from an irritated "oh, fuck!" to a confident "fuck it", your entire relationship with John Logan can be mapped out in seven specific exclamations of his favorite four-letter word.
word count : 6.1k (sorry) — enemies to lovers, kind of — logan is moody — SMUT, minors DNI — Enjoy and please tell me what you think !
One — "Oh, fuck!"
The music wasn’t just loud; it was vibrating through the old floorboards and thumping directly against your ribs. You’d only been there for twenty minutes, entirely dragged along by Hannah, who was currently tucked under Garrett’s arm near the doorway. Watching them was sweet—almost nauseatingly so—but it left you feeling like a ghost drifting through a sea of oversized jerseys, loud hockey players, and the thick scent of cheap beer. For the most part, the rest of the boys were incredibly welcoming; even though you'd just met them tonight, they were already loud, inherently kind and easy to be around.
Except for John Logan.
You hadn’t actually been introduced to him yet, but you’d felt his suffocating vibe the moment he walked through the door. He looked like absolute thunder. Briar had dropped a frustrating, tight game that evening, and while Garrett was channeling his nervous energy into playing the charismatic host, Logan was wearing his irritation like armor. Leaning against the kitchen counter with a dark scowl that practically screamed at people to stay away, his knuckles were white around his glass, his eyes scanning the room as if looking for a reason to snap.
Navigating that crowded, chaotic kitchen with a brim-filled, sticky mixed drink was your first mistake. Your second was catching the rubber toe of your sneaker on the lifting edge of a rogue anti-fatigue mat near the sink.
You stumbled forward, your arms flailing wildly in a desperate, ungraceful bid for balance. You didn’t fall, but your cup did a violent, mid-air flip, slipping from your fingers. A torrential wave of sticky, dark rum and cola splashed directly across the pristine gray fabric of Logan’s Henley shirt, soaking through the chest, darkening the material instantly and dripping down the front of his dark jeans.
Logan froze. His head snapped down slowly, looking at the huge, dark stain spreading across his clothes, and then his gaze lifted to yours. His eyes were blazing, a dangerous brown, entirely unamused and dripping with venom. "Oh, fuck!" he snapped, his voice cutting right through the ambient noise like a knife. He pulled the wet, heavy fabric away from his skin with two fingers, a look of pure annoyance twisting his features. "Are you serious right now? Watch where the hell you're going."
The sheer aggression in his tone caught you completely off guard, instantly sparking your own deeply ingrained, stubborn nature. You had been about to apologize profusely, the words of remorse already forming on your tongue, but the bite in his words choked them right out of your throat. You squared your shoulders, refusing to back down under his glare. "It was an accident," you retorted, pulling a few crumpled, napkins from the counter and shoving them toward his chest. "You don't have to be a complete dick about it. It’s just a shirt, I'm pretty sure you'll survive."
"It's a wet, sticky shirt at the end of a terrible, exhausting fucking day," he growled, his voice dropping an octave as he batted your hand away with a harsh flick of his wrist. He didn't take the napkins; they fluttered uselessly to the floor. Instead, he leaned down slightly, giving you a long, icy glare that made you feel about two inches tall, his jaw clenching so hard you could see the muscle tick. "Next time, look up from your feet." Without waiting for a response, he turned on his heel and storming down the hallway toward the stairs, muttering curses under his breath.
You stood there rooted to the spot, your cheeks burning with a toxic mixture of intense embarrassment and sudden, deep-seated dislike. Garrett materialized at your side a split second later, a sympathetic, slightly apologetic grimace on his face as he patted your shoulder gently. "Hey, don't sweat it," Garrett reassured you quietly, glancing warily toward the stairs where Logan had disappeared. "Logan’s just in a brutal mood because of the game, and he hates losing more than anyone. He's usually a great guy, I swear. He’ll have forgotten all about it by tomorrow morning."
You forced a tight, fake smile and nodded, but as you looked down at your empty, sticky hands, a bitter taste lingered in your mouth. Spoiler alert: he wouldn't forget. and neither would you.
Two — "Fuck you"
A few weeks later, the initial friction hadn’t dissolved; it had hardened into a permanent, icy chill. You tried your best to play nice for the sake of Hannah and Allie, but Logan made it incredibly difficult. You saw how he was with the rest of their circle—fiercely loyal, easygoing, and warm. He was the kind of guy who quietly made sure Allie and Hannah got home safe from their late shifts and spent his free afternoons helping Jules with media stuff. He was patient with the entire world. But the exact millisecond you walked into a room, his posture stiffened and his jaw set. You hated being the sole exception to his good nature, so you simply stayed out of his way.
The breaking point came on a gray, rainy Tuesday afternoon. You and Hannah had walked over to the hockey house to help Tucker untangle a massive, soul-crushing history assignment he was drowning in. The three of you were spread across the dining table, surrounded by a chaotic mess of highlighters, laptop cords, and heavy library textbooks.
The back door clicked open, and Logan walked in. He was wearing his Briar athletic gear, a damp towel slung over his shoulders from a post-practice shower, his hair messy and wet. He looked exhausted, his shoulders tense, carrying the unmistakable hangover of a brutal morning practice. Instead of walking past to the kitchen, he paused by the table, leaning over Tucker’s shoulder to scan the open pages. He let out a heavy, deliberate sigh. "You’re using the wrong primary sources for that era, Tuck," Logan said, his voice dropping into that effortless, uninvited authority. "You need the economic logs from the eastern front, not these political manifestos. You’re going to tank your thesis statement with those."
Tucker blinked up, looking miserable. "Wait, really? I thought—"
"We checked those, Logan," you interrupted, keeping your voice level and calm as you kept your eyes on your notebook. "We've got it handled," you smiled, trying to remain polite.
Logan didn't move. His eyes slid slowly down to the side of your face, unamused. "Right. Because you're an expert on 20th-century economic trade?"
"No," you said, your pen pausing on the page. "But I can read a syllabus. If you're so worried about Tucker's academic results, you could have sat down and helped him yourself already."
Logan’s jaw tightened, a sharp spike of tension instantly replacing his usual easygoing demeanor. He took his hands out of his pockets and leaned forward, bracing his palms on the edge of the table, firmly invading your space. Tucker shot Hannah a wide-eyed, panicked look across the textbooks, both of them suddenly bracing for impact.
"I gave him my old notes weeks ago," Logan shot back, his voice dropping into something smaller, tighter. "But sure, ignore the guy who actually passed the class because you're too stubborn to take a note from me."
"I'm not being stubborn, you're just being a patronizing prick," you retorted, leaning back in your chair. "You’ve been hovering over this table for five minutes just looking for a problem because you had a bad day and want to take it out on someone."
Logan let out a harsh, dry laugh, though there was a flicker of genuine frustration in his eyes—the look of a good guy who couldn't understand why he kept letting you bait him. "Take it out on someone? Trust me, if I wanted to take anything out on someone, I wouldn't waste my time on you. I'm trying to keep my friend from bombing a midterm because he made the mistake of letting you organize his thoughts."
"My thoughts are perfectly fine, Logan," Tucker muttered quietly under his breath, his eyes glued to his laptop screen, desperately trying to dissolve into the background.
"They're fine when you're left alone, Tuck," Logan said, keeping his eyes locked onto yours, completely ignoring his teammate's plea. "Not when you're letting someone drag their own contrarian agenda into your coursework."
"A contrarian agenda?" You stood up, your chair scraping loudly against the hardwood floor. Hannah flinched at the sharp noise, withdrawing her hands from the table and motioning for Tucker to leave the potential future crime scene. They both complied quickly, knowing you both well enough to understand that trying to reason with you in that moment would be pointless. "Are you actually insane? I'm sorry that anyone else having a brain in this house threatens your need to micromanage every single thing that happens under this roof."
"It doesn't threaten me at all," Logan said, standing up straight and towering over you, using his height to crowd your space until his shadow completely blocked out the light from the window. The sheer, uncharacteristic anger rolling off him was suffocating; Tucker actually slid his chair back a few inches, completely done with trying to intervene at this point. "It annoys me. You annoy me, actually. I'm not going to walk on eggshells in my own dining room because you can't handle a basic correction."
"I can handle a correction if it's respectful," you shot back, your heart hammering against your ribs, but you refused to take a step away from him. "You don't want to help Tucker. You just want to feel like the smartest guy in the room and that is annoying."
"I dont—," Logan started, a nervous scoff escaping his lips. "You don't know anything about me. Please let's keep it this way, since you clearly can't stand me anyway."
"You're the one who treats me like an absolute inconvenience the second I breathe in your direction!" you yelled, the weeks of being ignored, brushed off, and glared at finally boiling over into raw, unadulterated anger. "If you hate me being here so much, just say it. But stop acting like I'm the one bringing the venom into this house when you're the one dripping it."
The air between you turned completely volatile, thick enough to choke on. A strange, angry electricity snapped between you, the argument completely detached from history or homework now, exposed and raw. Logan stared down at you, his breathing heavy and uneven as he tried to swallow down the sheer frustration rolling off him in waves. He leaned down slightly, bringing his face inches from yours, his jaw clenching so hard a muscle violently ticked in his cheek.
"Fuck you," he whispered.
The words hit with a cold, deliberate weight that vibrated in the dead-silent room. Before you could fire back, Tucker's voice boomed from the kitchen archway, stern and completely done with both of you. "Enough! Both of you, cut it the hell out."
But the damage was done. The look in Logan's eyes made something tight and painful twist in your chest. You refused to sit there and breathe the same air as him for another second. Blindly turning around, you grabbed your laptop and notebook, shoving them into your backpack with rigid, uncooperative hands.
"I'm leaving," you muttered, keeping your eyes glued firmly to the floor as you pushed past Hannah’s reaching hand on the way out. You grabbed your jacket from the hook and left through the front door, slamming it hard enough to rattle the frame, stepping out into the pouring, cold rain with the echo of his voice looping in your head like a curse.
Three — "Fuck off"
For the next month, you became an absolute expert at avoiding John Logan. You turned it into an art form. If he was at a crowded house party, you stayed firmly in the kitchen or on the opposite porch. If the entire group gathered at Malone's, you ensured you sat on the exact opposite end of the long table, hidden behind Dean's loud gestures.
Because of this, you never saw the way his eyes silently followed you when you entered a room, or the almost guilty look that crossed his face whenever your name came up in conversation. He knew he'd crossed a line by cursing at you like that—but your unbreakable silence gave him absolutely no room to apologize, and his own stubborn pride kept him from forcing the issue.
There were small signs of his guilt, though. One random Thursday afternoon, he showed up at the place you shared with Hannah and Allie, claiming he was just dropping off a spare hockey hoodie Garrett had left in his truck. You had stayed in your room with the door cracked just an inch, watching through the tiny gap as he lingered by the entrance, his eyes constantly drifting toward your door, silently checking to see if you'd come out. You hadn't moved an inch, holding your breath until he finally left.
Eventually, Hannah and Allie staged a full-blown intervention. A brand-new club had opened downtown, and they absolutely refused to let you stay home and rot in your room, even though they openly admitted the boys were all coming along. You finally relented, numbing your spiking anxiety by pouring yourself two heavy pre-game vodka crans before leaving the house.
The club was a massive sensory overload—flashing neon lights, artificial fog, and heavy, chest-thumping bass that made communication impossible. By midnight, everyone was comfortably, heavily drunk. You were leaning your back against the sticky mahogany bar, sipping a gin and tonic, when you finally caught sight of him through the pulsing crowd.
Logan was laughing at something Beau said, a dark red bandana tied tightly around his messy hair, looking effortlessly, devastatingly handsome in a black fitted t-shirt. As if sensing the weight of your gaze, his head turned. His dark eyes locked directly onto yours across the smoky crowded room. He didn’t look away. He held your stare for a second, then two, then three — a strange, intense, unreadable heat settling over his features before a group of dancers blocked your view.
A few minutes later, a guy from one of the campus fraternities slithered up next to you on the edge of the dance floor. He was loud, sweaty, and smelled entirely too much like cheap cologne and whiskey — but a little bit of dancing could help taking your mind off of a certain hockey player, you thought. You enjoyed it at first, moving along, focusing on the music, the stranger getting closer and closer as the playlist progressed. But then, just as you started to feel good - just the right amount of alcohol in your veins to feel lighter and relaxed - he tried to grind his hips against yours. You tried to step back, laughing it off politely at first, pushing his hands away, but he didn't take the hint. His hands came down on your waist, his fingers digging into your hips, pulling you flush against him with a grip that was far too tight and aggressive.
Before you could even raise your hands to shove his chest, a massive shadow loomed over both of you.
A now familiar hand gripped the frat guy’s shoulder, spinning him around with enough force to make his sneakers squeak on the floor.
"Fuck off," Logan snarled, his voice a low, lethal vibration that cut right through the heavy bass of the music. He leaned in until he was nose-to-nose with the guy. "Get your fucking hands off her and fuck off right now."
The guy looked at Logan and wisely raised his hands in surrender, backing away rapidly into the foggy crowd without throwing a single punch.
Logan’s breathing was heavy, his chest heaving, his fists still clenched tightly at his sides as his eyes scanned the immediate area like a wild animal looking for another threat. He looked ready to tear the entire club apart with his bare hands. Anxious that he might actually chase the guy down for a fight, you stepped directly into his line of sight, capturing his attention.
"Logan," you breathed, your voice soft and entirely stripped of its usual sarcasm. Without thinking about the consequences, you reached out, your bare fingers wrapping around his forearm.
The exact millisecond your skin met the warm, rock-hard muscle of his arm, Logan froze entirely. It was the first time the two of you had ever willingly, gently touched, and the effect was instantaneous. The blinding anger seemed to drain out of him in a single breath, replaced by a sudden, sharp intake of air. He looked down at your small hand resting on his arm, his skin tingling where you touched him, and then he slowly, deliberately lifted his gaze to your eyes.
The noisy club, the flashing strobe lights, the roaring bass, the alcohol—it all faded into irrelevant background noise. You stood face-to-face on the crowded dance floor, completely motionless, just looking into each other's eyes. Your heart was hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs, not from fear of the frat guy, but from a sudden, dizzying, terrifying realization. Looking into his wide, intensely focused eyes, you realized you didn't hate him. Not even close. And from the soft, almost vulnerable parting of his lips, he didn't hate you either. You weren't close to being friends yet, but the ice had officially shattered into a million pieces.
Four — "What the fuck"
The shift between you was subtle, but it was absolutely undeniable. The sharp hostility was gone, completely replaced by a quiet, lingering, heavy awareness that neither of you knew quite what to do with.
A week later, you were sitting in a sunlit corner booth at Malone’s. You were completely, entirely absorbed in a brutal, multi-chapter study session for your finals, a pair of heavy over-ear headphones clamped securely over your ears. The sweet, nostalgic melody of American Pie was playing through the speakers, and without even realizing it, you were softly humming along to the chorus, tapping the cap of your yellow highlighter rhythmically against the open pages of your textbook.
You were so deeply focused on your notes that you didn't hear the diner's front door chime, nor did you see Logan walk in. He was there to finalize the last-minute details for the upcoming Hockey Fundraiser with Hannah and Della. But the exact moment his eyes scanned the room and spotted you sitting alone in the corner booth, he stopped dead in his tracks.
He didn’t approach right away. He just stood near the counter, watching you. A soft, genuine smile tugged at the corners of his mouth as he listened to your faint, slightly off-key humming.
Prickled by the sudden, distinct sensation of eyes on you, you blinked and lifted your head from your textbook. Logan instantly wiped the smile from his face, clearing his throat roughly and pretending to read a missing cat flyer on the bulletin board.
You pulled your headphones down, a small smirk playing on your lips. "You know, if you stare any harder, you're going to burn a hole right through my skull, Logan."
Instead of snapping back with a sarcastic, biting retort like he used to, Logan let out a soft chuckle. He walked over to your booth and, to your surprise, slid into the bench by your side, his knee almost touching yours.
"Just making sure you weren't torturing the rest of the innocent customers with your singing," he teased gently, his shoulder brushing against yours in the tight space.
You rolled your eyes, but there was no spite left in your expression. "I happen to have the voice of a literal angel, thank you very much. You're just jealous."
The playful banter slowly subsided into a comfortable silence. Logan looked at you, his expression turning a little more serious, his eyes softening as his voice dropped to a much quieter register. "Hey… are you doing okay?" Since what happened the other night, obviously implied by the way he looked at you right now, concern written all over his face.
You felt a warm flush creep up your neck and settle into your cheeks. "I'm okay, thank you" you smiled and he nodded, both silently agreeing not to discuss this unpleasant event anymore. You paused, looking down at his large hands resting on the table before forcing yourself to look back up. "How are you doing ? With the fundraiser and everything, I mean. You look like you haven't slept in a week."
He seemed genuinely surprised that you were asking about him. Really, truly asking. He leaned back against the vinyl booth, a soft sigh escaping his lips as he completely opened up to you. He talked about the immense stress of managing the team's high expectations, his constant worries about Jules’ upcoming exams, and the suffocating pressure of the NHL scouts attending the next three games. You listened intently, never interrupting, offering gentle encouragement and a few dry, sarcastic jokes that had him laughing quietly into his palms. For a full hour, the two most stubborn, argumentative people at Briar University just… talked.
"Well," you finally said, checking the diner clock and reluctantly packing your laptop into your bag. "I have to get to my shift at the library. Don't let Della bully you into paying extra for the tableware."
"I won't," Logan said, his eyes tracking your every movement, lingering on your face. "See you around?"
"See you around." You gave him a small, genuine smile—the first real one he'd ever received from you—and walked out into the crisp afternoon air, your heart feeling lighter than it had in weeks.
Inside the booth, Logan sat completely still for a long, agonizing moment. He watched your retreating figure through the glass window until you turned the corner and disappeared from view. Slowly, he let out a shaky exhale, burying his face entirely in his hands. He rubbed his palms over his eyes, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs.
"What the fuck," he whispered into the empty diner booth, his voice laced with a mixture of absolute awe and sheer, unadulterated panic. He was screwed. He was completely, utterly, hopelessly screwed, and he knew there was no turning back.
Five — "Well, fuck"
The night of the Briar Hockey Fundraiser at Malone’s was a chaotic, high-energy, glittering success. The entire diner had been completely transformed for the evening—the regular tables had been pushed to the far perimeter to create a makeshift dance floor, strings of warm fairy lights hung across the ceiling, and a massive turnout of wealthy alumni, boosters, and students kept the bar utterly slammed.
You had dressed up significantly for the occasion, wearing a form-fitting, emerald green silk dress that Allie let you borrow from her closet - of course. You spent the first half of the night talking to Hannah near the punch bowl, but your eyes kept unconsciously tracking a certain someone across the room.
Logan was entirely in his element—charming the older donors, laughing easily with his teammates, and looking entirely too edible for your own good.
Around midnight, the formal event finally dissolved into a proper, rowdy college party. The DJ cranked up a heavy, slow, rhythmic pop song, the bass echoing through the floor, and the dance floor filled up with couples. You were navigating the edge of the sweaty crowd, trying to find Allie when a sudden, firm, yet gentle pull on your wrist guided you backward.
You spun around on your heels, your chest bumping right into Logan’s broad torso. "You've been actively dodging me all night," he murmured, his deep voice vibrating right against your skin as his large hand settled naturally around yours. The casual, unhesitating intimacy of the gesture sent a fierce, blinding jolt of electricity straight down your spine.
"I wasn't dodging you, I was letting you do your official host duties," you shot back, a wicked, playful smile spreading across your lips. The alcohol gave you a surge of confidence, and you looped your arms slowly around his neck, stepping closer into his personal space until there was absolutely no air left between you. "Besides, I didn't think you could actually handle me dancing with you."
Logan’s dark eyes lit up instantly, a dangerous, competitive challenge flaring in his pupils. He pulled you a fraction of an inch closer. "Oh, really? Try me, sweetheart."
You didn't hesitate. As the heavy beat of the music dropped, you shifted your weight, rolling your hips slowly, deliberately, and sinfully against his. You leaned in close, your lips brushing the warm shell of his ear as you whispered, "You're all talk, John Logan. Let's see if you can actually keep up with me."
You pulled back just enough to look at him, your hands sliding down his chest to grip the crisp fabric of his shirt, tugging him rhythmically, tightly against your body. The friction was immediate, heavy, and intoxicating. Logan’s breath hitched audibly in his throat. A dark, intense flush crept up his neck, coloring his sharp cheekbones as his hands settled on your waist, his fingers digging firmly into your skin through the thin fabric of your dress. He swallowed hard, his eyes dropping helplessly to your parted lips, entirely overwhelmed and undone by the sudden confidence of your movements. He could feel exactly how much you were affecting him, his body reacting instantly to the touch of your hips.
A breathless, desperate laugh escaped him. He jerked his head back for a split second, fighting a losing battle for self-control. "Well, fuck," he muttered, his voice raw, completely devoid of its usual composure.
"Did I break the big, tough hockey player already?" you cooed, tilting your chin up tauntingly, your noses almost touching as you continued to sway against him.
"You wish," he groaned, his thumbs stroking the bare skin of your lower back where your dress dipped low. He didn't pull away. Instead, he pulled you even tighter against his lower body, matching your sinful rhythm perfectly, his dark eyes locked onto yours with a burning intensity that made it very clear the playful teasing was rapidly turning into something much more dangerous and inevitable. When the night finally forced you apart, it didn't feel like a goodbye — it was a promise.
Six — "Fuck"
Some things are bound to reach a breaking point, and the agonizing tension building between you for months was no exception. Three nights later, Briar won a massive game and the ensuing after-party at the boys' house was pure chaotic madness. The house was packed to maximum capacity, a sweaty, pulsing mass of drunken celebration, loud music, and screaming students.
But you and Logan weren't paying any attention to the party. For the past two hours, you had been moving around the house like two high-powered magnets — constantly drawing closer, stealing long, heated glances across the crowded rooms, the unspoken, heavy weight of the fundraiser hanging between you.
Seeking a brief moment of quiet to cool down your flushed skin, you headed down the dark back hallway toward the upstairs bathroom. Just as you reached out for the brass doorknob, the door swung open from the inside.
Logan stepped out.
You nearly crashed straight into his chest, cutting your breath short as you ground to a halt mere inches from him. The hallway was swallowed by shadows, save for the frantic strobe lights bleeding in from the living room. Logan stared down at you, wide-eyed, his chest rising and falling in sync with the thick, suffocating heat pulsing through the house.
Neither of you said a single word. The months of toxic banter, the vicious, screaming arguments, the desperate avoidance, and the agonizing teasing all converged into a single, breathless, breaking second.
Logan reached out with lightning speed, his large hand wrapping around your waist, and shoved you backward into the bathroom, slamming the heavy wooden door shut behind you and twisting the lock with a sharp, echoing click.
Before the sound of the lock could even fade, his mouth crashed onto yours.
