reveals he has not forgotten a single thing you trusted him enough to want.

Warnings: 18+ only, explicit sexual content, friends-with-benefits arrangement, restraints, blindfold, sex toys, edging, overstimulation, consensual filming, spitting, praise, degradation and humiliation, power dynamics, safeword and boundary discussion, aftercare, and underlying feelings neither of them wants to acknowledge.

꒰১Taglist໒꒱ @littlemissclairebiggs, @legendarychrattgirl, @chrismattnick, @andabuttonnose

Dean’s text had been short.

Come over at ten. Make sure you don’t have anywhere to be tomorrow.

You stared at it longer than you should have.

The two of you did not make plans for the morning after. That was one of the first rules you had agreed on, back when this had been simple enough to list out between kisses.

No dates. No jealousy. No sleeping over.

No feelings had gone unspoken because neither of you had been stupid enough to say it aloud.

Still, you arrived at the hockey house two minutes before ten.

The place was silent when Dean opened the door. Not merely quiet, but emptied out, as though he had removed every possible interruption before you arrived. No television downstairs, no music bleeding through the walls, no one shouting from the kitchen.

His eyes found yours, and the expression on his face made the greeting die in your throat.

Dean was usually easy to read because he wanted to be. Every grin was deliberate. Every teasing comment arrived with the expectation that you would give one back. Even when he wanted you, he made a performance out of it, stretching the anticipation until one of you finally lost patience.

Tonight, there was none of that.

He stepped aside to let you in, his gaze moving over you only once before returning to your face.

“You came.”

The words were quiet enough to sound almost like relief.

Something in your chest tightened. “You told me to.”

He closed the door behind you and stood there for a moment, his hand still wrapped around the knob. He looked like he had spent the entire evening preparing for you and had only now realized that preparation had not made him ready.

You tried to smile. “Are you going to tell me why the house looks abandoned?”

Dean did not answer immediately.

His jaw shifted before he finally said, “I didn’t want anyone here.”

The weight of it followed you upstairs.

His bedroom door was already open. At first, nothing seemed different. The bed had been made, which was unusual enough, and the lamp beside it cast a low amber glow across the room.

Then you noticed the dresser.

A blindfold. Soft restraints. The toy you had once admitted you used when you were alone. Your phone stand beside them, still folded shut.

Your breath caught.

Dean stopped behind you, close enough that you could feel the warmth of him without being touched.

“You planned this.”

“Yeah.”

“How long?”

He exhaled through his nose, and you heard the restraint in it. “Since you gave me the list.”

That had been three weeks ago.

You had slipped it into his hand after sex because giving it to him while neither of you was fully dressed had seemed easier than having a real conversation about it. You had expected him to make some obnoxious comment, maybe circle one of your answers and send it back with a joke written in the margin.

Instead, he had folded it once and put it inside his nightstand.

He had barely mentioned it since.

“You acted like you forgot about it.”

“I was trying not to scare you off.”

You turned then.

Dean stood closer than you expected, but his hands remained at his sides. His gaze moved over your face as though he was searching for the first sign that you regretted coming.

It was the hesitation that unsettled you most. Not because he seemed uncertain about what he wanted, but because he cared too much about whether you wanted it too.

“You wouldn’t scare me off,” you said.

His mouth tightened faintly. “You say that now.”

The answer carried more than the night in front of you. It held every time one of you had left before morning, every conversation you had refused to have, every moment when the arrangement had started feeling like something neither of you knew how to name.

You looked back at the dresser. “Is this why you told me not to make plans tomorrow?”

“Yes.”

“So I’m staying?”

Dean went still.

It was barely a pause, but you felt it.

“That depends on what you want.”

There it was again. The rule sitting between you, suddenly much more fragile than it had been downstairs.

You turned fully toward him. “What do you want?”

His eyes lowered to your mouth before lifting again.

“For once, I don’t want you watching the clock.”

The honesty of it struck harder than anything filthy he could have said.

Dean stepped forward, stopping when only an inch remained between you. He still did not touch you.

“I’ve spent three weeks thinking about this,” he said. “Not just what you checked yes to. Not the camera or the restraints or any of that.”

His voice dropped, roughened by something that had nothing to do with control.

“You handed me a list of everything you wanted and trusted me not to make you regret it.”

Your throat tightened.