It was an absolute explosion. The kiss was passionate, borderline feral, a violent release of pure, pent-up, crazy frustration. You let out a muffled gasp against his lips, your hands flying up to rip into his dark hair, pulling him down toward you out of sheer desperation. He groaned deep in his throat, a sound of pure hunger, pinning your body flat against the heavy wooden door, his thick thighs crowding tightly between yours. His hands were absolutely everywhere—clutching your face, tracing the line of your throat, gripping your hips with a bruising, desperate force that felt incredibly, entirely right.
"Logan," you whimpered against his mouth as he tore his lips away to kiss your jawline, your neck - his hands sliding down to frantically bunch up the silk fabric of your dress.
With a sudden burst of strengh, he hooked his large hands under your thighs and lifted you effortlessly into the air. You wrapped your legs tightly around his waist as he deposited you onto the cold marble edge of the bathroom sink counter. He didn't waste a single second. His hands slid all the way up the bare, warm skin of your thighs, finding the edge of your underwear. His fingers quickly found your slick, burning, over-sensitized core, rubbing against you through the damp fabric with a rhythm that made your head tilt back and earned a large grin from him.
You arched your back off the counter, a loud sob escaping your lips, your fingers digging deep into his shoulders.
"You like that?" Logan growled against your neck, his voice dripping with lust. His fingers moved faster, driving you up a steep, agonizing cliff. "Tell me you want it."
"Logan," you breathed out, "please," you cried out, your head tossing back against the large bathroom mirror. Your hands flew down to his waist, frantically, blindly fumbling with the button of his jeans. You shoved the denim down his hips until his length snapped free—thick, heavy, and pulsing with heat. The moment your fingers wrapped tightly around him, moving in a fast, desperate stroke, Logan’s eyes rolled back.
His jaw clenched so hard a muscle ticked violently in his neck. He couldn't endure the exquisite torture for long, his quiet moans matching your own, before his large hand clamped over yours, freezing your movement. "Stop, stop," he panted, his chest wild, his forehead pressing against yours. "I'm going to come right now if you keep doing that. I need to feel you, right now."
With trembling, frantic hands, he reached into the small drawer next to the sink—Dean’s emergency stash—and ripped open a foil condom wrapper, spitting the plastic away and rolling it onto himself in one fluid, desperate motion.
Then he stepped back between your open thighs. His hands gripped your hips with an iron hold, dragging you to the very edge of the marble counter. He aligned himself against you, waiting just long enough for your frantic nod of approval. With one heavy, unyielding, possessive thrust, he buried himself completely inside you.
The sheer, overwhelming pleasure of that sudden fullness hit you both at once, fracturing the quiet of the bathroom with a sharp, mutual gasp. Instead of slowing down, the friction only stoked the fire, drawing a long, ragged, shattered exhale from deep in Logan's chest. His pupils were completely dilated, dark and wild with pure lust as his forehead dropped heavily against your shoulder.
"Fuck," he groaned into the crook of your neck, his voice a raw, visceral prayer vibrating against your collarbone.
His hands tightened on your hips, his fingers digging into your skin like an anchor as he immediately established a rhythm. The restraint dissolved into pure instinct. He pulled you flush against him, his thrusts becoming powerful, deep, and utterly relentless from the very start. Every heavy drive forced a breathless cry from your lips, the sound echoing off the tiled walls. You rocked together on the cold edge of the marble sink, your bodies generating a feverish heat that defied the chilly stone beneath you.
The bass from the after-party still thudded through the floorboards, a distant, muffled reminder of the chaotic world outside, but within the locked walls of the bathroom, that world was entirely forgotten. There was only the slick, friction-heavy slide of skin against skin, the frantic tangle of your fingers in his hair, and the hot, primal rhythm consuming you both.
The friction was dizzying, driving you both toward a precipice that neither of you could fight anymore. Logan’s pace turned frantic, his breath coming in harsh, ragged stabs against your ear as his hips slammed against yours with an undoing, desperate urgency. Every stroke sent a white-hot wave of pleasure straight to your core, tightening the coil inside you until it was agonizing.
You choked out a breathless, broken sound, your hands clamping onto his biceps as your head thrashed back against the mirror once more.
He didn't need words to know you were right there. He buried his face in your hair, his teeth grazing your shoulder as he delivered three more devastatingly deep, relentless thrusts.
That was the final breaking point. Your walls clamped down around him tight and pulsing, fracturing your breath into a loud, ruined cry as your entire body shattered into a blinding, head-to-toe release.
Hearing you break completely ruined him. Logan let out a guttural, unhinged groan that vibrated deep in his chest. His jaw locked, his body rigid and trembling as he gave one last, deeply possessive shove, throwing his weight into you as he came violently inside the condom. He held himself deep within you, his hips shuddering against yours as he rode out the waves of his own release, the two of you panting heavily in the quiet aftermath, entirely spent.
Seven — "Fuck it"
Roughly thirty minutes later, the two of you finally emerged from the bathroom. You had tried your absolute best to fix your chaotic appearance in the mirror—re-applying a bit of smudge-proof lip gloss, smoothing down the wrinkled fabric of your dress, and trying to tame your wildly tangled hair with your fingers—but the physical evidence of what had just occurred was written all over your faces. Your skin was flushed a deep unmistakable pink, your lips were incredibly swollen and red, and Logan was walking with a loose, stupidly contented, proud stride, his hair completely disheveled and sticking up in directions where your fingers had repeatedly torn through it.
The exact moment you stepped back onto the floor of the crowded living room, a loud, piercing whistle cut through the air.
Dean was leaning against the back of the sofa, a beer dangling from his fingers and a knowing smirk plastered across his face. His eyes darted from you to Logan, zeroing in instantly on the faint trace of your lip gloss smeared along Logan’s jawline.
"Well, well, well," he said, loud enough to be heard over the music. "Must have been a pretty intense plumbing emergency in there. Either that, or you two just went ten rounds with a blender. You might want to wipe your face, Logan."
Your cheeks instantly burned. You took a step back. "Dean, shut up, we were just—"
But Logan didn't let you finish the lie. He looked down at you, catching the slight panic in your eyes, and then looked over at Dean, who was practically vibrating with smug satisfaction.
Instead of getting defensive, Logan just let out a short, quiet laugh. The stubbornness, the secrecy, the remnants of your old feud—it all suddenly felt completely irrelevant. He was tired of hiding it.
"You know what? Fuck it," Logan muttered.
Before you could process the words, his hand slid around the back of your neck, his thumb resting against your jaw as he pulled you flush against his chest. Right there by the sofa, he leaned down and kissed you.
Dean threw his arms up in a dramatic, sweeping gesture. "About damn fucking time! Graham, you owe me twenty bucks!"
When Logan finally pulled back, his eyes were bright, a relaxed, genuinely happy smile playing on his lips as his thumb brushed your cheek. You looked up at him, the noise of the party fading into the background, finally realizing that the long, argumentative journey of seven dirty words had brought you exactly where you were supposed to be.
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
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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! 🤍
Pairing: Dean Di Laurentis x coach's goddaugther!reader
⟡ Main Index | ⟡ Archive for Earth-66
a/n: Thank you so much for all the love shown to my first Dean fic! Here’s a little extra so you guys can see what my blog has to offer. I’ve created the masterlist and more is coming (not only smut but I need to get through the horniness first).
Summary: You were always off-limits. The coach’s goddaughter, the team’s PR girl and the one woman Dean couldn’t have...but the thing about limits was that it was still a line to skate over.
Classification: Smut +18 | voyeurism/exhibitionism, detailed mutual masturbation, forbidden romance, risk of getting caught / secret relationship tension (coach’s goddaughter + player dynamic) and pining
Word count: 5,2k
Divider by me ;)
You were the embodiment of ‘off limits’.
A PR and communications student assigned to the hockey team to learn the ropes, glued to a camera, phone or a laptop half the time, always lingering somewhere between the locker room and the rink with that little furrow between your brows whenever the boys gave you trouble.
And worse, you were the coach’s goddaughter, practically raised by the man and threaded into Briar hockey long before Dean had ever pulled on the jersey.
You attended Sunday dinners at his house and there probably were childhood photos stacked in dusty albums somewhere in his office. Those were years of trust Dean had absolutely no business threatening.
Off. limits.
Dean repeated it to himself constantly over the last year, as if repetition alone could beat the impulse out of him. He did so in empty equipment rooms when you brushed past him carrying stacks of media packets, in hotel lobbies during away games when you sat cross-legged on a couch editing footage at two in the morning while the rest of the team got drunk upstairs and during practices when he’d glance toward the bleachers and immediately regret it the second he spotted you there, bundled in team colors, chewing absently on the cap of a pen while watching the ice with sharp, attentive eyes.
It wasn’t harmless anymore and that was the problem.
At first he’d told himself it was mere attraction…temporary and easy to bury, but months kept passing and somehow every woman he brought home blurred together because none of them were you, none of them looked at him with restrained annoyance whenever he pushed too far and none of them straightened his collar before interviews with distracted but perfectionist little tugs of your fingers.
Hell, he couldn’t even get it up anymore and the few times he tried sleeping with someone else ended badly enough to bruise his ego.
You hadn’t even touched him yet and somehow you’d ruined him completely.
You hadn’t shown up to practice that afternoon, choosing instead to camp out in your godfather’s office to finish assignments, legs curled beneath you on the couch while the muffled sound of pucks slamming against boards echoed through the walls. By the time practice ended, you’d gathered your folder and headed out to finish your actual responsibilities before the boys disappeared for the night.
You caught Garrett first on the way toward the showers, then Logan and Tucker, who exchanged immediate shit-eating grins before inevitably dragging Dean into it. Completely wrecking your original plan of quietly emailing him the document later and pretending not to care when he probably ignored it for three whole days.
The hallway outside the locker room had mostly emptied by the time he appeared.
Dean strode toward you lazily, sweaty hair sticking slightly to his forehead, gear half removed, skates still carving heavy sounds against the rubber flooring. The second he noticed how empty the corridor was, his mouth tilted upward slowly, something pleased and dangerous settling into his expression.
“Did you need me, Hawkeye?” he asked as that grin widened once he stopped directly in front of you…far too close.
Only then did you realize your mistake, standing near the wall like an idiot, leaving nowhere to go once his frame crowded the space. He towered over you already and the skates only made it unfair. Heat rolled off him fresh from practice, sharp cologne mixing with sweat and cold air from the rink.
“You need to stop calling me that,” you said flatly, immediately looking anywhere but directly at him.
Dean’s eyes fixed on your face with infuriating patience. “Why?” he asked lightly. “Thought your whole job was noticing everything.”
You finally looked at him then, holding his stare in what you hoped translated to ‘behave yourself for once’.
His expression barely changed but something darker flickered behind his eyes anyway.
A quiet sigh left him. “What’d you need me for?” he asked softer this time, voice dropping into that maddening tone he reserved only for you. Gentle and careful, like he was handling something delicate instead of actively making your life harder.
It only got worse when he stepped closer.
Instinctively, you stepped back. Your shoulders nearly hit the wall, breath catching painfully in your lungs at the sudden lack of space. You straightened afterward, forcing your posture taller like it would somehow help. It obviously didn’t because Dean was already bigger than you, even more when he was standing there in skates, looking down at you like he had all the time in the world.
“You need to approve the questions for the next team interview,” you told him, pulling a printed sheet from the folder you carried.
Dean glanced down at the paper briefly but made no effort to take it. His eyes found yours again, gaze lazy and unwavering. “I don’t need to,” he said. “You wrote them.”
“It’s protocol.” You insistently lifted the page higher between you both.
“It’s you,” he replied, like that alone justified everything.
Your expression flattened. “So if someone asks you ‘how many strokes it takes you to nut’ mid-interview, you’re just gonna roll with it?”
A grin spread slowly across his face, brow lifting. “Depends.” He mirrored your earlier shrug casually, though his attention never once left your face. “Will you be the one asking me the question?”
You glanced down the hallway again before answering. “I won’t be there.”
“Then no,” he decided immediately.
“It would still be bad,” you stressed, pushing the page against the center of his chest. The paper bent slightly over the hard padding beneath his gear. “My entire job is making sure things like that don’t happen. Read them and approve at least three.”
Dean looked down at your hand where it rested against him but his own still didn’t move.
“I’m a hockey player,” he reminded you solemnly. “Reading’s already asking a lot from me.”
“Email me your pick.” You pressed the page harder against his chest when he still refused to take it, annoyance sharpening your movements enough to wrinkle the paper more under your palm.
“Can’t,” he replied easily. “She’s standing right in front of me.”
“Of the questions,” you clarified firmly which finally earned a quiet laugh from him.
Dean took the page at last, fingers dragging against yours for a second too long before pulling away. It was entirely intentional, you knew that much from the way his mouth twitched afterward.
“Then I’ll text you.”
“You’ll send your answers to my school email,” you corrected quickly. “Texting is unprofessional and it’ll get you blocked.”
You conveniently left out the real issue, which was that the two of you absolutely should not be texting each other in the first place because every interaction already lingered too long and every conversation slipped somewhere dangerous eventually.
Dean studied you for a moment, his expression soft and voice quieter underneath the teasing. “You’ve been avoiding me.”
You nodded once because denying it would’ve been pointless. “I’ve been busy.”
His head tilted slightly, lips pressed in a tight line. “With what?”
“Avoiding you.” The smile that pulled at your mouth betrayed how true the answer was. “The world doesn’t revolve around you,” you continued. “If I get one bad grade, I lose this job and you are the epitome of a distraction.” You paused, letting the silence stretch as you waited for his answer. “Epitome means–”
“I know what it means,” he cut in, grinning wider now. “Your godfather’s not gonna fire you.”
“No,” you corrected, poking a finger into his chest. The impact hurt you far more than him against all that equipment. “Your coach will. Then he’ll give me some speech about loving me and wanting what’s best for my future, which honestly makes it worse because he’ll be right.”
Something changed in Dean’s face as the grin began fading. “I missed you,” he admitted quietly, the words slipping out before he could stop them.
You saw it happen in real time too, the brief regret flashing behind his eyes after saying it aloud but it was already there now, hanging heavily between you both.
“We’re already stuck doing this…” He gestured vaguely between your bodies, frustration roughening his voice. “‘Almost’ thing and now you wanna disappear too?” He shook his head once, jaw tightening. “We need to figure something out because I can’t think when you’re around.” His eyes dragged slowly over your face before settling back on your eyes again. “And somehow I can’t think when you’re gone either.”
Your brows pulled together, trying very hard to stay serious despite the smile threatening at your mouth. “Can’t fix the lack of a brain, Di Laurentis.”
“Funny,” he murmured flatly, nodding once. “No, actually, that was hilarious. I almost believed you didn’t care for a second there.”
Your mouth opened with a rebuttal ready, but voices suddenly echoed further down the hallway and they got progressively louder and closer. Dean reacted instantly. His hand found your waist before you could protest, firm and warm even through layers of clothing, steering you quickly down the hall toward the nearest side room.
Once you entered, the door shut softly behind you both.
Your nose scrunched. “What the–,” you whispered harshly. “It fucking stinks in here.”
Your eyes adjusted enough to make out scattered hockey equipment piled around the cramped storage room. Gloves, pads and jerseys that, judging by the smell alone, hadn’t been cleaned recently.
Dean stood directly in front of the door, broad shoulders blocking it almost entirely. “It was either this or getting caught.”
“Oh, so you are aware there’s an issue here.” You nodded slowly. “That’s amazing progress for you, actually.” You pointed toward the door behind him. “Can I go now?”
He shook his head once, decisive even in the cramped, sour-smelling storage room. “I wanna see you tonight.”
You let out a breathy laugh before you could stop it, the sound slipping out lighter than you intended. “I’d like to see me too,” you decided, adjusting your grip on the folder like it could anchor you back into something sensible. “I’ve got things to turn in. Between that and this job I’m trying very hard to keep and deserve despite the obvious nepotism allegations, I barely have time to do anything else.”
“Perfect,” he said, as if you’d just agreed with him. “So I’ll be your distraction.” He paused, then carefully added, “From a…appropriate distance.”
Your brows pulled together. “Are you even listening to me?” You reached up on instinct, tilting his head down slightly like you were physically trying to redirect his attention. “Didn’t know hockey required ear plugs.”
Dean’s grin turned sharper. “You know exactly what hockey requires,” he countered, voice low. “You just wanted to touch me.”
His hand softly caught your wrist halfway before he seemed to remember himself and let go as quickly as he’d taken it. Still, he stepped closer right after, restraint only applying in pieces. Your breath caught on the way in, shallow and inconvenient, as his nose nudged yours gently, forcing your gaze up.
“An hour,” he murmured softly, almost in a begging tone. “Two tops…I’m going through withdrawals here.”
You huffed out a quiet laugh, the word choice alone almost ridiculous enough to cut through the tension. “I don’t think that’s medically accurate,” you said.
“You wouldn’t want to be the one explaining it to the coach,” he continued, unfazed, “or posting it on socials.”
“No,” you agreed, lips twitching despite yourself. “It wouldn’t get the right statistics. It’s bad rep for the team.”
The humor didn’t quite hide the way your breathing slowed, attention narrowing until it was just him, too close in a room that suddenly felt smaller than it should’ve. You breathed him in without meaning to, realizing it was the first time you’d allowed yourself the space to notice everything without immediately stepping away.
So for one weak second, you indulged in it…and if something happened because of it, if lines blurred and boundaries slipped, you’d blame the idiot currently brushing his nose against yours like he had no self-preservation instinct whatsoever.
You swallowed. “It’s a bad idea.”
Dean shrugged, entirely shameless. “I’ve had plenty of those before.” His lips curved. “Came out alright every time.”
You exhaled and this time your hand came up to his chest pushing lightly to create space. To his credit, he allowed it, always did when it mattered. “You can’t get it up,” you reminded bluntly, “there’s nothing ‘alright’ about that.”
His eyes narrowed slightly, head tilting like he was recalibrating you, yet amusement still flashed across his face. “How do you know that?”
“Voices carry in these hallways,” you replied, momentum making it worse instead of better. “And it’s suspicious when the team’s resident roller coaster suddenly stops offering rides to every girl with a pulse.”
His grin only widened. Fuck, he was enjoying this…and worse, so were you.
“So maybe it really is withdrawals,” you decided.
“Then help me with it,” he added, as the simplest solution in the world.
Silence followed immediately after as you held his gaze while the seconds stretched painfully long, until even the smell of old gear faded, drowned out now by the overwhelming presence of him.
You eventually cleared your throat, stepping back carefully until your shoulder nearly brushed a stack of equipment. “I’m gonna go now,” you announced, voice steadier than you felt. “I’ll go one way–” you gestured vaguely toward yourself, then the door, drawing boundaries in the air. “And you’ll go the opposite way.”
“And then what?” His voice matched yours, it was quiet and careful.
There was no teasing left in it anymore. Dean was used to this part, used to you pulling away at the last second, both of you pretending restraint still meant control but even now, he stepped aside from the door without argument, giving you space to leave because as badly as he wanted this, he wanted you to want it too.
You moved toward the exit slowly, fingers wrapping around the cold handle before glancing back at him one last time. “I’ll see you around,”
You opened the door and stepped back into the hallway, letting cold, clean air replace everything that had been pressing in on you.
The door clicked shut behind you as Dean exhaled hard through his nose and stayed exactly where he was because the worst part of the entire interaction wasn’t the rejection, it was the reminder that he wasn’t broken at all…the unmistakable hardening tent in his hockey pants made that painfully obvious.
Dean stayed home that night.
For probably the first time in months, he skipped the party the team had been planning all week. The excuse came easily enough, he’d faked discomfort in his ankle the second he got back to the locker room after you left, enough grimacing and irritation to keep the guys from questioning him too hard.
By the time everyone headed out, the house had finally gone quiet and now he sat alone on the edge of his bed staring at the blank wall across from him with the concentration of a man trying not to lose his mind.
His phone rested facedown on the desk a few feet away, intentionally dead. He had watched the battery drain without plugging it in, convincing himself this counted as effort…progress or even detox. Maybe if the phone died, the temptation would too. This way he couldn’t text you or call, or even stare at your contact until his self-control caved in around midnight like it usually did.
You had become a habit too quickly…worse than a habit honestly, because Dean had given up plenty of things before. Bad grades, classes and women whose names he should’ve remembered to moan instead of yours, but trying not to reach for you felt violent in comparison.
A frustrated breath left him as he leaned forward, elbows on his knees, glaring toward the dead phone anyway. Fucking hell, even silence tempted him.
He could already picture it perfectly if the phone still worked, he would send one stupid text, something harmless enough to start things off. You’d reply annoyed within minutes with sharp little responses pretending indifference while still answering too fast. Then eventually one of you would push too far and suddenly the conversation would drift past every boundary you both kept swearing mattered.
Dean scrubbed a hand down his face roughly then froze when a noise sounded outside his window.
For half a second he thought he imagined the house creaking or branches scratching against the siding just as your head appeared outside his second-story window.
You shoved the unlocked frame forward with visible irritation, balancing dangerously on the ladder propped against the house. “Are you gonna help me,” you hissed, “or just fucking stare while I die?”
Dean moved instantly and crossed the space in seconds, grabbing the window and holding it wider as he reached out for you. The original intention probably involved helping you climb inside normally, maybe by steadying your arm or something. Instead, the second his hands landed on your waist, instinct completely took over and he hauled you inside too quickly.
Your balance disappeared entirely and the both of you toppled backward onto the bed in a mess of limbs and startled noises. You landed squarely on top of him hard enough to knock a grunt from his chest.
Dean looked up at you already grinning while you were certain your eye twitched with annoyance so visibly he almost laughed again.
“Hurt ankle, my ass,” you muttered, pushing yourself upright swiftly and moving off him, sitting cautiously on the edge of the mattress for approximately two seconds before your expression changed.
A look of sudden reconsideration crossed your face making you stand right back up.
Dean watched in amusement as you wiped your palms against your jeans, glancing around the room instead of at him.
“Fuck knows what’s happened on that bed.” You mumbled under a breath.
“You came to check on me,” he said instead, smile widening as he propped himself up on his elbows. “Thought you didn’t do house calls.”
You shrugged lightly, immediately reaching for technicalities the way you always did whenever you crossed one of your own rules. “I didn’t call,” you pointed out. “Or text.”
Dean’s grin softened at that. “Did you get my email?” he asked, weirdly proud of himself.
“I did.” You finally looked at him properly again…with annoyance, of course. “Though signing it ‘Big Dick Dean Di Laurentis’ felt incredibly tasteless.”
He sat up fully now, visibly delighted. “That was obviously a typo.”
“Then why are you smiling?”
Dean climbed to his feet slowly, attention locked entirely on you as he stepped closer. “You could’ve used the front door,” he pointed out. “There’s no one else here.” His gaze dropped pointedly toward where you still hovered beside the bed instead of sitting. “And it’s clean,” he added. “Thought you knew all about how little play I get these days.”
That comment earned him a look, one of those quiet staring contests the two of you somehow kept having lately, where neither person moved first because both of you wanted the other to crack beforehand.
Eventually, you sighed and sat down on the bed properly.
Dean dragged his desk chair around and dropped into it, hands resting on his evidently muscular thighs as he faced you.
“Should we unpack that a little?” you asked teasingly, your tone mischievous. “I almost majored in psychology.”
“There’s nothing to unpack.” Dean leaned back in the chair, watching you carefully while he spoke. “Everything works perfectly fine.”
The pause afterward felt challenging. You held his gaze stubbornly at first, refusing to give him the satisfaction of reacting but eventually your eyes betrayed you, flickering downward despite yourself and straight to the growing outline beneath his sweatpants and judging by the smug look spreading across Dean’s face the second it happened, he noticed.
You dragged your eyes back up to his face with visible effort. “Well,” you started carefully, smoothing nonexistent wrinkles from your jeans, “I won’t ask what the issue is then.” Your mouth curved. “Wouldn’t wanna embarrass you.”
Dean let out a quiet laugh through his nose, low and knowing. “You won’t ask because the issue is sitting right in front of me.”
The words settled heavily between you both.
His gaze dropped briefly as you shifted on the mattress, one leg crossing slowly over the other without much thought. Unfortunately for him, the movement dragged the fabric of your jeans tighter across your thighs.
Dean’s jaw flexed once as his eyes lingered there for a second too long before he forced them back upward. “You’re torturing me,” he rasped. “And the worst part is you know exactly what you’re doing.”
You said nothing, you couldn’t, not when he looked at you like that.
Your attention stayed locked on him completely, unwilling to miss even a second of whatever this had become. The room felt smaller now, warmer somehow despite the cold night air drifting through the still-open window behind him. Every tiny movement seemed louder, from the creak of the desk chair when he leaned back, to the faint rustle of fabric when you adjusted your legs again and the quiet exhale Dean took afterward like he regretted noticing.
“Why are you here?” he asked suddenly.
You shook your head once. “I don’t know.”
Dean watched you for a long moment, expression unreadable for approximately half a second before he gave a small nod, already deciding you were lying and unfortunately, he was probably right.
“You do,” he corrected, eyes never leaving yours. “You’re lying to me…and normally I’d let you get away with it,” he continued. “But not when you’re sitting on my bed rubbing your thighs together.”
Your breath caught at the change in his tone. He spoke each word gently, letting them land with intent as his gaze dipped again, tone turning sultry while his hand slid down and disappeared into the waistband of his sweatpants. “You need something from me,” he decided.
The sentence barely sounded like teasing anymore. Your pulse thudded painfully hard against your throat and between your legs as the silence stretched. You uncrossed your legs in response, your fingers inching toward the button of your jeans.
“Something,” he continued carefully, not wanting to rush this. “to take the edge off.”
The air thickened as you popped the button open, the soft rasp of the zipper following as you drew it down slowly. Your jeans parted enough to reveal the edge of your lace panties, the fabric already damp against your skin.
Across from you, his hand moved inside the cotton of his sweatpants, the outline of his cock thickening under his palm as he began to stroke in long, unhurried pulls.
The mere sight of it sent a fresh pulse of heat between your thighs.
You slipped your hand beneath the waistband of your panties, fingers gliding over the slick heat of your pussy. A quiet sigh escaped you as you traced your folds, circling your clit with firm pressure while he watched every motion, his own hand working steadily as the head of his cock peeked above the waistband with each upward stroke.
Precum glistened at the tip, catching the low light as he smeared it along his length.
Your fingers moved in slow circles, spreading the wetness that coated your sensitive skin, each pass making your hips twitch involuntarily on the bed's edge.
His breathing grew heavier as he adjusted his grip, pulling his sweatpants lower to expose more of his shaft. The veins along his cock stood out prominently under the firm strokes of his fist, the skin stretching taut with every upward motion.
You could see the way his thumb brushed over the head on each pass, gathering more of that shiny fluid to ease the slide. The visual made your own touch quicken, your middle finger pressing firmer against your swollen clit while your other fingers teased at your entrance.
Drawn by the growing ache, you leaned back until your shoulders met the mattress. The sheets carried his scent of warm musk and faint soap, filling your lungs and making your clit throb harder under your circling fingers.
You spread your knees wider, jeans still hugging your hips as your hand worked faster inside the panties. Every inhale pulled more of him into you, fueling the slick glide of your fingertips over swollen flesh. The mattress dipped slightly under your movement and you turned your head to press your cheek against the sheets, breathing deeper to draw in that intoxicating aroma. It wrapped around you like an invisible touch, making your nipples tighten against the fabric of your shirt.
He stroked himself openly now, full length exposed to your gaze, firm grip twisting at the head with each slow pass as his eyes landed on your noticeably hardened nipples.
You pictured him rising from the chair, crossing the space between you to bury that thick cock deep inside your aching pussy, stretching you open with one thrust. The fantasy burned even hotter because you were both holding back, letting the forbidden tension build instead. Your fingers dipped lower, parting your lips to press inside, the wet motion of your touch mingling with the rhythmic slide of his fist. He groaned softly, the sound vibrating through the room as you felt your walls clench around your own fingers in answer.
Your free hand clutched the sheets, twisting them as your hips rocked lightly to meet your own touch. Wetness coated your fingers, dripping down to the fabric inside your jeans while across the room Dean’s breathing grew ragged, eyes half-lidded while he watched your body arch and tremble in his bed. The scent of him made your head spin, your pussy fluttering around nothing as you finally thrust two fingers deeper, curling them against that sensitive spot inside. Every curl sent sparks of pleasure radiating outward, your thighs trembling as you imagined the weight of his body pressing you down, his cock replacing your fingers in one smooth motion.
The pressure coiled tighter in your core, every stroke of your clit sending sparks up your spine as you watched his cock twitch visibly in his fist, a bead of cum welling at the slit before he spread it down his length again.
You moaned, the sound raw and needy and his pace quickened in response. Your jeans restricted your movements enough to heighten the friction, the denim pressing against the back of your hand as you worked yourself closer to the edge. The room filled with the soft sounds of your mutual pleasure, his low grunts mixing with your gasps.
You allowed yourself to keep your eyes locked on him, watching intently as his fist pumped steadily along the rigid length, the skin sliding taut over the swollen and pinkish head with each upward pull.
Below, his balls hung full and heavy at first, swaying slightly with the motion of his strokes but as the tension kept building, they began to draw upward, the loose skin tightening and wrinkling as the muscles contracted. You watched the way they pulled closer to the base of his cock, tensing visibly with every twist of his wrist.
His thighs flexed in the chair as he spread them wider, offering an unobstructed view of the entire scene.
The veins along his cock stood out even more now, pulsing in time with his quickening strokes, the skin pulling smooth and firm as his breathing grew shallow and urgent, mirroring your own.
The sight pushed you harder against your own fingers as his body locked, balls pulling up completely into a tight, rounded shape at the root of his cock. A restrained groan tore from his throat as the first thick rope of cum surged free, jetting over his knuckles in a hot, white arc that landed across his clothed stomach. His balls pulsed visibly with each spurt, contracting and releasing in waves as more cum erupted, splattering higher and dripping down his shaft.
Your orgasm hit shortly after. Your back bowed off the bed, thighs quaking as your pussy pulsed and gushed around your fingers, sending waves of pleasure rolling through you in hot, liquid surges that left you quivering and whimpering on his bed watching as immediate relief hit the both of you.
His grip loosened slightly, cock jerking uncontrollably while his balls finally relaxed, emptying in long, forceful pulses that left him trembling and spent. Thick strands continued to ooze from the tip as the last tremors faded, his hand slowing to gentle strokes that milked out every last eager drop.
As relief and pleasure eased through your spent forms, you both were left boneless and utterly relaxed. You slowly withdrew your hands from between your thighs, the evidence of your arousal glistening on your fingers as they lingered for half a second like your body hadn’t fully caught up to your brain yet. Staring up at the ceiling, you caught your breath, while he gazed forward, both of you panting as though you had just sprinted straight through every boundary you’d spent months trying to maintain and were only now realizing there was no finish line waiting on the other side.
Neither of you spoke because what exactly was there to say?
Congratulations on making things infinitely worse?
You sat up slowly and met his eyes briefly in the heavy silence before looking away, your hand moving to zip and button your jeans as you tried to act like nothing extraordinary had occurred. You pushed yourself to your quivering legs, balance threatening to betray you for a second before steadying. You stepped towards him as his gaze tracked you the entire way.
Standing in front of him felt strangely so, even more intimate after everything else, which honestly seemed ridiculous considering what had just happened. Still, your throat tightened slightly when he looked up at you flushed and wrecked, pupils blown wide enough to swallow the blue in his eyes almost entirely.
Your hand lifted toward his face before you could think too hard about it and his lips parted faintly against your palm the second you covered his mouth. You pretended not to notice him inhaling the scent of your essence deeply as you pressed a slow kiss to the back of your own hand, right over his lips.
"I’m glad that question won’t be asked," you murmured, straightening up. Dean’s brows furrowed slightly, still dazed enough that it took him a second. "Couldn’t keep count of the strokes."
With that, you crossed the bedroom, opened the door and disappeared into the hallway before he could answer, your pulse still hammering against your ribs.
Behind you, Dean licked slowly over his lips where your hand had been, head dropping forward afterward as a quiet curse left him under his breath.
His cock throbbed and began hardening again, muscle starting to draw upward once more with renewed tension, the loose skin tightening as his shaft swelled visibly under the fresh surge of arousal.
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! 🤍
❝But I knew you’d linger like a tattoo kiss I knew you'd haunt all of my what-ifs❞
✦ pairing: dr. julien “jules” cunningham x fem! reader
✦ summary: your future with nicky cunningham was meant to be perfect. a perfect fiancé, a perfect family, a perfect life. but as your wedding day approaches, old memories resurface, and so does the one person you were never supposed to love. the other brother.
✦ wc: 5.8k
✦ crossposted to ao3
✦tags & warnings: 18+ only! mdni !!! angst & emotional cheating. eventual smut
✦ recommended listening: cardigan - taylor swift
SIX DAYS UNTIL THE WEDDING
The night Nicky Cunningham proposed to you was the night a part of you died. It’s not that you didn’t love him. He was utterly perfect. His kindness felt effortless. His patience made people soften around him. Nicky had always known how to take pieces of himself and offer them up to others like it cost him nothing. You used to think that was the purest kind of love. Maybe it is. Maybe that’s why this feels so wrong.
Maybe it was because you were only with Nicky for six months before he popped the question. You’ve known him since you were a child, so it made sense for him to propose so soon. He practically spent his entire life time loving you, or at least being told that he should love you by his mother.
You remember the look on Nicky’s face with his hands trembling just slightly as he held yours. Your mother was already crying before you could even answer, and his parents watching like this was something inevitable like it had always been predicted before you were even born. You said yes, and you meant it.
At least, you think you did. Your mother always told you to be in a relationship where the man should love more than his wife.
“So if he loves you more, you’ll always be safe,” she would say with a painted smile,”…and you can get whatever you want in the world without needing to do anything in return.”
You used to believe her. It made sense because you have been gifted with such a lavish life at the hands of your kind father who adores you and your mother more than anything else. Your mother was divine. She is effortlessly beautiful and the kind of woman people turned to look at twice. You loved her at a distance. She never reached for you first, but you stopped expecting her to. You couldn’t do anything right in her eyes unless they were carefully crafted by her own mind.
She wore your father’s love like jewelry. To her, he was something nice to have, something that completed the picture. You never once saw her look at him like he looked at her. Never saw that same devotion reflected back.
Now you’re afraid that your life has led you back to this path. The path of empty laughter and a greedy mouth ready to spill half truths of your perfect life to whoever is willing to listen. Why does it feel like you’re stepping into your mother’s life instead of your own?
━━━━ ✦ ━━━━
Three months have passed since Nicky popped the question, and now it is the week of your wedding. In just six days you are going to be Mrs. Cunningham. You were hoping for a longer engagement. One where you would be able to make every conscious decision carefully, but your families were eager to see you at the altar with Nicky. There was truly no way around it. It was like your mother and Victoria had a deadline that needed to be met, but you couldn’t figure out why exactly they were in a rush. You’re staying in the Cunningham lodge. Everything is curated to perfection, every detail intentional. You should feel like you’re in a dream. Instead, it feels like you’ve stepped into something that was written long before you ever had a say.
You thought, at some point, the anxiety would fade. That excitement would take its place. That you’d wake up one morning and feel it. You would feel the certainty and joy that your mother always talked about, but that feeling never came. If anything, it got worse. Wedding planning didn’t feel like building a future. It felt like a chore that required the input of every person in your life. Every decision felt like something you were pushed into. The colors, the flowers, the dress, hell, even your venue, you felt like you had no say.
So you did what you always do. You disappeared into your work. Art has always made sense to you in a way life doesn’t. As a curator, you know how to place things. You know how to create meaning, how to make something feel right just by positioning it correctly. But lately, it’s felt like your life is the one being arranged. You don’t recognize the narrative anymore.
The front door closes softly behind you as you step into the lodge, the scent of polished wood and something faintly floral filling the air. This scent is nostalgic, reminding you of the many holidays spent here. This was your second home growing up. Not necessarily the lodge, but any place owned by the Cunningham family was also your own. Your mother and Nicky’s mother were college friends. They were mirrors of one another, often validating the other’s thoughts and feelings without a second thought. A part of you always felt like your mother loves Victoria more than your own father. Hell, even yourself.
You’re alone. Well, not technically. The housekeeper is helping carrying in your things. Despite your pleas to help her, she refused. You saw another car parked outside, but you didn’t care to check and see who it belonged to. You assumed it was the housekeeper's. The evening was supposed to be a welcome party with just the women, and the men would come later in the night. Just you, your mother, Victoria, and Portia. Your mother wanted to throw you an early celebration with just the matriarchs of the family. She wanted to congratulate you for following her orders to create a perfect life. The women are out in the nearest town apparently picking up the “surprise” they’ve been planning for you. Nell never responded to your calls or messages from weeks ago. You swear you’ve mentioned your wedding plans to her many times in the past, but she decided to ghost you right before your big day. It was unusual of her to leave you stranded, but you assumed she was busy. Besides, wedding planning has been so stressful, the last thing you’re worried about is just one person.
Nicky and the boys should be out collecting suits for the groomsmen among other bachelor activities. You’re honestly glad you are alone because you don’t think you could handle the entire Cunningham bloodline here.
Your eyes follow the beautifully crafted details in the home. You walk through the home in awe as you stride through each room transitioning into another work of art. Then they stop. Your gaze lands on the large portrait hanging above the mantle. Your eyes find him immediately. No, not Nicky, but the other brother. Like they always do. He sticks out within the precisely painted Cunningham family. You’ve seen this painting many times.
But something is different.
You step closer without meaning to, your chest tightening as your eyes scan the familiar figures. Victoria, Dr. Boris, and Portia are painted beautifully, each stroke perfectly capturing their essence. Then there is Nicky. Oh, your sweet Nicky. You notice a new addition beside Nicky. There’s a chair. Your chair. It’s unfinished. The chair waiting for your place in the painting is detailed like the others, but it’s empty. It’s waiting for you. Like you’ve already been placed.
Your throat tightens. This isn’t just a painting. It’s a future someone else has already framed. An expectation. A quiet, suffocating certainty that this is where you belong.
And then you see him. You see Jules. Then you see something else. The space to the right of him has been carefully painted over, as if to cover something. To cover a mistake. Your stomach drops again. Nell is gone. Sweet Jude is still there, but there was no sign of Nell. That explains it.
“You noticed.” A low voice startles you. Of course it’s him. It’s always him.
Slowly, like you’re afraid of what you’ll find, you turn your head. Your heels softly click against the floors, filling the quiet and tense hallway.
Jules stands just behind you, close enough that you can feel the heat of him without him ever touching you. Like he’s drawn to the same thing you are. Or maybe… to you. How long was he there for? How long has it been since you last saw him? Maybe since your engagement, but you aren’t too sure. It’s been too long.
“You don’t think it’s strange?” you ask, your voice quieter than you intend. “To just… erase someone like that?”
“Isn't it stranger to have an empty seat for someone not in the family yet?” You stop and immediately frown. You just have to ignore him.
“I really liked Nell, you know. She was good with Nicky, but she was even better with you. Also, Jude adored her,” you bite your lip, trying to find the words to explain your mixed emotions. A part of you is shocked to see her gone, but a part of you is relieved. You don’t exactly know why though. Your turn back towards the painting, trying to remember what it looked like with Nell.
“She left,” he says finally.
You frown slightly, glancing at him now despite yourself. “Left?”
Another pause. He speaks with a low and silky tone, enticing you to turn and look at him. You refuse to fully turn to him. You don’t want to acknowledge his pain or the tension in the air. Nell left only a month before. It coincidentally occurred the same time you sent out invitations. She was quick to sign the divorce papers and move on with her life, but why didn’t you find out about this sooner?
“Some people don’t stay where they’re expected to.”
Your heart stumbles. You have a feeling that this was not just about Nell.
“People don’t get erased,” Jules says, his tone sharper now. “They just get replaced.” The words land harder than they should. Your chest tightens. Because no one is getting replaced in this scenario. You start to wonder what his words truly mean. Is he the one getting replaced?
“Is that what you think this is?” you ask, before you can stop yourself. "I haven't seen you in a year, and the first thing you do is criticize me?"
Silence stretches between the two of you.
“I think,” he says slowly, “that you’re about to put yourself somewhere you don’t belong or…” Jules glances at Nicky in the painting,“…someone else is in a place they don’t belong.”
Your face burns with anger, and perhaps a bit of embarrassment. There is a bit of truth to his words, yet you’re filled with so much rage. Are you supposed to feel offended or hurt? Maybe both.
“Why are you here, Jules?” Your voice rises because you can’t take the sly remarks anymore. “Shouldn’t you be with Nicky? Picking up the tuxes? Doing bachelor things?”
For a second, you think he won’t answer. Jules just looks at you like he’s weighing something, like there’s a version of this moment where he says too much and everything shifts. Then he shakes his head. He remains steady and impossible to read.
“No.”
Your brows pull together in confusion.
“No?”
“They don’t need me there.”
“That’s not—” you exhale, trying to steady yourself and level out your frustration. Your hands come to your forehead, massaging out the anger. “It’s your brother’s wedding.”
“I’m aware.” There’s something in the way he says it that makes your chest tighten. Not defensive. Not dismissive. He is calm and cool, like he always is. You swallow. “Then why aren’t you with him?”
He pauses long enough to feel intentional.
“Because I’m here,” he says simply, “with you.”
Your stomach drops.
“That’s not an answer.”
“It is,” he replies, quieter now.
You shake your head, frustration boiling under your skin. “Jules—”
“You want the real one?” he cuts in, voice rising.
Your eyes falter because something in his tone shifts. He exhales slowly, running a hand through his hair before his eyes find yours again. “I couldn’t stand there,” he says, “pretending this is normal.”
Your pulse spikes. “Pretending what is normal?”
His jaw tightens. “This,” he says, gesturing faintly between you, the room, the house and everything. “You. Him. The way everyone’s acting like this is exactly how it’s supposed to go.”
“I’m supposed to be here,” you insist, even as it sounds weaker out loud. “This is my wedding.”
“I know.” His jaw tightens, just slightly.
“Then stop—” your voice cracks, your emotions bleeding through now, “—stop looking at me like I’m making a mistake.”
Your heart skips a beat. You can’t believe you said that.
“Are you?”
That was enough of his insults and banter. You start walking away from him, making your way towards the kitchen so you can cool yourself down with a glass of wine. Your heels rapidly tap down the hallway as you try to run away from him. But of course, Jules follows after you. You’ve tried everything possible to keep him away from you. You never texted him or called. You never told him about you and Nicky's quick union. You needed to keep him from being an obstacle from the life you’ve always wanted. You just want to feel safe, but he has always threatened your safety.
“Why are you doing this to me?” You shout in frustration, trying to wave him off. You are both alone in the kitchen. You frantically search for the nearest bottle of wine to pour yourself. “All you have done since I’ve been with Nicky is make my life hell! For the love of God, just leave me alone already. We aren’t kids anymore, Jules.” You can feel tears threaten to fall from your eyes, but you fight them back as you pour yourself a glass. You can’t even look at Jules because you are seething with anger.
“Why can’t you just leave me the fuck alone. Why do you keep on questioning all of my choices?”
His expression shifts. It’s painful. It’s the kind of pain that yearns for comfort.
“…Because no one else will,” he says. His voice is normally so calm and cool, but you can hear just an ounce of his pain. Jules is practically pleading for you to turn around without saying a single word.
Your chest aches. You finally turn around to face him, and your breath catches. He’s closer to you than you realized. You weren’t prepared for this version of him up close. Not like this. Jules Cunningham looks different when there’s no distance left between you. The sharpness you’re used to melts into something more real, more human. There are faint lines etched into his face. The skin around his eyes and along his brow have marks left behind by too many night shifts. His hair is slightly unkempt, like he ran a hand through it too many times and stopped caring about fixing it.
His eyes. Those beautifully rich, brown eyes stare into your soul. His eyes are locked on yours. There is not a trace of mischief or playfulness, and he’s not detached. He’s focused on you. Just you. There’s something quieter there now. He looks like someone who has been carrying something for a long time. Something heavy. Something that hasn’t let him rest. Underneath his hard exterior is a look of regret. It sits there unhidden like he’s stopped trying to disguise it.
Your throat tightens, but you don’t look away. Because you can’t. This is the Jules you’ve cared about for years. For a second you can see a glimpse of young Jules. The young boy who would always tease you, yet always knew how to make you smile after the fact. Standing this close, seeing him like this, makes it harder to hold onto the anger you were using to steady yourself.
That version of him flickers across his face now, and it makes everything worse. Standing this close to him, seeing him like this, makes it harder to hold onto the anger you’ve been using to steady yourself. You’ve missed this Jules. Your Jules. The one that knew you better than anyone else.
“See?” he says quietly. His is almost tired from pleading for you. “This is what I mean.”
“Please, Jules,” you whisper, shaking your head slightly. “Just stop it already.”
“I just need you to be honest with yourself and with me. You never lie to me.”
Your chest tightens. Jules has always been the person that challenged everything you did. He didn’t criticize you though, not like your mother. He never made you feel belittled over your decisions except for this one. He just knew how to get you thinking critically about your choices, and he always supported you in the end.
“What do you mean?”
“You’ve been lying to everyone else since the moment you said yes to Nicky, but you know you can't fool me.”
“No, I—”
“Yes, you have,” he interrupts, but there’s no bite in it now. Just certainty. “Just tell me this, and be honest.”
In this moment, he reaches his hand out to you. He softly holds onto your shoulder as if he needs to brace himself for what he was about to ask.
“Do you really love Nicky?” He asked the question he knew he didn’t want the answer to. Because then it would truly feel real. You would finally get away from him.