Dean looked away for half a second, gathering himself before his attention returned to you.

“I need to know you’re still sure.”

You reached for him first, curling your fingers into the front of his shirt. The contact seemed to undo something in him. His eyes closed briefly, and when they opened again, the last of the distance between you felt unbearable.

“I’m sure.”

His hand rose to your face, but instead of grabbing your jaw or pulling you into him, he brushed his thumb across your cheek.

The tenderness of it nearly frightened you more than everything waiting on the dresser.

“We go through the list again,” he murmured. “Every limit. Every word. You tell me what you want recorded and what stays between us.”

You nodded.

“And if you change your mind at any point, you tell me.”

“I will.”

His forehead lowered against yours. For a moment, neither of you moved.

Then Dean’s hand slid around the back of your neck, his fingers tightening just enough to change your breathing.

He kissed you, and whatever restraint had kept him still until then disappeared.

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his breathing already uneven.

“Take it off.”

The command was low, but when your hands moved toward the hem of your shirt, Dean caught them before you could lift it.

His eyes stayed on yours as he pushed the fabric upward himself. You raised your arms, letting him drag it over your head before it landed somewhere behind him. His gaze dropped to your bra, lingering long enough that your skin heated beneath the attention.

Dean reached around you and opened the clasp. He did not rush as he drew the straps down your arms, watching every inch of skin revealed until the fabric slipped from your fingers.

You reached for his shirt, but he caught your wrist.

“Not yet.”

There was no smile accompanying the words. He looked too affected to tease you, too focused on taking you apart exactly the way he had imagined.

His hands moved to the button of your jeans. He opened them, then lowered himself as he pushed the denim down your legs. You stepped out one foot at a time, steadying yourself with a hand on his shoulder while he removed your shoes and socks before pulling the jeans away completely.

Only your underwear remained.

Dean stayed on his knees in front of you, his hands resting against your thighs as he looked up.

The intensity in his expression made you resist the instinct to cover yourself. His fingers hooked beneath the fabric at your hips and slowly drew it down, his mouth brushing the inside of your knee once you stepped free.

When he stood, you were completely bare while he remained fully dressed.

The imbalance made your pulse jump.

Dean guided you backward until the mattress pressed against the backs of your legs. He kissed you once, hard and brief, before urging you down onto the bed.

The soft restraints were waiting near the headboard.

He lifted one of your wrists and secured it above you, checking the space beneath the rope before fastening the other. His fingers lingered against your pulse, the touch quieter than everything else about the moment.

Then he moved to the foot of the bed.

Dean spread your legs and tied each ankle to the lower posts, leaving you open beneath him. The restraints held you firmly without biting into your skin. He checked every knot twice, running his hands along your calves and thighs afterward as though he needed to reassure himself that nothing would hurt you.

When he climbed onto the mattress again, he straddled your hips without removing his clothes.

His mouth closed around one nipple while his palm covered the other. He sucked slowly at first, then bit down just hard enough to pull a sharp breath from you. Your back lifted from the mattress, the restraints drawing taut above your head.

Dean’s hand slid between your legs.

His fingers parted you, moving through the wetness already gathered there before finding your clit. He rubbed slow circles over it while his tongue moved across your breast, drawing out every small sound until you stopped trying to contain them.

Two fingers pressed inside you.

The sudden stretch made you clench around him, and the reaction pulled a rough breath from his chest. He began moving them steadily, curling forward with each stroke while his thumb returned to your clit.

Your hips tried to follow his hand.

Dean raised his head, his mouth damp and his eyes fixed on your face.

“Already this wet.”

The words sounded more strained than pleased, as though the evidence of how much you wanted him had cut through the control he was trying to hold.

He withdrew his fingers and brought them to your mouth.

“Open.”

You obeyed, closing your lips around them and tasting yourself as Dean watched. His jaw tightened when your tongue moved over his skin.

“Good girl.”

He pulled his hand away and climbed from the bed.

Your eyes followed him as he took your phone from the dresser and secured it in the stand at the foot of the mattress. He checked the framing once, making sure neither face would appear, then started the recording.

The small red light came on.

“Everything stays on this phone,” he reminded you, his attention returning to the bed. “But I want you to hear what you sound like when you stop pretending you don’t need this.”

Dean finally removed his clothes.