It takes you a minute to respond. Too long.
“…I love Nicky,” you say finally, firmly, like you’re trying to convince yourself it is true. “…and I am going to marry him.”
Jules exhales slowly.
“Okay.”
Just that. Okay.
And then he lets go of your shoulders. The absence of his hands hits you harder than the touch did. He steps back, putting distance between you that made him feel further away than it actually was. Only then do you realize you’re crying. You don’t even remember when it started. Fat tears roll down your cheeks, your nose is pink, and your lips are practically raw from biting on them.
Jules notices immediately. His expression shifts to deep devotion and care, something that didn’t happen often to people that were you or Jude. He steps forward again without thinking, hand lifting slightly as if to wipe your tears away.
The thing about you and Jules is that you two are always honest to each other. Always. No matter how hard a truth can be, you have to tell him. Unfortunately, that's the hardest truth you've ever had to admit to, and now it's eating you alive despite you being honest.
Before he can, voices spill into the hallway. Loud. Bright. Too cheerful to belong to what just happened.
“Where is Future Mrs. Cunningham~”
Portia’s voice echoes through the lodge like nothing in the world has changed. Jules freezes mid-motion. Your blood turns cold when you realize. You step back quickly. Five steps away from him in seconds, turning your face away just as you lift your glass and take a long, shaky sip of wine like it can erase what just happened.
The three women enter the kitchen in a wave of perfume, silk, and celebration. Each of them enter bearing lavish gifts wrapped in pink and gold. Portia is practically glowing with excitement, hands already clapping together. Victoria follows with composed elegance, her smile softer but observant as per usual. Then your mother gracefully enters the room. Your mother is radiant. Perfect and beaming, until she sees him.
Jules. The other brother.
The shift is immediate. Subtle, but unmistakable. Her smile doesn’t fall, but it tightens at the edges, like something carefully maintained under pressure. She is clearly irritated. She cannot stand Jules. He’s more accomplished than Nicky in every way possible. He’s a doctor, devilishly handsome, and so incredibly smart. But, he is not Nicky. So your mother will never approve of him. Just tolerate but nothing more.
“Jules?” she says with disguised joy, “What are you doing here? Shouldn't you be with Nicky?”
Victoria’s gaze flicks between the two of you. She is slowly assessing the situation as if she’s trying to solve a problem no one has officially admitted exists yet.
“I was,” Jules replies evenly. He is calm and controlled. “I brought Jude to the lodge early because he was not feeling very good. He doesn’t enjoy car rides.” Your mother’s eyes narrow just slightly, not at you, but at the situation. At the shape of it and the imbalance she can feel but not name. She doesn’t believe him entirely, but she does love little Jude.
“I promise I won’t get in the way of tonight. I’ll stay in the room with Jude.”
“And where is dear Nelly?” Victoria asks. Jules is silent and cold. Everyone understands immediately what he means.
“Oh…” Portia breaks the silence and gives Jules a little pour. “I am so sorry, Jules.”
“It’s fine. Seriously, I am okay,” Jules reassures.
The other women clearly look a bit concerned, but not so much Victoria. She seems almost relieved.
Suddenly, you are hyperaware of everything. Of the wine in your hand. Of your unsteady breathing. Of the fact that Jules is still standing too close to where you were moments ago. Of the way your body hasn’t fully recovered from the conversation that just cracked something open inside you. So you don’t respond. You just drink again.
Portia claps her hands, breaking the tension before it can settle.
“Okay, okay, enough seriousness,” she says brightly. “We have a wedding to finish planning!”
She turns to you with her sickeningly cheerful attitude, “We can find another bridesmaid right?!” You are honestly a little stunned to see how the scene around you continues to move despite your stillness. Everyone continues their chatter and excited banter as you stare off into your glass of wine.
Jules isn’t looking at them. He’s looking at you. Long enough that your breath catches again. No one else notices. At least you think no one else did.
“I should go…” Jules says hurriedly, “…I need to check on Jude.” He turns before anyone can respond. But right before he leaves the room, his eyes flick back to you once more. It is brief, unreadable, and far too steady for what just happened between you. Then he’s gone, leaving the air behind him heavier than before. Portia immediately launches into another sentence. Your mother adjusts her posture. Victoria starts speaking about seating arrangements.
But you stay still. Glass in hand. Your eyes are practically glazed over while you wrap your head around what just happened. Heart loud in your chest. Even with him gone, it feels like the conversation never ended.
━━━━ ✦ ━━━━
A few hours have passed and you’re in the Lover’s suite alone. Curled into yourself on the edge of the bed, knees pulled to your chest, you absentmindedly twist your engagement ring around your finger. Back and forth. Back and forth. Like if you keep it moving, you won’t have to think about what it actually means.
The room is filled with gifts. Boxes. Tissue paper. Satin ribbons carelessly draped over polished surfaces. Beautiful things. Expensive things. None of them feel like yours. You try not to sound ungrateful—even in your own head—but it’s hard to ignore the disconnect. Every gift feels like it was chosen for someone else. Someone easier. Someone more predictable. Someone who fits the perfect mold for the perfect future Mrs. Cunningham. The purse sitting on the chair is stunning. It is sleek, structured, clearly worth more than you’re comfortable thinking about. But it’s not your style. It never has been. The mink scarf draped across the vanity makes your stomach turn slightly. It’s soft, luxurious. However, it is completely unwearable to you. You’ve never understood how something dead could be considered beautiful.
Your eyes land on the box at the foot of the bed. Your mother’s gift. You already know what’s inside. It’s your “something old”. Slowly, you reach for it, lifting the lid with more care than you intended. The heels are breathtaking. Delicate. Timeless. The kind of shoes you once imagined picking out for yourself one day. Something that would feel like you. But they aren’t yours.
They’re hers and your mother’s mother. A legacy. A path already walked.
Your throat tightens as you stare at them. Because that’s what this all feels like, doesn’t it? Not a beginning of your life but a continuation of her's.
“I don’t want to be her…” you whisper to no one.
The words sit heavy in the room. You love your mother, but you’ve seen what her life looks like. You’re not sure you can survive it. A wave of nausea rolls through you suddenly, sharp and overwhelming. You press a hand to your stomach, breathing shallowly. God. You actually might be sick. The anxiety has been building for weeks, but now it’s something physical.
You are honestly relieved Nicky won’t come until tomorrow. He and Dr. Boris got stuck in the snow and is staying in a motel for the night. Nicky is everything you are supposed to want. You love him, but now they’re an immovable obstacle in the way. You try not to think about him, but it’s already too late. He has infiltrated your thoughts. It’s him.
The other brother.
You have a secret. One that only Jules knows. For as long as you could remember, you loved Julian Cunningham. You didn’t love him in a fleeting way but deeply with devotion. He was your first everything. Your first date, first kiss, first time, and first love. But he was never your first boyfriend. No, your affair was hidden like a shadow from your families. Why? It was because he was the other brother. The wrong one. The one that neither of your parents would have approved of. Jules was never the safe choice. He was sharp, blunt, rough around the edges in a way that made people uncomfortable. But none of that ever stopped you. You loved him anyway.
You think about it now. The way you used to sneak through these halls as teenagers, your heart racing as you stole quick, breathless kisses in corners you thought no one would notice. Or in college, when you would drive hours away to see Jules after his medical school rotations. He’d be exhausted, barely able to stand. You’d still cook for him, sit with him, tuck him into bed like he was something fragile, even when he pretended not to be.
Those years taught you everything. How to love someone fully. How to care for someone like they were a part of you. Like losing him would feel like losing air. But there was always a line you two couldn’t cross. A boundary neither of you named, but both of you understood. You were never public. The feelings were never acknowledged. Never real to anyone but yourselves.
Jules kept you like a secret, but you kept him like an oath.
A sound breaks through the silence.
Soft at first. Then again. A knock.
Knock knock.
You know it wasn’t your mother. She doesn’t ask for permission, she just goes in.
“…I know you’re in there.” It’s his voice. It’s low, muffled through the door, but it was unmistakable.
Jules. The other brother.
Your heart starts racing again, faster now, your body already reacting before your mind catches up. No one should be here this late. Not tonight. You slowly slide off the bed, your bare feet hitting the cold floor. Each step toward the door feels heavier than the last, your breath shallow, your hand hesitating just before the handle.
You twist the knob. The door creaks open, and there he is again.
Jules.
“Hey,” he says quietly, trying not to signal to anyone else in the home that he’s here. “I just wanted to say that I’m sorry…”
You don’t let him finish. “For what, Jules?” Your voice is sharper than you expect, but you don’t pull it back. “For being an asshole to me on my wedding week?”
His jaw tightens slightly. “Yes… but also for everything else.”
You hesitate. “What do you mean, Jules?”
He exhales, glancing at you like you already know the answer. “You know what I mean.” The weight of it settles between you.
“Oh.”
It’s barely a response, but it’s enough. He takes a step into your room. He slowly and carefully makes his way inside because he knows he’s allowed to, but can’t stop himself anyway. Now, he’s right in front of you. Closer than he should be. Closer than you should let him.
Before you can think, before you can stop it, he pulls you into him. His strong arms wrap around your waist, keeping you stable. It’s tight and familiar, and it makes your chest ache instantly. You freeze at first, but then you melt. You missed this, and you absolutely hate that you do.
It isn’t the kind of safety Nicky gives you. Nicky gives you something steady, dependable, expected. This is different. This is the kind of safety that feels consuming, like the rest of the world disappears, like nothing exists outside the space between you and him. Your arms wrap around his neck before you can stop yourself, your body remembering before your mind can argue.
When he pulls back, it’s only slightly. Just enough to look at you. And God, that look. There’s something in his eyes you’ve been trying not to name all night. Something heavy. Something aching. Something that looks a lot like longing. He leans in, resting his forehead gently against yours, his hands sliding up to cradle the back of your head. Your breath catches, your fingers tightening against him. His nose brushes yours softly, carefully, like he’s asking a question he already knows he shouldn’t.
“Jules…” you whisper.
“Please…” he murmurs, “...don't make the same mistake I've made…”
Your chest tightens painfully. “No.” The word comes out shaky, but you force it out anyway as you step back, breaking the contact. “You’re just acting like this because you’re alone again. You don’t have someone to run to… because Nell left you.”
His expression shifts immediately. “No,” he says, firm, almost desperate. “It’s not like that. It’s never been like that.”
“Then what is it, Jules?” Your voice cracks. The dam holding back every single emotion you've been containing cracks and spills out. Heat rises to your face as tears blur your vision. You push him, once, then again. Your fists hitting his chest over and over again.
“You think you can just come back into my life? Try to take away the one thing I want? Ruin my wedding?”
“You know that’s not what you want,” he says quietly.
“Stop acting like you know me!” you snap, shaking your head as you step back again. “You don’t know what I want. You don’t know me.”
Something in him pulls tight. That hit him hard. It hit something that you knew you wouldn't dare touch.
“You know that’s not true,” he says, his voice lower now, strained. “I know you better than anyone else in this goddamn world, and you know that.”
Your chest rises and falls quickly as your heart beats at an irrationally fast pace. This isn't fair. He's not allowed to do this to you, when he did it not once but twice.
“Whatever you think this is,” you say, forcing the words out, “you’re too late. We’re not teenagers anymore. We’re not in college. We are adults. You need to move on, Jules.”
Silence falls, heavy and suffocating. He looks at you like he wants to argue, like he has a thousand things he could say, but he doesn’t. Instead, he steps forward, and before you can react, his hands come up, gently framing your face as he pulls you closer.
Your breath stops. Everything stills. This is it.
Your eyes close instinctively, your body bracing for something you’ve been chasing for far too long. You’re searching for something familiar, dangerous, impossible to undo. You wait for it, your heart pounding loud enough to drown everything else out.
Something soft and warm presses against your forehead. A kiss. Gentle. Lingering.
Then he pulls away.
Your eyes open slowly, confusion flooding in where expectations used to be. The feeling of his lips remain on your forehead, your body trying to chase after that feeling.
“I don’t know if I can make it to Saturday,” he admits quietly, his voice rough now, “without at least trying to show you that I care.”
Your throat tightens. “Julien…”. He never lets anyone call him that, unless that person is you.
He shakes his head, already stepping back. “I am sorry... for how I treated you,” he says, forcing something steadier into his voice. “I’m going to leave now. Jude doesn’t like being here alone.”
He moves toward the door, pausing with his hand on the handle. “I can’t promise I won’t get in the way,” he adds, not turning back. “I’ll try… but I don’t know if I can.”
“Goodnight.” Jules lingers for a moment, and then he’s gone. The door closes softly behind him, but the silence he leaves behind is anything but quiet. The room still feels full of him, of everything he said, of everything he didn’t. Your chest aches, your thoughts tangled, your emotions impossible to separate.
You’re not just anxious anymore. You’re unsure, and somehow, that feels worse. You sink into the bed, the room spinning just enough to make you feel sick, your fingers drifting back to the ring on your hand. It feels heavier now. Jules’ words remain in the air, tangled with your own thoughts, impossible to separate from what you actually feel. You stare down at your hands, at the life that’s been so carefully placed in front of you, and for the first time, you don’t see certainty.
You glance at your phone, hoping you received a text from Nicky. A “goodnight” or “I love you” a reminder that this is simple, that you’re not spiraling alone in it. But the screen stays dark and silent.
You do the one thing that brings you comfort during stressful times like this. You sketch. You pull your thick journal from your suitcase, the familiar weight of it grounding you slightly. Years of work live inside it. There are drawings layered over drawings, pages taped in, corners folded, charcoal smudged into old pencil lines. It’s messy, chaotic even, but it’s yours. You’ve never been able to throw any of it away. Your pencil moves automatically at first, tracing the strong line of a jaw, the familiar structure of Nicky's face, the softness you’ve always associated with him. You try to focus, try to anchor yourself in the details you know by heart. You get lost in your art, meticulously adding details to Nicky's face.
But somewhere between the shading and the shaping, your hand slows. Your breath catches slightly. The face forming on the page isn’t Nicky.
It's Jules.
Your pencil freezes. You stare at the page like it’s betrayed you. It's not like you didn’t just do that. A quiet curse slips out before you can stop it.
“Shit.”
You have a very long week ahead of you.
PART II: HIS EYES ON YOU
⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡ author's notes: my newest obsession !!! will be a multi-part series so please stay a while :) - love, jaz
PART III. ❝Your love has gone cold, you're intertwining your soul with somebody else❞
✦ pairing: dr. julien “jules” cunningham x fem! reader
✦ summary: jules tells you some hard truths. some truths make you want to run, others make you cling tighter to what’s left of you and nicky until you realize it wasn't meant to be there in the first place.
✦ wc: 7.7k
✦ crossposted to ao3
✦ tags & warnings: 18+ only! angst & emotional cheating. actually so much angst. mommy issues. nicky x reader smut (istg for the plot). using sex to cope with emotions.
✦ recommended listening: somebody else - the 1975
PART I: THE OTHER BROTHER, PART II: HIS EYES ON YOU
FOUR DAYS UNTIL THE WEDDING
You feel unbearably ill. Sleep barely touched you last night. Your mind tormented you because you know you did something wrong. Every time you closed your eyes, your subconscious dragged you back to him. Jules. Over and over again like a punishment you couldn’t escape. Moments replayed until they blurred together, until you couldn’t tell what was real and what your mind had twisted into something more. Flashes of your young affair weave into the present memories you have with Jules. The part that scares you the most is that you’re happy in your dreams with him.
You wake before the sun, your chest tight and aching. The room feels suffocating, the air too thick to breathe. You need out.
Careful not to wake the sleeping Nicky, you get out of bed. He lets out a soft, sleepy whine at the loss of your warmth. Shame flickers through you as you grab your robe and quietly make your way out of the room. You feel so lost, wandering aimlessly throughout the lodge like a spirit seeking peace. You push the heavy entrance doors.
The cold hits you instantly. It bites at your skin. It’s sharp and unforgiving but you welcome it. Your bare feet press into the damp ground, numb from the chill, but it’s nothing compared to the conflict inside you. The piercing chill isn’t enough to cool down the heat of guilt. You begin to break down.
Your cries aren’t graceful or quiet. It’s loud, jagged, ugly. Your cries rips through your chest and leave you gasping for air. Your knees hit the ground, unable to hold you up any longer. You can’t feel your fingers. You can’t feel anything but the heavy pain in your chest.
“I am so fucking stupid,” you choke out, the words tumbling over themselves. “I am so… so stupid…”
You repeat it like a mantra as if you say it enough it would somehow reverse all of your mistakes and anxieties. Your vision blurs with tears, the world around you warping into something unsteady and unreal. You sense something, a figure, judging every single choice since you walked onto this property. You feel this judgement staring into your soul, and you can’t identify where it came from.
“Hey, what’s going—”
A hand touches your shoulder. You scream, the sound tearing out of you before you can stop it. You jerk away violently.
“Don’t fucking touch—”
Your voice dies the second you turn.
Nicky stands there, eyes half-awake and completely confused.
“Babe—hey—what are you doing?” he asks, his voice soft but laced with concern.
Your heart is still racing. “I’m sorry,” you breathe. “I just… I think I’m kind of losing it.”
“It’s okay,” he says quickly, stepping closer. “Come on, let’s go inside.”
“No—I can’t,” you shake your head, backing away slightly. “I just need a few more minutes out here.”
“What? It’s freezing,” he frowns. “Are you insane?”
A hollow laugh escapes you. “Honestly? Yeah, Nicky. I feel fucking insane.” Your words start spilling faster now, tripping over each other. “I just… I can’t believe this is happening. It’s all happening so fast, and nothing feels like it’s going the way I wanted, and I can’t even get through a day without my mom or your mom or Ju—”
You gasp for air, practically suffocating yourself with your tears.
“You’re just overwhelmed,” he says, brushing your hair back gently. “It’s a lot. The wedding, our families, everything happening so fast. Anyone would feel like this.”
Anyone. The word echoes strangely in your head. Anyone doesn’t wake up with someone else’s name sitting on their tongue. Anyone doesn’t feel their chest tighten at the thought of a different voice, a different touch, or a different life that isn’t supposed to exist.
“Hey—hey, it’s okay,” Nicky says gently, pulling you back before you can spiral further. “We’ll get through this. Together. I promise.” He pauses, searching your face. “Are you sure you want to?”
Your stomach drops. “Yes. Of course. Why would you think I don’t?”
“You just… seem so unhappy, and I don’t know if I want to force you into this…”
“I’m just tired of not feeling in control of our wedding,” you say quickly, the excuse coming too easily. “It’s just not how I pictured anything going.”
“Babe, I’m sorry you feel this way…” he murmurs. He’s sorry you feel this way? What does that even mean?
“Nicky, please,” you interrupt, your voice suddenly desperate. “Please… just help me not feel crazy.”
He’s concerned, but he’s holding his emotions at bay. It’s like he doesn’t know how to approach you when you’re like this. “Baby, you’re not crazy. Why would you even say that?”
“I don’t know,” you whisper. “It just feels like something’s been… wrong since I got here. Like something’s been following me. Hell, I feel like something is watching me right now.”
Nicky glances toward the woods, his concern deepening. There’s nothing there. You’re starting to go crazy. Maybe it’s Jules haunting you or maybe it’s the guilt.
“I think we should get you inside,” he says carefully. “Get some rest. Have you been taking your meds?”
You hesitate, and then slowly shake your head. For a moment, neither of you speak. Somehow that statement makes you feel worse because you know what you’re feeling is real. Does he not believe you? You aren’t having delusions, but you feel something real, judging each of your actions.
“I love you,” Nicky says like it’s an anchor he’s throwing out into rough water. “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”
Your throat tightens because you want to believe him, but it isn’t enough. That’s what makes it so unbearable.
You cling to him, your fingers gripping the fabric of his shirt like you can force yourself into this life. You’re trying so hard to turn into this version of yourself that can make Nicky happy and doesn’t think about Jules every time the world goes quiet.
“I love you too.”
He guides you back into the house, his hand firm at your lower back like he’s afraid you might disappear if he lets go. He murmurs soft reassurances under his breath. They’re sweet, careful things meant to soothe you, but you’re starting to worry Nicky thinks you’re insane. This isn’t the first time he’s had to comfort you in a state of panic. You can sense this distance, like they’re something not quite right.
As you step into the cabin, warmth wraps around you, but it does nothing to thaw the cold lodged deep inside you. Across the atrium, your mother stands by the glass doors, a porcelain cup balanced delicately in her hand. She’s staring out at the pale morning light hitting the trees inside, her reflection faint against the window. For a moment, she looks almost serene. Then she turns. Her smile is immediate, but her eyes are cold.
“What are you two doing up so early?”
“Oh—uhm, just watching the sunrise,” Nicky answers, a little too quickly. You glance at him, confused. The lie feels unnecessary. Why would he lie? Why not just say you weren’t feeling well? Why does it feel like everyone is trying to keep something just beneath the surface? Why is he just tiptoeing around you and your emotions?
“Oh, I see. How romantic,” your mother hums, amused.
Her gaze lingers on you a second too long before she walks toward you, heels clicking softly against the floor.
“Nicky,” she says sweetly, “do you mind if I speak to your beloved alone? There are a few wedding things I’d like to discuss.”
You gave him a quick look. A look that is screaming No, Help me.
“Of course,” he replies without hesitation.
Nicky nods and gives you a quick kiss on the cheek. You feel like he just threw you into a shark tank. You’ve been so obedient with your mother. You’ve been listening and doing every single one of her wishes, and now you’re afraid she will reveal her true self. She walks
“Don’t ruin this…,”she says coldly. Her voice is sharp enough to cut. “...For some childish fantasy.”
You’re frozen still. How does she know about Jules?
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you try to remain steady, though your voice betrays you.
She lets out a small, humorless laugh. She presses her fingers to her temple like you’ve given her a headache.
“You know exactly what I’m talking about,” she says. “You may be able to fool your father, but you will never fool me.”
You just sit there and take the abuse. You can deny all you want, but she’s right about there being something between you and Jules. You hate lying. You can hide the truth as much as you want, but a lie will eat you up from the inside out. You have to tell the truth, even if it kills you. But this truth is something you can put into words. This truth is sacred. Only something that is meant for you and Jules. You’ve never spoken a word of this to anyone and neither did he. If there is anyone you’re willing to take a lie for, it’s Jules.
“If you think there is any future for you with Jules,” your mother continues, her voice sharp like a knife, “then you are completely out of your damn mind.”
You stare at the floor, your hands trembling at your sides.
“He’s been through what—two marriages? Both failures, I might add. What makes you think you would be any different? That you would be the exception?”
You are quivering at the words of your mother. You can’t cry. You can’t get angry or yell or shout. You just take it quietly.
“You are getting older. Men marry younger as the years go on,” she goes on, relentlessly. “Not only are you wasting away whatever youth you have left, but you have no real career. You spend your days surrounded by art that isn’t even yours, chasing validation from people who would never see you as their equal.”