He dragged his shirt over his head, then opened his jeans and pushed them down with his boxers. His cock sprang free, already hard, the tip slick as he stepped out of the rest of his clothing and returned to the bed.

He settled between your spread thighs.

His mouth moved along the inside of one leg, then the other, leaving kisses and shallow bites that darkened against your skin. He stopped just short of where you wanted him and looked up at you, watching the frustration cross your face.

Then his tongue dragged slowly from your entrance to your clit.

Your wrists pulled against the restraints.

Dean repeated the motion, flatter and firmer this time, before closing his lips around the swollen bundle of nerves. He sucked while sliding two fingers back inside you, curling them with every thrust.

Your thighs trembled against the ropes.

The pressure built quickly, your breathing turning shallow as your walls began tightening around his fingers.

Dean stopped.

His mouth lifted away. His fingers withdrew, leaving you empty and throbbing while he watched your body react to the loss.

You stared down at him in disbelief.

He pressed a kiss against your inner thigh.

The second time, he worked you more slowly. His tongue circled your clit while his fingers moved inside you, drawing the pleasure out until every muscle in your body tightened in anticipation.

Then he stopped again.

A helpless sound escaped you.

Dean blew softly over your wet skin, the cool air making you jerk against the restraints.

He did it a third time, then a fourth, learning exactly how close he could bring you before withdrawing. Sometimes he moved his mouth away. Sometimes he left his fingers inside you but held them still until the pleasure began to recede. Once, he simply watched your clit pulse while you begged him to touch you again.

“Please,” you gasped.

Dean wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Not yet.”

He reached into the nightstand and removed the small vibrator you had told him about when you filled out the list.

The sight of it made your stomach tighten.

Dean switched it on at the lowest setting and pressed it against the inside of your thigh first. The vibration travelled through your skin, close enough to torment you without giving you what you needed.

“Dean.”

His eyes lifted to yours as he moved the toy to your clit.

The sudden sensation made your back arch from the mattress. Dean pushed three fingers inside you, working them against you while holding the vibrator firmly in place.

Your orgasm rose fast, sharper after everything he had already denied you. Your body tensed, breath breaking as you reached the edge.

Dean switched the toy off.

His fingers slid out of you at the same time.

A frustrated sob left your throat.

He kissed one thigh, then the other, leaving a darker mark behind with his teeth.

“You wanted me to make you beg.”

The vibrator came back on, higher this time.

Dean pressed it to your clit while lowering his mouth to your entrance. His tongue pushed inside you, then drew back, tracing around the sensitive opening while the vibration spread through your body.

He denied you again.

Then again.

By the time he stopped for the final time, your legs were shaking against the restraints and tears had begun gathering at the corners of your eyes.

“Dean, please.” Your voice cracked around his name. “Please let me come.”

He set the vibrator beside you and climbed up your body.

Dean released one of your wrists, bringing your hand down between you. His fingers closed around yours as he wrapped them around his cock.

You stroked him while he kissed you, tasting yourself on his mouth. His hips moved into your hand despite his attempt to remain still, the control in him slipping every time your thumb passed over the head.

His fingers returned between your legs.

He pushed two inside you and moved them hard enough that wetness spread across his hand and the sheets beneath you.

“You feel how badly you need it?”

You nodded against his mouth.

Dean caught your lower lip between his teeth.

“Say it.”

“I need it.”

The answer seemed to undo something in him.

He kissed you again, rougher now, before pulling his fingers free and releasing the restraint around your other wrist. He rubbed both wrists briefly, checking the skin before securing them together again above your head.

Then he untied your ankles.

Dean turned you onto your stomach and guided your knees beneath you, lifting your hips while your chest remained pressed to the mattress. Your bound hands stayed stretched above your head.

The camera at the foot of the bed captured the position perfectly.

Dean knelt behind you and spread your knees farther apart. His palm moved over your ass, then between your legs, gathering the wetness that coated your thighs.

The head of his cock dragged through your folds.

You pushed backward instinctively.

His hand tightened around your hip.

“Look how desperate you are.”

He rubbed himself against your clit once, then again, coating his cock in your wetness before lining himself up with your entrance.

Dean pushed inside slowly.

The stretch pulled a deep moan from you as he filled you inch by inch, his hands gripping your hips until he was seated completely inside you.

He remained still for a moment.

You could feel his chest rising behind you, hear the effort in every breath as your body tightened around him.