Your throat tightens, you’re trying to remain stone cold, but you can’t. As much as you hate to admit it, she is right.
“And now—now—you are handed the perfect man. Stability. A future. A life people would beg for. You are willing to throw it all away for what? Nostalgia? A feeling you had when you were too young to understand what love actually is?” Your mother slowly creeps her way towards you, her heels dragging against the floor. Her judgement is burning you. You wish you could just shrink and disappear.
“Do you know how embarrassing that is?” she asks, her voice lowering. “Do you know how selfish that is?” Her nails are digging into her porcelain mug. Any tighter and she might actually break it.
“And now,” she adds, almost as an afterthought, “You want to delay everything that has been laid out for you.You have known Nicky since you were children. This was meant to be, but now you want to start over? You want to waste more time? What, I’m supposed to wait a few more years before you even think about giving me a grandchild?”
Your mother is close. Close enough that you can feel every ounce of rage and disdain radiating from her.
“Victoria doesn’t have that kind of time.”
What? Your head lifts and your eyes finally make eye contact with your mother.
“What do you mean she doesn’t have enough time?”
Her gaze flickers away from you, just for a second, before returning back on you. Her jaw tightens like she’s biting back what she wants to say.
“Not that it concerns you, but… Victoria has been having… health issues,” she says, choosing her words carefully. “... a brain tumor.”
Your heart sinks. There’s no way. There has to be people that can help her. The Cunninghams are wealthy, but also, Boris would never let that happen to his wife. Right? You feel sick, thinking about how Nicky might react. He doesn’t know. He loves his mother more than anything else, and Jules. How would he react? Is this the anxiety you've been feeling all along? Anticipating the death of Victoria? Maybe that is what it is.
“What? Shouldn’t we do something? Help her?”
“That is not your responsibility,” she snaps. “What is your responsibility is standing here, four days before your wedding, and deciding whether or not you are going to sabotage your own life over a man who has never—not once—offered you anything real.”
That’s not true. The thought comes fast. Jules has given you so much whether you want to acknowledge it.
“You will marry Nicky,” your mother says, her voice final, unyielding. “You will have a stable life. A respectable life, and you will not throw that away because you don’t know how to let go of a fantasy.”
Her eyes lock onto yours.
“Do you understand me?”
Your chest feels so incredibly tight as if you’re being suffocated by the weight of the truth and pressure to marry Nicky. Your thoughts are loud and tangled and impossible to sort through. You just want to feel okay. Just for a few seconds because it seems like asking for a few minutes might be too big of an ask.
“...Yes..” Another lie. At least it feels like a lie. What you feel doesn’t match your actions or your words, but you feel so cornered.
“Good.” Your mother’s annoyance with you has reached a peak. She cannot stand to watch you throw yourself a pity party, so she leaves.
“Go get ready. We have wedding plans to attend today.”
Then she’s gone. You stand there. You are too exhausted to cry. You couldn’t even if you wanted to. Your knees give out before you can stop them. You sink to the floor, the impact dull. You curl in on yourself, arms wrapped tightly around your body, as if you can hold yourself together by force. I need to tell Nicky. I need to let him know. Right?
━━━━ ✦ ━━━━
Minutes in the room alone feel like hours. You lose track of how long you’ve been sitting there, folded into yourself on the cold floor. You were hoping Nicky would notice and come find you, but you remembered he is building wedding signs with his dad and yours today. So you’re alone. Utterly alone, but maybe that is a good thing. To sit in your thoughts and reflect. You need just a moment of peace and quiet to recover from the verbal assault coming from your mother.
“Hey… are you okay?”
It’s him. It’s always him. Jules stands in the doorway, one hand braced lightly against the frame. He isn’t sure if he should come in. The other hand is holding a banana. Strange. His expression is softer than you’ve ever seen it. He’s concerned.
He’s trying to not make things hard for you, but he hates seeing you like this. Despite his blunt attitude, Jules has always known how to comfort you. You thought about last night. The game of chasing each other around the house, hoping no one gets caught. You are over it. You just want to be happy. You want to not feel the pressure of the world on you.
You stay silent, ignoring him. You honestly can’t deal with this now.
“You’re not okay,” he says quietly. “Just… talk to me.”
You’re still silent, but Jules is willing to play the waiting game until you finally break. You sit there, and he stands. He finishes his banana quietly. In any other situation, it would be funny, but not now. You don’t want to break, but the silence is agonizing.
“Jules…” Your voice comes out hoarse. “Please, now is not a good time. Just… leave me alone.”
“You know I can’t do that.”
“Jesus. Julien, you are the reason I’m having these problems,” you snap, the words spilling out of you uncontrollably. “I can’t get you out of my fucking head.”
“Tell me more,” he says softly. “Lay it all on me.”
You think about last night. How the look he’s giving you now is completely different from the one last night. He looks at you like you’re human.
You break. You're trying to take in as much air as you can with each breath, but you still feel suffocated. Your hands tremble. You drag in a breath that doesn’t quite fill your lungs. “It’s not just that… Your mom…” you start, your voice breaking. “She has a tumor.”
Saying it out loud makes it real and you weren’t ready for it. Jules’ eyes harden, like he couldn’t fathom his mom being sick, but he also can’t fathom that being an excuse for you to throw your life away. It’s disbelief, maybe.
“I have to marry Nicky,” you continue, faster now, like if you stop you’ll fall apart. “I have to. She doesn’t have time left, Jules. I can’t do that to her—I can’t break her heart when she’s already—” You shake your head, choking on the words. “I don’t get to choose this.”
Jules carefully walks towards you with an emotion that no one else has been treating you with. Instead of walking on egg shells, he’s actually acknowledging your pain and your fear. He meets you at your level, his finger tapping your chin. You flinch from his touch.
“Look at me,” he murmurs.
You don’t want to. You can’t, but his touch makes it impossible to not look into his deep, brown eyes.
“Just take a deep breath. It’s going to be okay.”
You follow his advice.
“You really think this is about her?” he asks, his voice low.
Your response is silence. It’s not just her, but it’s still an issue applying pressure on you.
“No,” he says, shaking his head slightly. “It’s not. That’s just what you’re telling yourself so you don’t have to admit what’s actually happening.”
Your breath shakes. “....And what is that?”
His thumb brushes your jaw. It is somehow comforting and unbearable all at once. You try to turn your head, but Jules has a firm grasp on your chin, keeping your eyes on him.
“You’re choosing him,” Jules says. “Not because you have to… but because it’s easier.”
“That’s not fair,” you whisper, anger starting to bubble in your throat.
“It’s not supposed to be.”
“You think this is easy for me?”
“No,” he says immediately. “I think it’s destroying you.”
You stay silent. Letting your anger build because you can’t take the audacity that is Jules.
“Why are you doing this?” he presses, applying pressure onto you. “Why are you about to marry my brother when you—”
“Don’t,” you cut him off sharply.
Tears burn behind your eyes, but they don’t fall. You push his hand away from you. “That’s not fucking fair, Jules,” you snap, your voice shaking but rising anyway. “You get married twice and somehow you still end up here! Still in my face like I owe you something!”
His expression shifts slightly, but you don’t stop.
“You never chose me,” you continue, words spilling now, jagged and uncontrolled. “Not once. Not when it mattered. But now I’m with your brother and suddenly you care? Suddenly you show up like this?” You let out a harsh, broken laugh. “What, did it not work out again so you decided to come back and ruin my life instead?”
Jules’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t interrupt. He’s biting back his thoughts.
“You are so unbelievably selfish,” you say, voice cracking at the edges now. “You don’t get to stand here and act like I’m the one making the mess of this when you’ve been… you’ve been everywhere except where I needed you to be.”
Jules stays silent, lingering in everything you’ve just thrown at him like he’s absorbing the weight of it rather than fighting it. You don’t know what is worse though. The fact that he is sitting there, not defending himself or the fact that he’s accepting it. There was nothing else that needed to be said. You finally get the strength to stand up. You’re toying with your ring. Anxiously needing to get out of this room. It feels too stuffy. Too much Jules. You walk away, but before you exit the door you hear him stir.
“You’ve been sick all week because you know deep down, you don’t want to marry him. You don’t want to have to play house for the rest of your life.”
You pause, looking back at him. Insulted. You don’t respond. Twisting your ring as you hover at the doorframe. There’s a pit in your stomach.
“Nicky might love you, but he doesn't know the real you. The you that I know.” Jules continues, staring at you like he's seeing into your soul.
“At least he loves me, Jules, something you were never capable of. Something that you can't even put into words.”
“There’s a reason you didn’t tell me when you started dating,” Jules says quietly. “A reason I had to find out you were engaged from an Instagram post. You couldn’t look me in the eye and say you loved him honestly. You know why.” His voice lowers. “Because deep down… you’re settling.”
“Jules, you don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.” But he does. There’s truth to what he’s telling you now, but what does it matter? Why does he bring up the past matter now?
“I do know what I am talking about. I mean, I made the mistake twice.”
“What mistake is that?”
For a second, it looks like he might actually answer, but he doesn’t. His mouth parts slightly but no words come out. A part of you would wish he would just tell you, but Jules knows you too well. He’ll tell you the naked truth when you’re ready.
“Nicky isn’t your soulmate.”
You don’t give him the satisfaction of a response. You can’t. Because you don’t even know what you would say.
So you walk out. There’s this feeling of dull pain like you know Jules could be saying some truth. He would never lie to you. It’s not in his nature, but he gives the hardest truths a person has to listen to. Somehow, it felt like your ring had gotten tighter on your finger. The thought settles deeper now. You can’t shake off this feeling.
━━━━ ✦ ━━━━
Portia was visibly pleased that you were actively participating in the wedding arrangements. She was mildly annoyed when you arrived late. Your eyes are puffy and skin pale as paper, but she let it slide when she saw how focused you were on the flowers, the decor, the placement of every last detail.
Roses here. Drapes there. Dinnerware polished until it caught the light just right. Silver, not too silver. You were doing whatever you can to not think of Jules. To not think about last night or what happened just hours ago. You need to keep yourself from thinking about him because then you’ll forget about your wedding. You’ll forget about how Victoria is dying, and you have to give her the wedding you deserve.
You felt like you were operating on autopilot, like a body moving through instructions your mind had already had programmed.
Victoria is going to die. So I have to give her what she wants. I need to give her a happy wedding. The thought sits heavily in your chest, but you don’t let it surface. You just keep arranging flowers, correcting angles that don’t feel right, smoothing things that already look fine.
Portia leans against the table, watching you with interest. “What’s gotten into you? You’re actually acting like a bride today.”
Your hands pause for half a second. A flicker of something passes through your chest. It is too quick to name, too sharp to hold. Then you smooth it over.
“I just want it to be right,” you say carefully. “That’s all.”
“Right for who?” she teases.
You force a small smile anyway, bending down to adjust another bouquet. “For Nicky. For your mom and my mom. For everyone.”
Portia makes a soft, satisfied sound, like that’s exactly what she wanted to hear.
“That’s so you,” she says warmly. “Always thinking about everyone else.”
You try to focus on wedding arrangements, but there’s a sick thought that just won’t go away. Flowers. Drapes. Centerpieces. Place settings. Everything is perfect. Everything is aligned. Victoria is going to die. The thought slips in again, uninvited.
Only when Portia clears her throat. You blink back into the moment. You didn’t realize she was talking to you. You don’t remember what she asked, but you have to pull the happy bride card.
“Oh,” you say quickly, forcing brightness into your voice. “I’m just really happy to marry Nicky. And I… I want everything to be perfect, so I’m just lost in the wedding arrangements.”
Portia’s reaction is immediate. She lets out an excited squeal that sounds almost like a shriek.
“I knew it,” she beams. “I’m so happy we’re going to be sisters. I always knew Nicky loved you. Ugh, and now we get to spend the rest of our lives as one big happy family.”
You just keep arranging flowers that don’t need rearranging. A staff member walks past carrying a bundle of white lillies, and something in you snaps sharply into place.
“Wait,” you call out, too quickly.
They stop. You step closer, eyes locked on the flowers like they’ve offended you personally. “I’m so sorry, but no white flowers at the wedding. This isn’t a funeral.”
“Oh my god, yes!” she says, stepping in immediately. “You heard her! No white flowers.”
The staff member nods and hurries off.
Portia turns back to you, practically beaming with excitement. “You’re so particular today. I love it.”
You manage a small smile and get back to working on arrangements. You are honed into your craft for at least thirty minutes, but your focus was interrupted by the sound of three men entering the room. Your head snaps up immediately.
“Nicky?”
He steps into the room carrying a sign with his dad and your dad just behind him, still half in work mode. The older men wave to you just before leaving to tend to more carpentry.
Nicky’s hair is slightly messy, sleeves rolled up, a little out of breath like he’s been moving nonstop. His eyes scan the space, and the moment they land on you, he smiles.
“Special delivery,” he says lightly, trying to brighten the moment as he sets the sign down.
Painted in elegant, flowing script:
The Cunninghams.
You cross the room quickly, almost stumbling in your urgency, and throw your arms around him. Nicky stumbles slightly in surprise, but catches you immediately. His arms come around you instinctively, steady and protective, anchoring you to him. You breathe him in. He smells like wood and a bit like sweat. You’re just happy to see him right now.
Nicky glances over your shoulder and towards Portia, his brow tightening slightly. “Is she okay?”
“No clue, but she’s been very proactive today! I love it,” Portia replies happily like that explains anything at all.
Eventually, he shifts, gently guiding you away from the room with a hand at your back. “Come on,” he says softly. “Let’s get you out of here for a bit.”
The noise of the wedding planning fades behind you. As you walk, your grip on him doesn’t loosen. Neither does whatever tight feeling has been sitting in your chest.
You see Jules. Coming the opposite way.
Alone.
He slows the moment he sees you, but you don’t.
Nicky doesn’t notice at first. He’s still focused on you, still guiding you forward, but Jules’s eyes are already locked on the two of you. On Nicky’s hand at your back. On the way you’re holding onto him tightly.
Jules’ expression barely changes
Nicky gives him a casual nod as you both pass. “Hey.”
“Hey,” Jules replies evenly.
No one stops.
━━━━ ✦ ━━━━
Nicky leads you back into the Lovers’ Suite. You are exhausted.
“Hey let me run you a bath to help you relax. Okay?”
“Okay,” you murmur.
He gives you a small, reassuring smile. Then he moves into the bathroom, already rolling up his sleeves. He’s glad there’s something he can do, something concrete he can fix. Honestly, Nicky has a hard time knowing how to comfort you during these situations. It’s honestly hard for you because sometimes you feel like a burden on him. That’s always been a flaw about Nicky who is otherwise perfect. Sometimes it makes you feel less like a person and more like something cracked that he’s desperately trying to piece back together before anyone notices. You hear the faucet turn on.
Water rushing, filling the porcelain tub. Warmth filling the silence.
Nicky is quiet as he works, focused. Bottles clink softly against the marble counter as he adds bath salts and soap with a level of care that borders on excessive. The scent of lavender begins to rise slowly, calming and heavy in the air.
You linger in the doorway for a moment, watching him with a small smile. He checks the temperature with his hand, adjusts it slightly, then turns back toward you.
“Alrighty,” he says gently. “It’s good.”
You move slowly, almost automatically, slipping out of your clothes and stepping into the bath. The water wraps around you quickly, easing into your muscles, pulling the tension out of your muscles.
“Thank you, Love.”
You sink down until the warmth reaches your shoulders. A long breath leaves you. You finally allow yourself to relax.
Nicky watches you for a second longer. “I’ll be right outside,” he says quietly. “Just call me if you need anything, okay?”
“Okay…” You murmur, letting your eyes close to fully submerge yourself in this moment. You should’ve told him the truth before he left. Nicky, your mom is dying. Nicky, I don’t know what’s happening. I don’t know if this is a good idea. But those thoughts never leave your mind.
You sink deeper into the bath, letting the water rise to your shoulders, the heat wrapping around you like it’s trying to press everything else out.
For a moment, it almost works. Your muscles loosen. Your breathing slows. The noise in your head dulls just enough that you think, This is working.
The quiet doesn’t last. It never does. The second your body relaxes, your mind fills the space.
It fills it with him. With Jules.
It’s not even intentional. You don’t choose to think about him. He just… appears. It’s like he’s been waiting for the silence. Waiting for you to stop moving long enough for him to slip back in.
The way he said your name. The way he didn’t argue when you pushed him away. He just stood there and took it, like he thought he deserved it. The way he looked at you… with deep hunger. He doesn’t treat you like you’re broken. He makes you feel ravished and consumed. He sees every ugly, unfinished part of you and refuses to look away from it.
You squeeze your eyes shut, sinking a little lower into the water.
Stop.
But it only makes it worse.
Now it’s his voice.
You’re choosing him… because it’s easier.
Your grip tightens on the edge of the tub, fingers slipping slightly against the porcelain.
The water laps quietly against your skin, steady and indifferent. Your gaze drifts down to your hand. To the ring. It glints faintly under the soft bathroom light, sharp and bright and certain. You twist it slowly around your finger.
You hear his voice again.
Nicky isn’t your soulmate.
You think about your crumpled up underwear in a trashcan, evidence of your midnight affair. Then you hear something else. The sound of him moaning your name. You can hear it so clearly, repeating over and over again.
A shaky breath leaves you as you lean your head back against the edge of the tub.
This is what you wanted, isn’t it? Your head starts looping itself in circles. It thinks about Nicky. His kindness. How safe you feel with them. Then it goes to Jules. His bluntness. How he makes you feel in danger yet so thrilling. Nicky sees you, but Jules sees your soul. Back and forth. Over and over. You squeeze your eyes, pressing your head harder against the tub.
After some time, you sit up. The water shifts around you as you reach for the drain. It gurgles softly as it empties, the warmth slowly slipping away. You watch it go, like you’re hoping something else might drain with it. You dry yourself off quickly, wrapping a towel around your body, the fabric warm against your damp skin. For a second, you just stand there, staring at your reflection. It feels almost distant. Your hands trace your body, seeking a bit of relief. You desperately want to feel something, to validate your connection with Nicky.
When you step back into the room, Nicky is already shirtless in bed. He is propped up against the headboard, scrolling on his phone. The soft glow lights up his face in the dim room.
He looks up the moment he hears you. Just like that, his expression softens.
“Hi, beautiful,” he says, a small smile pulling at his lips.
You have a small smile on your face, choosing not to respond verbally only physically. You drop your towel, displaying all of your vulnerability to him in this moment like a sculpture. His eyes widen and then fill with desire.
“Oh… Come here..” He says, moving to the edge of the bed. You walk towards the bed, Nicky’s hands reach out towards your waist and pull you on top of him. You land with a thump and laugh. Nicky flips you around so now he is on top of you, his firm legs anchoring himself to your hips. Nicky pulls you into a kiss, hands dragging all over your naked body. He’s so soft as he touches you, occasionally squeezing your breasts and tracing your neck with his fingers.
“You are so sexy… I can’t believe you are my bride…” He murmurs against your lips. His tongue sweeps into your mouth, teeth occasionally grazing your bottom lip. You groan at the passion in which he kisses you. You couldn't help but nip at his bottom lip when he tries to pull his head back to take a breath. You grin looking down at the growing tent in his briefs.
You lay back and widen your legs for him, noticing the haze in Nicky’s eyes as he sucked on his ring and middle finger. Your cheeks bloom pink as you watch him tease his fingers at your entrance. He’s delicately tracing his thumb over your clit while his middle and ring finger just barely graze your entrance. You’re already wet for him, just waiting for him to fill you.
“Oh.. Nicky…” You moan softly as he begins to run his fingers through your slick folds, already trembling.
“This is all for me?” He asked in amusement, circling your clit once, twice. He’s teasing you. You can’t help but whine. You need relief now.
“Yes, please…oh!” His fingers slide in and out your wet pussy. He starts to finger you slowly, sucking and biting on your breast. He’s so gentle and careful with you. You can feel warmth pooling to your core, but it never quite reaches the peak you want it to achieve.
You look down, seeing how his cock is practically ready to be freed. With his free hand, he pulls off his briefs. His length stands tall, ready for you. Nicky kisses up and down your neck as he strokes his shaft a few times.
He lines himself up with your wet entrance, the tip of his cock just teasing its way in. He wraps his arms around you, holding himself steady as he thrusts in you. Nicky moans your name over and over again as his cock slides in and out of you. He’s planting wet kisses on your neck as you stare at the ceiling, losing focus in the moment. You try to match the pace of his thrusts, but you lose your rhythm a bit. You close your eyes focusing on the sound of your heart beating in your chest, trying to have it align with Nicky’s.
Then it happens.
Jules.
A vision of Jules inside of you flashes your brain for just a moment. You’re imagining him, on top of you. Fucking you into oblivion. Your eyes shoot open. You bite into the fleshy part of Nicky’s neck, trying to ground yourself into the moment. The moment with your fiancé. With your husband to be.
Nicky pulls back for a second. “Ow, Fuck—”
“I’m sorry, Baby—I’m sorry!” You didn’t intend to bite him as hard as you did. You just needed to bring yourself back into the moment, but Nicky already forgot. He’s deep in focus, trying to finish. Nicky’s thrusts grew sloppier, his breaths coming in brief and hot against your neck. You’re looking at Nicky, but he isn’t looking back at you.
“Fuck… I’m close—” He nuzzled his head into the crook of your neck, as he finishes. He buries his cock deep in you as he cums. You mimic his movement and moan loudly, but perhaps, it is all for show. For him. Nicky thrusts a few more times, slowly, trying to savor this moment. You stare at the ceiling, dragging your nails across his back as he rides out his orgasm. You don’t feel anything. You thought this would fulfill your desires, but you feel so empty.
“I love you,” He murmurs as he plants kisses on your collarbone, his hands caressing your waist. You lay there, unmoving.
“I love you too, Nicky…” You say breathlessly, like you’re trying to remember if sex Nicky has always felt so… flat.
Nicky rises from the bed and enters the bathroom as you remain laying. You feel content, but somehow you wish you felt more. You wanted passion, maybe a bit of danger. God, you’re starting to really annoy yourself. You just can’t seem to figure out why you’re not feeling any satisfaction. Your beloved returns with a glass of water and a towel for you to clean yourself off with. Nicky lays beside you, kissing your neck. You drag the wet rag against your body, cleaning yourself off. Somehow this act felt wrong. If anything, you wonder what it feels like to be truly satisfied, remembering what it felt like for your pleasure to be the one prioritized.
“I can’t wait for you to be mine forever.” Nicky says softly. He takes the towel from your hands, tossing it aside without much thought, replacing it with his own hands instead. His fingers intertwine with yours, tugging you gently toward him until you’re pressed against his chest. For some reason, forever feels like a contract not an agreement.
You rest your head against his chest, listening to the quiet rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your ear. His free hand drifts up, absentmindedly combing through your damp hair, smoothing it back like he’s done a hundred times before.
“I can’t wait either…” You mumble back, closing your eyes. Something felt terribly off at this moment.
“I hope this helps you feel less stressed about the wedding,” Nicky adds gently, his voice low, careful. “You’ve had a lot thrown at you today.”
Now you have two choices. You could stay quiet. Let things continue the way they’re supposed to. Let him keep holding you like nothing is breaking underneath the surface. Find peace in this moment with him. Your future with him. The moment reaches a silence, one that is so fragile. So ready to be broke. You wait a minute. Maybe thirty. You lose track of sitting in his arms in the darkness as he whispers words of love to you.
After some time, you decide to go for your second choice. You swallow hard. You have to tell Nicky. You tell him this because you love him. Just him.
“Nicky…” your voice comes out quieter than you expect.
He shifts slightly beneath you. “Yeah?”
“There’s something I need to tell you,” you say, your fingers tightening slightly where they’re still laced with his.
Concern flickers across his face immediately. “Babe, what is it?”
You hesitate for a second. “Your mom,” you start, your voice unsteady now. “She… she’s sick.”
Nicky’s expression shifts, confusion knitting his brows. “What do you mean? She’s been fine? She’s been here all day with your mom.”
“No… not that kind of sickness,” you cut in softly, your throat tightening. Silence spreads between the two of you before you continue. “...She has a brain tumor.”
For a second, he just stares at you like he didn’t hear you right.
“…What?” he breathes.
Your heart pounds. “I didn’t know how to tell you. I didn’t know if I should—she didn’t want it to… ruin anything, but—” your voice breaks slightly, “It’s serious, Nicky. I don’t think we have a lot of time left with her.”
Nicky pulls back just enough to look at you properly now, his hands still on you but no longer comforting. It is just holding there, like he needs something to anchor himself.
“That’s not—” he shakes his head. “That’s not funny.”
“I’m not joking,” you whisper.
“My mom found out first. I—I think she didn’t know how to tell you. And then I…” you trail off, the guilt creeping in. “...I didn’t either.”
Nicky looks away from you then, running a hand through his hair, his breathing uneven now.
“Why wouldn’t she tell me?” he mutters, more to himself than to you. “Why would she—why would everyone just—”
“No, Nicky, please don’t freak out. I think she just wanted to have one happy memory with the family,” you say, trying to make things better in vain.
His face drains of color. His mother, Victoria Cunningham, sick with a brain tumor? He couldn’t imagine that. He could not see that happening.
You reach for him instinctively. “Nicky, I’m so sorry—”
He sits up, shaking his head. He almost somehow looks upset at you. Like you did something wrong, when you didn’t. At least, not in this situation.
“…How much longer do we have?” he asks.
You shake your head. “I don’t know exactly. Just… not long enough.”
The words feel cruel no matter how gently you say them.
Nicky leans back against the headboard, staring ahead. He’s processing everything you just shared to him, unknown to you just how much you changed everything for him.
You lay next to Nicky. Close enough to touch, but he doesn’t fill the gap. He finally lays back down, but his back is facing you. He feels like a wall. Somehow all of that warmth turned to a chill immediately. You scoot closer to him, wrapping your arms around his waist as you lay your head on his back.
“I love you, Nicky.”
Silence. No response. For a second, you convince yourself he might already be asleep. That maybe this is just exhaustion finally catching up to him, pulling him under before he could respond.
You just don’t realize how deeply your words have unraveled something inside him. How this shifted the shape of this wedding in his mind. How suddenly all of this feels less like a celebration of love and more like something being held together by obligation and grief.
Then you feel it. The slight shift in his breathing. Your love has gone cold, and now you’re left alone despite being right next to him. A sick thought begins to creep into your mind. The words of Jules' echoing in your mind.
You’re choosing him because it’s easier.
Your eyes burn instantly.
Maybe he's right. Maybe Nicky was easier, but now you're not so sure. You feel Nicky pulling himself away and loving you less than before.
━━━━ ✦ ━━━━
“Dad?”
“Yes, Jude?” Jules murmurs, staring up at the dark ceiling.
Jude had wandered into his room nearly an hour ago, clutching his blanket and asking if he could sleep there tonight. Jules didn’t ask questions, he knew Jude was just scared of what was in the woods. He just lifted the covers and let the boy curl up beside him.
Now Jude lies tucked against his side, small and warm and far too awake for this hour.
“Do you think she’s scared of the Sorry Man?” Jude mumbles, “She tells me she’s scared of the woods so she stays inside.”
“The Sorry Man,” Jude repeats quietly. Jules is starting to realize how everyone seems to notice how you’re making the wrong decision but yourself and Nicky, “He isn’t real, Jude.”
“But she says he is,” Jude insists. “That’s why she’s scared.”
Jules lets out a small breath through his nose, one hand moving absently through Jude’s hair. His son has always noticed things other people miss like the little shifts in emotions. It’s part of what makes him so easy to love and so hard to lie to.
You’ve been trying with Jude. Jules sees it every time you kneel beside him offering art supplies. Every time you hand him another disposable camera and ask him about the blurry pictures he takes of trees, windows, and people when they aren’t looking.
“Oh, bud…” Jules says softly, unsure how to explain something he barely understands himself. “I think she’s just nervous. Weddings can be scary.”
Jude is quiet for a moment.
“We have to help her.”
“Yeah,” Jules says after a long pause. “We do.”
Jude yawns, exhaustion finally reaching him, but there is still one question lingering inside of him before he can sleep.
“Do you love her, Dad?”
Jules swallows hard, staring into the darkness. For a second, he says nothing at all. It might have been longer than a second. Maybe thirty minutes. It’s impossible to tell when he’s laying silently in the dark.
“Yeah,” Jules says quietly.
The words sound strange outside his own head. He’s never uttered those words to you. He’s never told another soul about his deep understanding of you. It has only ever been in his mind.
“Yeah, I do love her.”
By that point, Jude is asleep while Jules is laying there wide awake acknowledging what has always been there for you. Love.
taglist <3: @naazziiss
⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡ author's notes: when you get that mid ahh dick so now you think about your ex. can i get a hell yeah?? ugh, i rewatched the series recently, and nicky has been pissing me off. bro has no backbone, so i just HAD to incorporate some of that in here. i tried to be subtle with conveying how nicky doesn't complete the reader. you feel empty with him and UGH HE DIDN'T MAKE YOU FINISH!!!! oh man i wonder what jules will do about that in the next chapter…. hmmm… hmmmm??? anyways, i am so sorry it took me forever to post. i lowk originally posted this chapter a few days ago, but then i hated it and deleted it LOL. anyway… this is only 25% smut… so imagine what the next chapter will be like hmmm???…… hmmm….. lol, i kinda had a hard time writing this chapter, but i am hoping you all enjoy <33
✦ pairing: dr. julien “jules” cunningham x fem! reader
✦ summary: you feel more suffocated than before. you walk in on jules in an intimate moment, and now that's all you can think about. unfortunately, your husband to be can't satisfy what you crave.
✦ wc: 5.4k
✦ crossposted to ao3
✦tags & warnings: 18+ only! mutual masturbation. choking. angst & secret affair. smut. teasing. glimpse of nicky x reader.
✦ recommended listening: the hills - the weeknd
PART I: THE OTHER BROTHER, PART III: YOUR LOVE HAS GONE COLD
FIVE DAYS UNTIL THE WEDDING
Last night has completely thrown you off. What a way to start what’s supposed to be the happiest week of your life. Still, you try to shake it off. Today, you’ll finally see Nicky. That thought alone should steady you. It doesn’t. Not fully. You are dreaming about what the reunion will be like. The smile on his face as he embraces you. The long, tender kiss he’ll greet you with.
You wake up early, forcing yourself into routine. A long, hot shower helps a little. The steam, the quiet, the feeling of washing something off your skin, even if it’s only temporary you feel calm. When you step out, you wrap yourself in your silk red robe, the fabric cool against your skin as you begin drying your hair.
That’s when you notice it. Your curling iron is gone.
You pause, frowning. That’s… odd.
You are particular about how you place things because you hate losing your items once it’s time to pack up and leave. You dig around your bags and suitcase, but it’s all in vain because you can’t find it. Normally you’d do your hair first, then your makeup, but you don’t have time to dwell on it. Instead, you move on, carefully applying your makeup. It almost feels like painting, like if you focus hard enough on each detail, everything else might quiet down.
When you finish, you step out of your suite, determined to find the missing curling iron. Your first stop is Portia’s room.
“Hey, Portia, have you seen my curling iron?”
She turns to you immediately, grinning, heatless curlers still set in her hair as she dusts powder across her face. “Well, hello there, beautiful. Don’t you look sexy for dear Nicky,” she teases.
You roll your eyes slightly, ignoring the comment.
She glances around her bathroom before shrugging. “I don’t have it.” You couldn’t even ask to borrow hers because she’s sitting with heatless curlers.
Then she pauses.
And you can practically see the realization hit her.
“Jude has it!” Portia laughs while you just stare at her in confusion. “Oh, you know why. That whole Sorry Man thing Jules filled his head with.”
“Oh… right… I honestly forgot about it...”
That's actually a lie. Like a child believing in monsters under the bed, you believe there is something out there in the woods. It's a story Jules would always tell you that story to freak you out, but it never left you. You've always had paranoia about all things eerie and scary. Now Jules passed it onto his poor, sweet Jude…
“Jude’s been collecting ‘weapons’ or something,” Portia adds, amused. “I think I saw him bringing everything into Jules’s room. Probably wants his dad to check it all. Honestly, Jules needs to grow up.”
“Right…” you murmur. “I’ll just check there.”
You glance down at your phone, looking at Nicky’s location. He is about thirty minutes away. Just enough time.
You quickly send him a message.
So excited to see you, babe <3
The words sit there on the screen.
You stare at them for a second longer than necessary before locking your phone. You haven’t seen Nicky in just a day, but it felt like weeks.
You head down the hall to Jules’s room. His door is closed. You knock lightly.
No answer. You hesitate, and then push it open.
The room is dimmer than yours, the curtains only partially drawn. It smells faintly like cedar and something sharper. It is clean and distinctly him. You move carefully, scanning the space, checking surfaces, the bed, the shelves. Nothing.
Your eyes drift across the space, taking it in without meaning to. It hasn’t changed much. The same bed. The same windows. The same quiet feeling that used to wrap around you like a secret. Memories surface before you can stop them.
Sneaking down the hall after everyone had gone to sleep, your heart racing with every creak of the floorboards. Slipping into this room in the dark, trying not to laugh too loudly, trying not to get caught. Nights that felt endless, like time slowed just for the two of you. Mornings where you’d wake before sunrise, carefully slipping out of his bed and back into your own room, hoping and praying that no one had noticed.
God, you should’ve known better than to let Nicky choose the Cunningham summer house for the wedding. Of all places. Of course it had to be here. Of course it had to be the one place filled with everything you tried so hard to leave behind.
Your eyes drift to the bathroom door, slightly ajar.
You shouldn’t go in. But you do anyway.
You push it open slowly and freeze.
Jules is there. Of course he is, it’s his room after all. Heat rushes to your cheeks when he turns around and immediately makes eye contact with you. Jules stands there, fresh from the shower, water still tracing down his shoulders, his dark hair damp and pushed back. His muscles glisten in the bathroom lighting as his right bicep moves in a jerking motion, his hand tightly stroking his… oh! It finally clicked in your brain of what he was doing as your eyes followed his right arm. He groans out your name, maintaining sharp eye contact and a devious grin.
He’s gripping his soft, pink tip and rubbing the slick between his thumb and forefingers. He’s touching himself. In front of you. His eyes are on you.
He’s focused on you, like there is nothing else that can get him off. His eyes are feasting on the silky, red robe you are wearing. The way the silk perfectly hugs your curves. The cut of your top reveals just enough cleavage to tease him. Your thighs. He always loved your thighs. Jules loved how smooth they felt against his lips and how his teeth could playfully bite at the most sensitive parts of your inner thigh.
How convenient. He was already thinking of you, and now here you are as he strokes himself close to completion. The wet sounds are crude and fill the bathroom. His thick, muscular thighs are trembling as he gets closer and closer to cumming. You bite your lip, unsure how to react to the scene in front of you. You haven’t seen Jules like this in quite a long time. His rough, callused hands continue to stroke his shaft. He is so worked up over you.
“Say my name,” He groans out as he continues to pump himself. His free hand creeps up to his neck, light pressing against his throat. Jules’ face turns flushed from the pressure on his neck. His eyes close for just a moment as he enjoys the euphoric sensation of jerking off in front of you.
You are frozen. Heat pools at your core, and you can’t help but squeeze your thighs together at the sight of Jules. It’s like he’s trying to maintain his dominance despite showing you how vulnerable he is when he chokes himself.
“Jules…” You murmur quietly, almost instinctively, as you watch his eyebrows tense. Jules chokes out your name and throws his head back. You gave him exactly what he needed. He finally lets go of his neck and squeezes the tip of his cock as his cum sputters out. He cums hard, letting his cum shoot out into his hands and onto his beautifully carved chest. Your eyes trace the path his happy trail leads to the base of his cock. Jules is panting hard, and your mind finally registers what you witnessed.
“Holy shit—Jules!” you blurt, spinning around immediately, hands flying up to cover your eyes. “What the fuck?!”
“I had to let off some steam,” Jules said with a smirk on his devilishly handsome face, “It’s been a while…” You’re unaware of him slowly approaching you from behind.
“Hope you enjoyed the show…” His voice low, controlled, already reaching for a towel without making it a bigger scene than it already is, “...because I know you did.”
“You can turn around,” he says, calmer now.
You feel his hot breath against your ear. Your entire brain has short-circuited. You open your eyes to search for your missing item. Pushing Jules away from you, you finally find it.
The counter is cluttered, but not in a normal, careless way. Your curling iron sits right in the middle of it all, but it’s surrounded by a strange collection of items laid out almost deliberately. A heavy flashlight. A set of old tools. A thick pair of gloves. Miscellaneous medical tools. Even a rolled-up magazine shoved near the sink like it belonged there. On the ground a suitcase already filled with a few clothing items. Are they yours..? You assume Jude was preparing to pack everything in there. How strange… What could he possibly do with a suitcase full of random things..?
“I’m just here for this,” you say too fast, lifting the curling iron slightly like it proves you have a reason to exist in this moment. “Jude left it in here.”
You are relieved to see Jules in a towel. His bare chest is practically asking you to stare at it, you avoid any and all eye contact with Jules. You clear your throat, stepping back toward the doorway.
Jules glances at the collection of items, then back at you. A beat passes.
“Right,” he says simply, “His weapons… and things…”
Your face is still burning. You hate that you saw him like that. You hate that you were caught off guard, flustered, standing in a room you clearly shouldn’t be in. Worse than that, you hate that your body reacted before your thoughts did, that your pulse is still too fast, that you’re hyperaware of him in a way you absolutely don’t want to acknowledge. That you felt just a tinge of desire. God, you feel like such a bad fiance right now.
“I’m leaving now, Jules. For the love of God, please just leave me alone!”
“Don’t—” His eyes are practically devouring you. The only thing restraining himself from pouncing on you is that any moment from now, Nicky will enter the house. All he can offer is his hand, still slick from his saliva and cum. A hand that’s saying “Please come back to me”. Something in your chest twists. It’s sharp and confusing and that means you need to immediately shut it down.
“Get your hand away from me! I’m not fucking staying,” you blurt, the words slipping out before you can stop them as you rush past him. The door shuts behind you with a little too much force, but the moment doesn’t stay in that room. It follows you.
“Get it together,” you whisper under your breath.
But even as you say it, you know it’s already too late to pretend that moment didn’t happen and have a hold on you. Your face is burning, and you fail to cool it off.
You just need a minute.
Just a second to breathe.
You just need to finish getting ready. That’s it. Focus on something normal. Something manageable. Then you can get through the rest of the day. All of the wedding planning that needs to be done in just a few days. What was it again? Cake tasting? Writing letters to loved ones? Trying on your dress? Perhaps, all of the above. Something that has nothing to do with him. Without Jules interfering.
You turn the corner and run straight into Nicky.
“Nicky—” you gasp, stumbling slightly before he steadies you instantly, his hands coming up to catch your arms.
“Hey, hey—” he says softly, concern flickering across his face. “Easy, girl”
Your heart jumps again, but this time it twists into something heavier. Guilt.
You rise onto your toes without thinking, stealing a kiss. You need it. You need the certainty, the reassurance, and something solid to hold onto. For a brief second, it works. The reminder of him, the warmth, the way he always meets you there. This moment tells you everything you’ve been trying to convince yourself of. This is right. He’s right. This is who you love. This is who you’re choosing. Nicky is your soulmate. Jules can fuck off.
Nicky’s hands settle at your waist, grounding you, and he lets out a soft chuckle as you pull back. There’s a smile on his face, easy and warm, like always.
“Sorry,” you say quickly, stepping back just enough to create space. “I really needed that.”
“It’s okay,” he replies gently. Too gently.
Nicky takes a second to admire how good you look. He likes the red on you, though he was hoping for white. “You look so sexy,” he says while he pulls you a little closer. You blush and avoid his eyes. He studies your face for a moment longer than usual, his brows pulling together slightly. “Hey… are you alright?”
“Yes, I am fine,” you say, the words coming out a little too fast before softening. “I’m just really stressed… your family… and my family… together is a lot.”
“Yeah,” he exhales quietly, nodding, though his gaze doesn’t leave you. “Yeah, I get that.”
But he doesn’t look entirely convinced.
His thumb brushes lightly against your arm, absentminded, like he’s trying to comfort you but isn’t sure how. There’s a subtle pause before he steps a little closer again, like he’s testing the space between you. Your chest aches at that. He’s trying to be in your world of anxious and repetitive thoughts.
“They can be… a lot,” he admits with a small smile, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes this time. “But it’ll settle. Once everything’s done, once it’s just us… it’ll be easier.”
Just us.
The words should feel comforting. They do.
“I texted you,” you say, almost without thinking.
“I saw,” he nods. “I was driving. I didn’t want to answer while—” he trails off, offering a small smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “But I liked it.”
There’s another pause, and it stretches just a little too long. You honestly feel a little hurt by that small comment. Why is something so small such as liking a message bothering you right now? Nicky has always been the one who showed up. The one who filled your anxious thoughts with reassurance, who made effort feel effortless, who made you feel like you were never guessing where you stood. Now, standing here in the middle of your wedding week, it feels like you’re suddenly trying to interpret pauses where there used to be certainty in his actions.
“I’ve got a few things to handle before everything starts,” he says, stepping back slightly, putting a small but noticeable distance between you. “But I’ll see you in a bit, yeah?”
“Yeah,” you reply. “I love you”
“I love you too”
He leans in, pressing a soft kiss to your temple. It’s brief like he is not entirely sure where you are right now. Then he pulls away, giving you one last look before running off to who knows where.
━━━━ ✦ ━━━━
The day has passed in a blur of carefully curated decisions that never quite felt like a mutual decision. You've been trying to keep yourself occupied because any quite moment meant that the scene of Jules infiltrates your mind.
Flower arrangements were chosen in soft, coordinated tones meant to impress more than to reflect anything about you. Letters to loved ones were written with a kind of forced sentimentality, as if you were trying to convince yourself that everything felt as meaningful as it was supposed to. Then there was the cake tasting. It should have been simple, but somehow became the moment everything quietly tilted off balance.
Nicky had chosen almond.
You hadn’t said no.
You told yourself it didn’t matter. That it was just cake. That compromise was normal. But the truth sat heavier beneath it. You were too afraid to disagree, too tired to start another careful negotiation where the goal seemed to be keeping everyone else comfortable.
So now the wedding cake would be almond. It’s not wrong, but it’s just not you.
Maybe that was the part you couldn’t stop thinking about. You felt a similar thread running through everything else. Nicky’s decisions often softened and guided by his mother’s quiet influence. You love Victoria. You really do, but you were starting to notice how easily her presence filled the space where his independence might have been.
Though, a quiet voice in the back of your mind pointed out what you didn’t like admitting. You weren’t entirely different. You had your own version of that string pulling you towards your mother.
Now you’re in bed with a sleeping Nicky. He looks like an angel as he rests so contently while you haven’t felt that way all day. You’ve been having trouble sleeping again. Your thoughts won’t slow down, your body stuck in that restless, uneasy state you can’t seem to shake. It’s like you’re waiting for something to go wrong, even though everything on the surface is exactly as it should be.
You can't sleep. Every time you close your eyes, the scenes of Jules from this morning play in your head. Perhaps, Nicky could replace it.
Carefully, you close the distance between you and Nicky, spooning against his back. Your arms slide around his waist, holding him gently. You press a few soft kisses to the back of his neck, lingering just a little longer each time, hoping selfishly that he’ll wake up and turn to you, that he’ll say something that makes everything feel normal again. You plant a wet kiss just below his ear, your tongue teasingly toying his neck. Your hand softly holds the back of his neck, an invitation for something more.
For a moment, he stays still. Then he shifts. A small, sleepy exhale leaves him as he stirs slightly in your arms, one hand coming up to cover yours where it rests against him. His voice is rough with sleep when he finally speaks, quiet and barely there.
“Not now…”
It isn’t harsh. It was tired. He’s halfway between sleep and awareness and trying to return to where it was quiet. His fingers give your hand a faint squeeze. It’s almost apologetic, almost instinctive. He turns his face slightly away as if drifting right back under. Just like that, he’s gone again, but you’re still awake.
Fuck it. I need a cigarette. You lie there for a moment longer. You don’t want to leave your beloved Nicky, but you can’t keep on laying there with your thoughts. Carefully, you slip out of bed. The floor is cold beneath your feet as you move quietly through the lodge, trying not to disturb anything or anyone. You don’t even fully decide where you’re going. You just know you can’t stay there, not with your thoughts pressing in like that.
The family room is dimly lit when you enter, all heavy shadows and inherited grandeur. Taxidermied animals line the space like silent observers, glass eyes catching what little light there is. It feels strange standing here.
You find a spot at the window seat and wrap your arms around yourself tightly.
Why doesn’t it feel like enough? Why doesn’t any of this feel like enough?
Not the house, not the wedding, not the careful planning. Isn’t this supposed to be the part where you feel chosen and celebrated? You love Nicky because he chose you. He chose you loudly and proudly, yet here you are alone.
You exhale sharply, pulling out your cigarettes. The lighter flicks once, then again, until the small flame finally catches. You bring it up, inhale—
“Mind if I join you?”
The voice cuts through the silence room, bringing you a cold chill that’s not coming from the snowy scene outside.
You freeze slightly, turning your head. Jules is there. His eyes on you.
Leaning casually against the doorway like he’s been there longer than you noticed, like he always knows how to appear exactly when you don’t expect him to. His gaze is steady, unreadable, but makes your chest tighten for reasons you don’t want to examine too closely.