Then he began to move.

His first strokes were long and deep, pulling almost all the way out before driving back inside. One hand stayed anchored at your hip while the other reached beneath you and found your clit.

Your moans grew louder with each thrust.

Dean watched the camera screen only once, his attention immediately returning to the way your body moved beneath him.

Every time your walls began clenching around his cock, he slowed.

Once, he stopped completely, buried deep while his fingers continued circling your clit just enough to keep you suspended. Another time, he pulled out and slapped the length of his cock against your swollen clit, making you cry out before he pushed inside again.

His hips snapped harder against you.

“You think about me every time you touch yourself, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

The answer came out broken.

Dean cursed beneath his breath.

His hand slid from your hip to your hair, wrapping around it and drawing your head back enough to arch your spine. The angle drove him deeper, every thrust dragging over the place that made your thighs shake. His fingers moved faster over your clit.

“Look at you now. Tied to my bed, begging me to let you come.”

The pleasure became almost unbearable.

Your body started tightening again, but Dean changed his rhythm before you could fall over the edge, slowing his hips while keeping himself buried inside you.

You whimpered into the sheets.

He released your hair and leaned over you, his mouth brushing your shoulder.

“Not until I’m ready.”

Dean pulled out.

Your body clenched around nothing, wetness sliding down your thighs as he untied your wrists. He brought each one to his mouth, pressing a kiss against the faint marks before helping you turn onto your back.

For a moment, he only looked at you.

His hair was disordered, his chest damp with sweat, and whatever polished confidence he usually carried had disappeared. He looked hungry, but there was something else beneath it, something almost shaken by the sight of you spread across his bed and trusting him with every private thing you had written down.

Dean moved toward the headboard and sat back against it.

He guided you onto your knees between his legs.

Your hand wrapped around his cock again, stroking him as you lowered your mouth over the head. His breath left him sharply.

Dean’s fingers threaded into your hair, not forcing you deeper, only holding on as you took more of him. You worked him with your mouth and hand together, listening to the control break in his voice every time he said your name.

He watched you the entire time.

When his hips began lifting toward your mouth, Dean caught himself and pulled you away.

His thumb wiped the wetness from your lower lip.

“Come here.”

He drew you back onto the mattress and settled between your legs again.

Dean lifted both of your wrists above your head, pinning them against the pillows with one hand while the other guided his cock to your entrance.

He pushed inside your still-sensitive body in one deep thrust.

The sound that left you made his grip tighten.

His hips moved harder now, the controlled pace from earlier gone. Every thrust drove you higher across the bed while his free hand returned to your clit.

“You wanted to come so badly.”

His forehead lowered against yours.

“Now you’re going to take it.”

The orgasm tore through you almost immediately.

Your body locked beneath him, walls pulsing around his cock while your cry filled the room. Dean did not look toward the camera. He watched your face, breathing your name against your mouth as he worked you through every wave.

He kept moving after the first tremors began to fade.

The overstimulation struck quickly, pleasure sharpening until your thighs shook around his hips. Dean’s fingers never left your clit, the circles growing faster while his thrusts stayed deep and relentless.

You tried to twist away from the intensity.

His hand held your wrists in place.

“Don’t hide from me.”

Tears slipped from the corners of your eyes.

Dean kissed them away without slowing.

The tenderness of the gesture made the second orgasm hit harder than the first. It was smaller but sharper, ripping through your already-sensitive body until your voice broke completely.

Dean stayed inside you, his breathing ragged, his forehead pressed against yours while your body continued clenching around him.

Dean stayed inside you, his breathing ragged, his forehead pressed against yours while your body continued clenching around him.

“Don’t make me fall in love with you,” he breathed, the words rough enough to sound almost like a warning.

For one suspended moment, neither of you moved. There was no joke waiting to take it back, no rule strong enough to make either of you pretend he had not said it.

Dean reached blindly toward the foot of the bed and stopped the recording before pulling you against his chest. The recording stopped, but neither of you reached for the clothes scattered across the floor or made any move to end the night.

[sophie-baek]

OFF CAMPUS 1.06 "The Breakaway"

[t00thpasteface]

nothing online is ever truly deleted. except that one fucking thing you're looking for

[godkissedme]

The thing about being mysterious is sometimes you’re just dehydrated and replying tomorrow