There’s no teasing in his voice. Just a hint of fatigue like he’s been up all night.
“You need something to jerk off to? You freak…” You mutter, putting a hand up to signal for him to stay away.
“Oh please, you could have walked away…” then Jules smirks for just a second, before wiping it away with a more cocky expression, “..or joined in…” He somehow made the room feels smaller than it did a minute ago.
You’re very aware of the rising heat in your body. You aren’t sure if you’re angry or embarrassed, but one thing for sure is the tension. You ignore his comment. Maybe that shouldn’t be brought up. You don’t know where it would lead to.
“Why are you up?” You try to shift the conversation elsewhere. If you ignore it, maybe it will go away.
Jules takes a seat beside you. He’s close. “Jude can’t sleep,” he says. “He thinks the Sorry Man might come any minute now, so I have to patrol the hallways for him.”
That earns a breath of reluctant amusement from you, even if it’s faint. “You know, you’ve always been such a good dad,” you say before you can stop yourself. “He’s just sensitive. That’s a good trait to have. I still believe in it too, you know.. the Sorry Man”
Jules huffs a quiet laugh, but it doesn’t fully land as humor. It’s softer than that.
“Yeah,” he murmurs. “He's sensitive... Sorry Man? I didn't think you would remember that after all of these years”
You take another drag from your cigarette. You offer it to him, looking forward instead of at him. You don’t think you could handle his eyes looking at you so fiercely. Looking at him feels like stepping into something you’re not ready to deal with.
“You know I've always been terrified of anything creepy or supernatural... my anxiety lives off of it... It's feeding off of the wedding stress too...”
Jules looks at you intently while he takes up your offer. He’s a doctor with many vices. One of them being a cigarette and the other being you.
“You’re not sleeping either,” he says quietly, taking a drag from the cigarette.
“Oh really?” you reply, dry and a little sharp, brushing your hand over your knee as you look out toward the dark treeline. “How could you tell?”
There’s a faint exhale from him. It’s almost a laugh, but not quite. Your patience thinning at the edges of everything you’re holding in.
“I used to able to help you.” Jules says, and for a second, you can sense just an ounce of longing in his voice. Like he actually cares about your struggles. It honestly felt like a smack to the face. Since when did he ever help you? All he has done for the last twenty or so years of you knowing him is give you problems. Either something for you to run from or something to chase after. Why is he now deciding to care?
“Seriously, Julien,” you say, and the use of his God given name hits him exactly the way it always does. “What do you want from me?”
“You,” he says. Simple. Certain. You are the only answer that’s ever made sense. Your breath catches when you see how intensely he is looking at you. “I need you…”
“Jules… you know I can’t…,” you say, but your voice isn’t firm anymore.
“Can you for once see how much I fucking need you right now”
That was the push you needed to send you over the edge to finally acknowledge every feeling you’ve ever had for Jules. Your mind goes dark for just a second. He’s not going to fuck with you now. The tension in the air is thick, and maybe in just this moment, you’ll recognize it for what it is.
Your frustration and embarrassment twist into something deeper. Desire. “How about I show you.” You being to toy with your robe, your hands are shaky with fear. You should be resist, but your desire is making your mind go weak. You should be worried about someone seeing, if Nicky wakes up, but those thoughts are buried in the back of your mind. You just need a bit of relief.
Without any hesitation, Jules starts to palm at the growing tent on his groin as he prepares himself for the scene in front of him. Out of instinct, your legs spread in front of him, knees pulling up. You fiddle with the silk strap keeping your robe together. Jules watches you with hunger in his eyes.
You slide the robe off your shoulders, revealing the smooth skin underneath. Your collarbone is too tempting for him to ignore. They transition beautifully to your breast, still covered by the lacy, black bra you’re wearing. He looked hungry, desperate, pleading. Licking his lips, he begins to slide his pants off to reveal his boxer briefs. His cock is explicitly hard, craving for touch. He closed his eyes with a shuddered breath and let his head fall back against the wall of the nook.
You finally remove your robe, revealing the rest of your figure. Your lacy, black underwear easily hid your wetness. At first you merely rubbed yourself through your panties, letting the pressure of your fingers give you some relief. You struggled to keep your breathing even, as you watched Jules begin to stroke himself through his briefs. Your arousal was becoming unbearable. The cotton material under your fingers was damp, molding the cloth of your thong to the outline of your folds.
“Don’t act like it’s nothing I haven’t seen before,” Jules says between breathy moans. He leans forward, his free hand wanting to push your legs apart more, but you push him back using your foot.
“No, touching.” You click your tongue and continue to massage your clit through your panties. You wouldn’t dare let him touch you. You dip your index finger down, you collect some of your wetness and bring it back up to your clit. Jules is now looking at you with half-lidded eyes. You feel so sexy and desired. His breathing is heavy, but quiet enough to not escape this room. The small groans and strained noises he made encouraged you to keep going.
“We can do everything else, but just… don’t touch me..”
“You got it, Princess.” Princess? You haven’t heard that in a long time.
Now his cock is out, standing in its glory. You only saw it hours before, but it looks bigger somehow. His head is pink and needy for attention, precum leaking just a bit from the tip. Jules starts to massage his cock to the rhythm of you rubbing your clit. Your fingers are soaked by the slickness between your legs. Your index finger slips easily inside of you and throughout your folds. You start to pump your finger in and out of your pussy, adding your middle and ring finger to fill your needy hole.
“Fuck, I need you…” Jules grunts, pumping his cock faster and faster.
You choke back your moans while Jules shamelessly mumbles your name between each stroke of his cock. You look at him with the same hunger he’s been giving you. Something flickers in your eyes that makes Jules smile.
“Do it,” he grunts with a satisfied smirk.
“Do what?” You aren’t too concerned about the games he’s playing now. You just want to finish. You’re fingering yourself faster, your thong is off and next to Jules. Your legs are wide open, letting Jules see just how needy you are. The familiar scent of your sex drives him crazy. You sit on the soft nook cushion, fingering yourself to the cadence of Jules jerking himself off.
“Choke me.”
You look at him with a sick desire as you continue to finger yourself, the warm sensation spreading all throughout your body. You slide your fingers out of your wet cunt, so you can crawl towards Jules. All you hear now are his deep, quick groans and his hand sliding up and down his beautiful cock. You raise the same hand you were fingering yourself with just close enough for him to have an idea of just how much relief you’ve been needing. Jules keeps his eyes on you as a desperate moan escapes his lips. Oh, he misses the scent of you. Just a whiff of your pheromones was enough to drive him crazy.
You press your hand against his neck, softly at first. Just a taste of what is to come. Jules lets out a deep groan as he gets closer and closer to finishing. You tighten your hold on his neck, resting your forehead on his. Jules is gasping slightly as he shuts his eyes, stroking faster and faster. He spreads his strong legs so you can shift closer to him. There’s just enough space between his cock and your cunt that felt safe. You didn’t want to give him more than what he deserved or crossed a line.
“Oh fuck,” Jules moans, grabbing your thong with his free hand. His euphoria overrode any other sense as hot string of grunts and curses leaving him as cum spattered against his knuckles and your thin underwear. Jules' body is practically in shock. When you release your grasp, he immediately slumps against the wall. The scene in front of you could’ve made you orgasm without you even touching yourself. Jules watches you intently as you return to fingering yourself, only this time you are also lightly choking yourself with your free hand. You wouldn’t dare let Jules touch you, so your own hand will suffice. You squeezed your thighs together as you finally reached your climax. You quickly muffle your moan with your free hand so you can ride out your orgasm with the other.
Jules’ eyes are filled with awe. He’s out of breath and can’t think of anything slick to say to you. You both just stare at one another, chests rising and falling as huffs leave your lips. You can’t believe this happened. You can’t believe you let this happen, but it felt so good. Too good.
Jules exhales slowly, almost like he’s giving himself the strength to do something. Then he leans in. His hand lifts just slightly, brushing near your cheek. He’s not pulling you in, just there, waiting. Giving you the chance to move away, and you don’t. When he finally closes the distance, it’s soft. Your brain goes quiet. For once, the racing thoughts and anxieties go away. Jules’ warm lips on your own was enough to shut you up. It covers you in a soft embrace that you’ve been needing. His lips move against yours gently. He's slow and intentional, remembering what it felt like to kiss you so deeply. One of your hands presses against his chest to steady yourself against his body..
Then Jules pulls back, barely, his forehead almost hovering near yours, breathing uneven. Neither of you speak.
His eyes are on you. Saying a million things that he doesn’t have to put into words. It said I miss you, I’m sorry, I need you, and so much more.
“I think…” you try to find the words, but it’s like they’ve completely left your mind, “... we should go.”
Jules is quiet. He assesses the situation, and he knows you’re right. But he just wants to be in this moment longer.
“Don’t try to be a romantic, Jules,” You throw your robe back on and snatch the underwear from him, “Aftercare was never your thing.”
“You’re right...” He then shakes his head and adds, “... about us needing to leave.”
You nod, even though it feels like something inside you resists it.
The walk back through the lodge is quiet, the heavy feeling weighing both you and Jules down to a slow pace. Jules stays just a few steps behind you. Close enough that you’re aware of him with every step, far enough that it feels like a choice neither of you is fully making anymore. You reach the hallway to your room.
“Goodnight.”
You ignore Jules. You walk down the hallway and reach the slightly open door. Why does an action so simple have such a lasting impact on you? It was so small, yet it settled in your heart. You don’t look at Jules before entering the Lovers’ Suite.
Inside, Nicky is still asleep. He is so peaceful and unaware, and it makes that sick feeling return to you. The steady rise and fall of his breathing grounding the room in a way you suddenly feel disconnected from. Guilt settles in your chest immediately blooming with every second you’re not with Nicky.
Unaware to you, Jules is still lingering at the entrance of the hallway.
He doesn’t come in. He just looks at the doorway for a long moment. There’s something in his expression now that he doesn’t try to hide anymore. It’s desperation and pain, with perhaps a sprinkle of devotion. Every day he sees you is a reminder of every mistake he made in his youth.
Carefully, you slip back into bed beside Nicky, your movements slow and quiet so you don’t disturb the calm he’s still wrapped in. You turn onto your side, facing away from him at first, then slowly settle in closer, trying to convince your body to relax. You feel Nicky pull you towards him, your back pressing against his chest.
Somewhere between waking and drifting off to sleep, you realize that you’re still thinking about him.
⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡ author's notes: PAUSEEEEEE !!! i did not mean for this to be this long omg i am so sorry !!! alsooooooo feel free to dm me :) i love catering to the 3 svbigth fans and i need to feed y'all lololol !!! okay i hope jules isn't too ooc. i got a little carried away, but there might be some edits of this later lololol help idk how to not write too much- love, jaz
So I’ve just finished Young Sherlock (which is 100% my new hyperfixation) and I really, really need some x reader fics that revolve around these three. Sherlock, Moriarty, Mycroft… I’ll take all of them to be honest
Having worked together for years, you and Jungkook know exactly how to play your roles, going undercover as a married couple. But that’s until the act stops feeling like one.
PAIRING: detective!jk x detective!reader
GENRE: smut with a lot of plot
WORD COUNT: 8k
WARNINGS: some undercover crime solving, sexy&intelligent gone wrong, idrk what’s going on tbh, jk’s secretly a yearner, alcohol, elites being illegal like always, brief mentions of money laundering, gambling&blackmailing, they’re at an underground club, smut wise: exhibitionism (it just…keeps happening), dirty talk, oral (f recieving), hair pulling, he bends her over ofc, some more probably
NOTES: surprise! 2.0’s mv randomly inspired me to write this and it was supposed to be posted by friday but uh mark happened. this turned out to have so much more plot than i planned but it kinda just flowed that way. also lmk if you’d like a part 2!! enjoy <3
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Rain settles over London as if it’s seeking ownership.
Because in theory, rain does own the city of London, in its own, inscrutable way. It clings onto everything. From the glass windows of the club that are covered in a way that screams guilty, the stone railing that’s a little too romantic for a place like this, to your collarbones that stay exposed through the thick fabric of your coat— everything is decorated with small droplets of rain, creating a measured disorder that’s still stubborn enough not to leave no matter how hard you try to shake it off.
By the time the car pulls to a stop, it paints a black, sleek shadow beneath the streetlights. The street already looks polished; like it’s somewhere you don’t find yourself in unless it’s absolutely intentional, unless you’re assigned to be here, unless you have a purpose.
You watch it through the window for a little more than necessary, because every detail matters. You take notes of the grand spacing between the arrivals, the lack of hesitation at the entrance, the high chins and dark eyes of the men and women that are too powerful to face any consequences; every single one of these people belong here.
The driver opens the door of the backseat before you have time to even reach for the handle, blinking twice before stepping out to force confidence into your body. You move with ease, like you’ve practiced this a hundred times before, because you have. Because every ounce of authority in you is backed with years of practice.
Jungkook follows you a breath later, taking two large steps to claim his place right next to you, offering out an arm for you to hold onto. As he adjusts the black coat on his body, you slip your hand into the crook of his arm, fingers wrapping around his bicep.
The rain immediately catches in your hair, then the fabric on your shoulders, and then the exposed line of your collarbones. Jungkook opens the umbrella in his free hand before your blowout has time to budge out of place, holding it over your head without asking.
“Don’t scan too hard.” Jungkook says slowly, voice low enough to disappear beneath the crowd.
“Don’t teach me my job.” You mutter under your breath, eyes focused on the street instead of him.
Jungkook huffs out something between a breath and a laugh. “I’m not.” He says, adjusting the umbrella slightly, angling it so that it shields you more than himself. “I’m reminding you of it.”
You roll your eyes. “Don’t forget what role you’re playing.”
He scoffs, but the corners of his mouth tilt despite himself. His posture shifts subtly, just enough to close the little space left between your bodies, like he’d been waiting for the cue.
“Please.” He huffs out, arm slipping out of yours to find your waist. His hand settles exactly where your waist curves inwards, wrapping around like it’s muscle memory. You straighten your posture at his touch, your shoulder brushing against his chest with each step you take.
Right ahead of you, the gravity around the entrance is so heavy it’s already pulling you in, before you can even acknowledge the warm coloured light painting the corners of the front door.
Jungkook leans into you, mouth grazing over your ear lightly, yet enough to let chills trail down your spine. “Camera over the left column.” He murmurs without looking, eyes flicking above the door so quickly even you almost don’t catch it. “Wide angle.” He continues.
“Mhm.’ You hum in response, a sweet yet calculated smile playing on your lips despite yourself. You place your right hand on top of his, intertwining your fingers where they sit on your waist. You pull him just a little closer to adjust your pace, slowing him down enough to fall in line with the queue of people ahead.
Up close, everything feels even more premeditated. The lighting frames the edges around the doorway instead of spilling naturally, catching in the marble in a golden hue. Two men are standing at the entrance, eyes scanning through until there isn’t an inch that’s not tainted by their gaze. They’re both in sleek black suits, dressed exactly the same as the white button-up underneath their jackets pick up the light in a way that’s too bright for a night like this.
“Good evening.” One of the men says when the two of you approach further. You don’t slow down, reaching the threshold arm in arm.
“Names?” He asks, eyes flicking between you and the list in his hand.
Jungkook doesn’t hesitate before speaking, filling in the silence half a second later. “Charles and Clara Beaumont.”
The man’s eyes linger on you for a second longer this time, scanning through the list as he matches and confirms whatever he has to.
“Of course.” He says after a beat, moving to the side just enough to offer you space to step inside. Jungkook’s hand finds the small of your back, settling in a way that grounds you, sending warmth through your body, even over the fabric of your coat.
You don’t react outwardly, not in a way that lets him know, but you do feel his touch. The inch of contact, every degree of pressure, the way it anchors you just enough to look real— feel real.
“Stay close.” He murmurs, and the door opens.
You think you’ve never entered a place more unwelcoming than whatever this is.
“Let’s not waste time.” Director Kang had said, leaning onto the table that’s placed in the middle of the meeting room as he pressed a few buttons on the control in his hand until the screen flickered to life.
A face appeared; a man with a controlled smile, a sharp navy suit, and the kind of confidence that’s effortless without needing any practice, because it had been perfected years ago.
Hugo Vane.
You already knew the name, Jungkook already knew the name, but knowing from afar and seeing are different things.
“Publicly,” Kang started, the pacing of his words measured yet nowhere near slow. “One of the most successful private investors across Europe. Real estate, insurance, hospitality. He’s in it all, has been called ‘transformational’ way too many times.”
Jungkook let out a quiet breath through his nose, tongue poking the inside of his cheek. “Of course.”
“Over the last ten years, he’s built a network of high end venues across Europe– almost half in England– that function as fronts for illegal gambling, money laundering, controlled blackmail; all of it tied to names you would never expect” He breathed.
“What’s crucial is, everything is recorded. Debts, favors, leverage; we can get our hands on everything. This opening in London isn’t a random celebration, it’s a consolidation point. Real transactions will happen in the private rooms, so the main floor is useless. Your objective is simple, get inside one of those rooms, doesn’t matter which for now. We need confirmation of what happens in there. But most importantly, we need access, we need to track every breath they take.” Kang paused, exhaling through his nose.
“This man might have blood on his hands.”
After letting the words settle in the room, Jungkook tilted his head, swinging left and right in his chair. “And we’re just walking into that?” He asked.
Kang inhaled. “You’re not just walking into it.” He said, eyes flicking between the two of you before switching onto the next slide.
Two photos of a couple flashed across the screen, attractive and well dressed in the same old way people with generational wealth are.
“Charles and Clara Beaumont,” Kang explained. “Married for six years, currently in Nice, unlikely to make it.”
Jungkook’s mouth curved into a lazy grin. “So we’re them.”
“You are.”
“Six years?” You added a beat later, head tilting slightly.
Jungkook leaned back in his chair, arm resting along the backrest. “Won’t take much time to look convincing.” He said, a small smirk on his face as his gaze flicked over to you.
“Gotta play your part well, Jeon.” You said, tone disinterested as your eyes still focused on the picture on the screen like it would tell you something if you stared hard enough.
A small smirk played out on his lips, cocky in a way that grew you eager to slap it off his face. “Oh, I won't be playing.’
You rolled your eyes, huffing out a short scoff. You didn’t respond to him further as your grip tightened around your pen, squinting your eyes at the man on the screen. “Backgrounds? Anything we shouldn’t look past?” You asked.
Kang nodded slowly. “Everything will be provided by tomorrow morning, study them before you fly out.”
He stepped away from the table, standing right in the middle of the two of you, hands on both your shoulders like he’s warning you. “You will not draw attention, and you will not break cover. Find the confirmation we need and leave before anyone suspects anything. Play safe this time, we’ll see what comes next when you fly back.”
“What if we get access to the recordings?” Jungkook asked.
“Great, but don’t compromise the mission for it. Like I said, play safe for now.” Kang said, Jungkook nodded once in response.
You crossed your arms over your chest, biting the corner of your lips. “What about surveillance?”
“Everywhere. Which means whatever you do,” Kang answered until Jungkook cut him off, leaning forward, settling his elbows on the table. “We have to sell it.”
Kang lookwd at him. “Yes.”
“--Champagne?” The server asks, cutting through the memory with a sharp edge. You blink once, letting the room fold back into place with no more than a subtle shiver. So subtle that even Jungkook almost misses it despite being so close to you, to the point where you can feel each other’s pulses thudding under your skin.
Your body retakes everything all at once; the gold light, murmur of voices that let out no more than a few low chuckles, the weight of Jungkook’s hand still resting around your waist like it never left.
Something almost flutters in your chest.
You reach for the tray, taking a glass without any hesitation. “Thank you.”
Jungkook takes one a second later, body moving slower than yours. Because his attention is already completely elsewhere, eyes scanning through the crowd until they settle, digging silent holes into the nape of a certain someone’s neck.
“Right side.” Jungkook murmurs when the server disappears, eyes still stuck on the said man.
But you don’t turn around, now having years of experience in the job. Your hands reach for your purse, grabbing a hold of lipstick and a mirror. You drop the cap of the lipstick into your purse before opening the mirror with one hand, reapplying your lipstick as your eyes scan around the whole venue through the small mirror.
You take half a step to your left before he comes into your sight. Dark eyes, sharp jawline, navy suit tailored to fit his body without a single crease, exactly like Hugo Vane.
But younger.
“Hugo’s son.” You answer quietly, eyes on the mirror as you pat the lipstick lightly onto your lips. Jungkook’s eyes flick towards you for a beat, towards your lips. It lasts shorter than a second, maybe less than half a second, but it does happen. And you notice.
Jungkook hums, grip tightening on your waist. “Thought so.”
The man moves through the room without stopping, like he doesn’t need to, because it’s being cleared for him before he can have the time to complain. It’s not obvious, there is no dramatic space as he steps through, but there is a quiet shift in people’s demeanour. The way conversations pause just enough, the way bodies angle themselves just slightly, the way the room bends and molds around him and not the way around.
You try not to drown in the space he leaves behind, because it doesn’t settle, it knocks your breath out in a way you don’t know how to explain. You don’t get anxious often– no, you never get anxious. But something about the way he silently grabbed the room and bent it without anyone noticing causes something unsettling to form somewhere in your stomach.
How he moves is enough to tell you he’s not just wandering, he’s leading something. You don’t follow him immediately, letting the time stretch and the distance breathe. But Jungkook does still for a second, hand dropping from your waist until it wraps somewhere between your wrist and hand.
Your eyes briefly flick over to the hall he disappears behind, watching the way the door swings back and forth ever so subtly. Of course, Jungkook notices your stare, eyes following the direction of your gaze.
“That’s our way in.” He says, his hand holding yours properly now.
“That’s not a way in.” You mutter through your teeth. “That’s access we don’t have.”
He shifts his body slightly, adjusting you along with him so that you’re angled the opposite way. “That’s access we will have.”
He pulls you fully now, your face almost crashing into his back as he moves without a warning. Jungkook walks fast as you trail behind, taking steps that are short, yet as swift as the height of your heels allow.
When you’re halfway through the corridor, Jungkook pulls you closer into him. But it’s different to the closeness you’ve been maintaining so far. This time, you feel his cologne filling up your nostrils every time he shifts, the way his chest rises and falls whenever he breathes. This time, he pulls you so close that turning your head means something you don’t want to say out loud.
So you don’t.
“Someone’s watching.” He says into your ear, voice barely above a whisper.
“I know.” You reply, back pressed into his. Of course you know, because someone has been watching. Someone has been watching you for so long that the feeling of it transitions into a pattern, the kind you notice even when you try not to. Here, people don’t scan, neither do they hold your gaze; but they do reappear. You swear you see the same people all at the same places at the same times; like they’re circling around certain spots ith purpose rather than simply attending an opening.
“Good.” Jungkook says before turning you around, thumb pressing lightly against your wrist. Maybe it’s a cue, maybe it’s a warning, you have no idea which. Because there’s no time for you to figure it out, because Jungkook leans in when you expect it the least.
He’s so much closer than necessary, closer than professional, and the way your body reacts is just as– maybe even more– unprofessional.
His voice drops by an octave, words escaping his lips before they disappears somewhere on your skin. “Then let’s give them something to look at.”
He pulls your body closer into his by your hands, hooking them around his neck before he lets his hands drop down to your waist. You take notice of how slow they move, because they don’t really drop down, they slide.
It feels intentional, like he’s actually caressing your body with care instead of putting on a show. Your breath catches before you can stop yourself. And even though
you get it together quickly, Jungkook notices.
“Relax.” He says, forehead pressing against yours, his breath hot against your skin.
“I am relaxed, but you’re overdoing it.” You say, hands settling where he put them.
“No, you’re underdoing it.” Your jaw tightens at the words, and you almost roll your eyes. Almost, because right now, you definitely have way too much attention on you to slip even a little.
So despite your words, your hands move. They scratch the nape of his neck before disappearing in his hair, fingers curling lightly until they’re tangled inside.
“Your left,” You whisper against his mouth. “Same man, still watching.”
“Mhm.” He hums. “Let him.” But his eyes are already closed, body leaning even more into yours as if there is any space left. Your hands drop from his hair to his shoulders, and before you know it, Jungkook’s lips are on yours.
It takes you a second to shake yourself out of the shock, letting yourself melt into the kiss as his soft lips move on yours with ease, like they belong there, like this is normal for you to do. Your eyes flutter shut, hands roaming all around his shoulders. You flinch when he gives your ass a squeeze, sending a tingle through your legs.
One of his hands raises up until it reaches your face, cupping your cheek as his thumb trails softly along your jaw. He forces your mouth open with his thumb, pulling down your bottom lip slowly, and you grant him access without thinking.
A small moan escapes your lips when his tongue slides into your mouth, and Jungkook swears his pants are going to rip right on spot if you keep sounding like that. He feels something fluttering in his chest, something he knows he has been suppressing for a long time now. So he just pulls you closer, and lets his mind drift away from anything and everything for just second, focusing on you only.
Until someone clears their throat.
“Mr. and Mrs–”
Your whole body stills, unable to move even an inch. But that’s fine, because couples like this don’t break apart for interruptions. Jungkook lets his teeth pull onto your bottom lip for one last time before breaking apart, slow enough so that you can gather yourself.
He does pull away, but his hand doesn’t leave your waist. And for a split second, he doesn’t even turn his head.
“--Beaumont.” The staff continues.
Both of you shift your gazes towards him, acting completely calm and unbothered. “Yes?” Jungkook asks politely, brows raised only slightly.
The man gives you a measured smile. “Mr. Vane is a man of discretion.”
Touché
“If you would like somewhere more private,” He continues, gesturing subtly towards a door somewhere along the corridor. “We can accommodate you.”
There it is.
Though, you don’t answer immediately, letting the question rest for a second or two in order to make it feel real. Not eager, not hesitant, but rather like it’s something you’re used to.
Jungkook glances down at you, offering a look that’s not really asking, because he already knows the answer. Just something that’s checking, something that lets him know everything is fine. You tilt your head slightly, the corner of your mouth lifting just enough so that Jungkook notices, yet the man doesn’t.
He turns his head towards the man. “Of course.”
The man steps aside, letting the corridor fall open and twist into something darker. Jungkook’s hand shifts at your waist, guiding you through the hall. And this time, you just let yourself melt into the comfort of his presence. Because resistance doesn’t really mean anything anymore. Because you know that somewhere along your performance, something slipped. The control, the acting– whatever you call it. What’s important is that neither of you really acknowledged it.
The door closes behind you softly, a sound that’s too little for a door this heavy. It doesn’t really echo, doesn’t physically linger either. But still, for a second, you can’t find it in yourself to move. You don’t have to look at Jungkook to know he hasn’t either, you can feel it in the way the air shifts around him. His legs don’t carry him anywhere when the door clicks shut, eyes roaming around the room as the rest of his body stays still.
The room is quieter than you expect it to be. It’s not empty, not silent; there’s music humming faintly from somewhere behind, walls filtering out the bass until it nearly doesn’t even reach your ears. But somehow, you still feel it thudding under your ribs, hard and heavy until it stings somewhere you can’t quite reach.
But everything feels more uncomfortable than you imagined, because even in a room as private as this one, there is intention behind every little detail. The deep brown of the leather couch, the two untouched glasses on the table already filled with whiskey too bitter for your taste, the light that’s even dimmer, even warmer compared to the outside– everything is arranged like they expect you to sit, to drink, to stay.
To forget.
When you take a step forward, heels sinking into the carpet, Jungkook’s hand doesn’t leave your waist.
If anything, it settles deeper.
Jungkook shifts his weight from one leg to the other, his chest pressing closer into your back as he leans in slightly, just enough for his mouth to brush your ear. “Two cameras.” He whispers. “One above the mirror, one across the wall.”
You don’t look, because you never do, because you never have to when it’s Jungkook who warns you. Instead, your hand moves to your hair, tucking a strand behind your ear as your gaze drifts lazily across the room, a little relieved that you’re finally where you’re supposed to be, doing what you’re supposed to do.
Your fingers graze the edges of the mirror on the wall, mentally taking a note on how something is off about it, in a way you can’t exactly point a finger on. The frame feels too smooth on your skin, too flat for something that’s embroidered romantically.
Your reflection stares back at you the same way it always does. Hair perfect, posture straight, lipstick faintly smudged because of the kiss you just shared; it’s completely untouched.
But something is still off. The angle is wrong, your frame is slightly delayed, the glass is too clean that it’s suspicious. And finally, as your fingers keep grazing around the edges in hopes of finding something worth pocketing, something red winks at you.
“They’re recording.” You say, voice breathy, almost distracted.
His hand leaves your waist for the first time since you walked in, stepping aside to take everything in properly. His absence hits you immediately, skin turning cold beneath the fabric on your body without the warmth of his touch. You try to ignore the feeling, you really do, but it lingers somewhere between the light chill of the room, and your pulse that’s now a little loud. Too loud that you feel it thud in your ears.
But suddenly, something louder than the hard pulsing of rhythms fly in from behind. It doesn’t come from the hallway– no, it’s deeper than that. The voices are muffled, the words are whispered discreetly and are chosen with care; private enough to pull a tight knot in your stomach.
You still without realizing, eyes widening only slightly as your hands rub themselves onto the sides of your coat. Jungkook notices it immediately, eyes shifting onto you before he lets his hand find yours. His fingers slip between yours, gliding with ease as if this is the most natural thing for you to do. His hold grounds you. You have no idea how or why, but it does, and your grip tightens around his beneath awareness.
Jungkook had never been easy to read.
You’ve shared way too many long flights, way too many late night debriefs. Yes, he was a little too flirty sometimes. And yes, you were aware of his attraction towards you. But you never thought it was anything near serious. At the end of the day, you were just coworkers who, in reality, couldn’t even properly get along.
Despite his cocky and flirty persona, Jungkook isn't a careless man. He never lets something slip before weighing it over and over again, never lets something mean too much.
You always thought it meant nothing to him, that he was just acting a certain way to get on your nerves, that this was just the kind of person he is.
Oh boy were you wrong.
“Wall behind the couch.” You say, gesturing towards where the voices are coming from. Jungkook turns slightly, angling his body just enough to follow the line of your sight without making it obvious.
There’s a panel there, a seamless way that leans into another room, almost invisible even to you despite how carefully you’re looking for it. Somewhere between a breath and a flick of your eyes, Jungkook moves. His body works around yours swiftly, turning you before you can process it, pressing your back into the wall you had just been gesturing at.
Your breath catches, more from the sudden closure than anything else, your hands instinctively finding his chest as he closes the distance between you. The room, the air, even voices; everything feels smaller like this. Like it’s just the two of you and no one else who are existing in this space.
“What are you doing?” You ask under your breath, but it doesn’t land the way it usually does. Because he’s already closer than what’s professional, closer than what’s safe.
Jungkook lifts his index finger, placing it on top for your lips. “Shh.” He shushes you, brows raised slightly.
A voice filters in, dark and hoarse. “...this wasn’t part of what we shook hands on.”
Something shifts on the other side of the wall, distorted in a way that doesn’t allow you to hear everything properly. “We can make a few adjustments.” Another man answers, his tone noticeably calmer.
“Hugo’s son.” Jungkook whispers, his eyes staring right into yours.
You grab his hand, pushing it off your face with a huff. “What even is his name?” You ask, face scrunched in confusion at the sudden realization.
Jungkook shrugs, letting the voices of the two men fill in the room. “That’s not how your father cooperates.”
“My father isn’t here tonight.”
Your breath stills, wide eyes lifting up to catch Jungkook’s, filled with unease.
How the fuck is Hugo not here?
That throws everything off. Because Hugo Vane not being here doesn’t feel like an absence, it makes you feel his presence even more, settling under your bones with an ache you don’t like. Because if Hugo isn’t here, because if he didn’t even bother getting out of his way to come here, this isn’t just an opening that covers a few illegal exchanges. It’s something else entirely, something that has been in motion for a lot longer than you knew of.
And whatever you walked into tonight is bigger than the room you’re standing in.
The other man starts. “If anything goes wrong–”
“It won’t.” Hugo’s son cuts him off, voice steady like it’s forcing everything into exactly where he wants.. There’s a pause, a beat filled with silence before he continues. “Everything is already in place.”
The words sound like a trap.
When your eyes flick back to Jungkook, you realize he’s already looking at you, eyes a little too empty to your liking. He looks like he’s thinking about nothing and everything at the same time. So you lift your hand, shoving his chest lightly to recollect his attention.
“Jungkook, focus.” You murmur through your teeth.
But he doesn’t react immediately, not properly at least, because his hand is still holding yours, his arm is still around your waist. And instead of loosening his hold or giving you space to breathe, his grip tightens, fingers curling around you like he’s trying to ground the two of you at the same time.
Then, his hand moves. Not away, of course not. It shifts from your waist, sliding down to your hips. Though the movement is slow, like he’s giving himself time to stop, to pull back into whatever control he has been holding onto all night.
And you can’t find it in you to move.
“They’re watching.” He says quietly, thumb grazing circles on your hip.
There’s no fucking way he’s doing that as performance.
“I know.” You respond, eyes stuck on his like they’ll bleed into blindness if you tear them away. Your voice is softer now, breathy in a way that makes Jungkook lose his mind, not that he’d ever tell you.
But right now, you too know that something shifted, that this doesn’t feel like just a show anymore.
Jungkook exhales through his nose, slow and rough, closing his eyes along with the breath he lets out. “I’ve been trying not to do this.” He starts, taking a step closer as if it’s possible. “But you’re making it so fucking hard.”
For a second, you consider pretending to not understand what he means, almost tilting your head with oblivious eyes. But halfway, you decide against it, sharply inhaling the breath he just exhaled.
But the space between you is too little– no, it doesn’t even exist anymore. The room feels smaller, the air feels thicker, and the muffled voices of the two men disappear completely behind the wall when he lets his body lean a little more into yours.
At your lack of response, Jungkook lifts the hem of your coat, giving your ass a squeeze above the thin fabric of your dress. You moan involuntarily, head falling back until it hits the hard wall behind you, a little harsher than you would’ve guessed.
“Tell me to stop now.” He says, voice low in a way that’s barely above a whisper. “Because I won’t.”
You crash your lips into his.
Maybe it’s the adrenaline, maybe it’s the walls, or maybe the fact that you’re being watched and still choosing this anyway.
Or maybe, it’s just him.
You don’t know, you can’t even think straight right now. Because the second your lips meet his, everything else collapses into a haze, way too easily. You lose your last remaining hold on everything you’ve been trying to build since even before you stepped out of the car tonight. The mission, Hugo, his son, anything and everything that’s currently going on behind the wall, even the cameras you’re fully aware of– they all blur into something distant.
You’ll deal with those later.
A swift feeling of surprise takes over Jungkook when it’s you who breaks the tension first, but he melts into the kiss without giving you time to recalibrate your actions. Your hands settle on his shoulders, fiddling with the thick fabric of his coat before slipping it down his shoulders, letting it fall onto the floor. Once it’s off, your hands move quickly on his dress shirt, unbuttoning it eagerly.
Jungkook lets out a groan at your touch, because he feels what’s underneath it immediately. The way you stop hesitating and start pulling him instead, the way your hands grip his shirt like you mean it, like you’re not just letting this happen.
You’re choosing this.
That’s what knocks the air out of his lungs more than anything else tonight. Because just hours ago, he was ready for resistance, he was ready for control, he has been doing it for years. Acting like you’re nothing more than occasional partners who don’t even get along for
the most part. He was ready for you to push him away if he went too far with the role, if he played it a little too well. He was ready to stop if you wanted to.
But he wasn’t ready for this.
He wasn’t ready for you, for your lips to meet, rid of any ounce of hesitation, like you’ve been wanting this too.
He squeezes your ass again, with both hands this time, needing to feel every inch of your body. His eyes flutter uncontrollably when you let out another dreamy moan, something that sounds like an angelic melody to his ears. He pulls you closer by the hips, then thrusts his own to meet you halfway, biting his lip harshly at the contact.
“Please, Jungkook.” You cry out, thrusting your hips into his once again, by yourself this time, desperate for a touch, an ounce of friction– anything.
“Please what, baby?” Jungkook responds with a question, his hot breath hitting the exposed skin of your neck, trailing all the way down to your collarbones. “Use your words, I know you can.”
Your hands continue moving on his shoulder, sliding off his shirt once you’re done with the buttons. You find yourself needing to take a moment at the sight of his bare chest, because it’s better than any you’ve seen before. Soft, toned– maybe even a little too toned– so bare and so pretty, all for you to touch.
Your hands roam around his chest, tracing lines along his abs. Jungkook has to bite his cheek to suppress any unplanned sounds that he realizes are way more likely to slip than he thought now that he actually feels your touch on his body.
“Not gonna fucking beg for this.” You squeeze his shoulders, nails digging deeply into his bare skin, letting your back lean even more into the wall.
Fuck.
Jungkook has thought about this.
In quieter moments, in between meetings and conversations when you were standing a little too close, in places where he shouldn’t have; he’s thought about it all. The way your voice would drop by and octave when you were focused, the way your skirt would ride up your thigh when you leaned in just a little lower, the way your hand would brush his like it meant nothing.
It never meant nothing to him.
He’d always pushed it down. Because this was work, because you were his partner, because he knew you better than to ruin something that functioned this well.
But now, your hands are all over his body, moving and pulling him in instead of stopping. Your lips are so fucking soft against his, making his chest tighter and head emptier until there isn’t a single coherent thought left inside.
“Fucking tease.” Jungkook says before lifting your dress up, letting it pool around your waist. Your lips curl up in victory when he pulls your panties to the side, flicking the lips of your pussy with two fingers, feeling your slick coat his fingers.
He plays with your clit, rubbing circles with his thumb as his two other fingers slide in and out of your wet, aching hole. Your eyes immediately fall shut at the contact, inhaling sharply when he curls his fingers at an angle he knows will make you see stars.
Then he falls to his knees.
Your eyes flutter open the moment you hear the way his knees hit the hard floor, lips parting as you’re taken aback by whatever he’s doing. You look down to him, brows furrowed in
confusion in a way that asks. But Jungkook doesn’t respond, he only gives you a smirk after looking up, then flicks his gaze back down again.
His fingers wrap around the lace fabric of your black panties, pulling them down in a way that’s painfully slow considering the waterfall between your thighs right now. When the thin piece of fabric pools down on the floor, you lift your foot, kicking it to the side with your heels.
“Jungkook,” You gasp loudly when he lifts one of your legs, hooking it over his shoulder. He starts by trailing kisses up your thighs, one hand wrapped around the soft flesh in order to steady your body. Your hands fly onto his hair before you can think, fisting and pulling at it as he gets closer and closer to your core.
“Oh my god,” You moan, looking down at him as his tongue laps against your swollen pussy. His fingers flick your lips open, easing it up for him to work his tongue. Jungkook groans as you tug onto his hair harder, licking your pussy as if he’s savoring the taste of every flavour on his tongue.
Your thighs clam around his head, closing with a shake you have no idea how to control. Your nails dig into your own palms by how hard you’re holding onto him, stinging in a way that’s almost painful.
“Shit, ‘m so close.” You whimper as heat pools low in your stomach, twisting and curling so hard that you feel your legs giving out.
“Sweetest pussy ever.” Jungkook pulls away for a split second before connecting his mouth back onto your throbbing pussy, his tongue flattening right at the part where it pulses the heaviest.
“Jungkook, fuck.” You cum hard with a scream of his name, your head falling back onto the wall so fast it almost hurts. Jungkook licks you through your orgasm, his fingers that were once separating your lips now rubbing circles on your clit until you’re fully out of your high.
Your breath doesn’t settle when he stands again, coming back up to his feet so fast, as if being away from you for even a second feels unbearable. You hold onto his arms to regain
your balance, and no more than a second passes before Jungkook’s lips find yours again.
“Gonna bend you over and take you right fucking here.” Jungkook says, grunting as he pulls back. He turns you around, then pushes you over the backrest of the leather couch until your ass is perfectly aligned and in sight. Jungkook palms the soft flesh of your skin, gripping and squeezing as he tries unzipping his pants with his free hand.
His dick springs out once his boxer is down his thighs, slapping against his abs immediately. He gives his already hardened length a few strokes before lining it up your entrance, flicking your folds with his tip, all red and angry, eager to fuck you into oblivion until your eyes roll back so hard it hurts to not see his face through the darkness.
You whimper loudly when Jungkook enters you with a hard slam, back arching into the air instinctively. His hand settles on your waist, gripping firmly as the other doesn’t leave your waist. Your pussy feels so tight and warm around his cock, and Jungkook thinks he’s going to burst out.
“Can’t believe you’ve been hiding yourself from me for years.” Jungkook says, words coming out shaky due to how hard he’s pounding into you. “Played so hard to get when you’re really just a slut.”
“Shut the fuck up.” You spit back through grithed teeth, trying to suppress your moans by burying your head into the couch. Jungkook lets out a cocky chuckle that twists your nerves even more, but the annoyance is quickly swollen up by how good he’s pounding into you.
He reaches for your dress, pulling down the fabric on your chest until the swell of your boobs spill out through your bra. Jungkook pulls down your bra next, your tits coming full on display
with a bounce. He moans when his palms settle on your soft boobs, fingers flicking and pinching your nipples until your pussy aches even harder with the sensation.
“Right there, oh my god, right fucking there.” You choke out with the little energy you have left, feeling your orgasm closer than ever. Jungkook fists your hair when you least expect it, yanking you up so that your back arches further and his bare chest grazes over your body.
You moan out shaky curses, not even aware of what you’re saying anymore as he keeps pounding into you from behind. Tears prickle up at the corners of your eyes, Jungkook’s grip getting tighter and tighter in your hair as he nears his high.
“Shit,” Jungkook whimpers, dick twitching inside your walls. “Where do you want me?” He asks, voice so low and breathy that it sends you over the edge.
“Fuck, want it inside. Don’t you dare pull out.” You say, feeling your orgasm build as his thrusts transition into something messy and sloppy.
“Oh yeah?” He breathes, pushing your body back onto the couch, his grip on your waist tightening.
Jungkook cums hard with a loud groan, emptying all of himself into you. You push yourself back on his dick a few times before your orgasm also rips through, crying out at both how hard you’re cumming, and how good he’s filling you up.
There’s a beat where he doesn’t pull out, cock softening inside you as his forehead presses between your shoulderblades, his unsteady breath feeling hot on your skin. Your breath also doesn’t settle instantly, chest rising unevenly as the weight of him suddenly feels too heavy on your skin. Everything falls back into place one by one, your vision drifting back as you come down from your high. The warmth of the dim lights, the closed door that’s hiding way too much behind, the quiet hum of voices that are muffled together behind the walls– it all returns all at once, like you’re being forced back into reality after being somewhere else entirely.
Jungkook’s hand is still on your waist, grip still firm as if he hasn’t realized he has to let you go– or maybe he just doesn’t want to let you go.
When Jungkook slides out of you, you push yourself up slightly, your body still slower than your head. “Jungkook,” You start, voice rough.
You feel his body still above you, a shift that’s so subtle yet still enough for you to feel. The realization hits him the same moment it hits you, his hand loosening on your waist.
“Cameras.” You finish, voice soft and quiet despite the weight of your words.
That’s all it takes for Jungkook to blink back into reality, pulling back fast as if distance has the power to fix everything just like that. But surprise surprise, it won’t.
That’s when a sound cuts through the walls, something so faint that for a second, you think that even you might have missed it. But you don’t, because you never do. You flinch regardless, fingers tightening slightly where they rest against him.
Jungkook feels it instantly, head snapping towards the door before he flicks his gaze back to you, leaning down just a little. “What?” He murmurs in your ear, voice low in a way that’s barely above a whisper.
You don’t answer, you can’t bring yourself to answer, because nothing that’s going through your head sounds coherent as words. Your head turns slightly when another muffled voice comes through somewhere behind the right wall, tilting enough to catch the direction without making it obvious. Jungkook follows without looking, shifting and leaning closer by just half an inch, instinctively hovering his body above yours.
His chest rises and falls harder than his usual breathing, eyes flicking around the room, reevaluating everything you’ve terribly miscalculated. “Fuck.” He mutters under his breath.
“You’re overreacting.” Someone says, voice calm and controlled, so much that it makes your stomach twist.
“I’m not overreacting, they went into one of the rooms.” Another voice replies, but it’s sharper this time. Dressed in a worry that doesn’t even try to rival how composed the previous man was.
Jungkook’s hand tightens around the backrest of the couch, leaning his body weight onto his hands above you. Your breath gets caught in your throat, stomach dropping in a way that’s almost unprofessional.
“Which room?” The calmer man asks.
There’s a pause after that, maybe a flick over the keyboard, maybe a shift of screening, you don’t know which. But the soft clicking that’s somehow heard even from where you are is enough for you to freeze beneath the warmth of Jungkook’s body.
“Doesn’t matter, we’re flagging everything.”
Fuck.
Jungkook’s grip stills on you completely, his wide eyes staring wordlessly into the wall as yours are stuck on his chest. Unable to move, unable to speak.
“Do we know who they are?”
“Not yet.”
With that, you exhale slowly, letting out the breath that has been stuck in you ever since the first subtle shift behind the walls. You know this doesn’t give you much time, hell, it would probably be criminal to call whatever this is some time. But right now, you’ll take anything you can. Because everything feels so fucking unavoidable.
“Run it through the system.” The second voice requests. “Faces, behavior, track everything.”
“They won’t make it out without us knowing,” The first voice finishes. You hear the faint scraping of the chairs, footsteps that are closer and closer as time passes by, movement that’s too animatic to be real, it all hits your ear in a hue. Suddenly, the door clicks, and they’re gone just like that.
For a second, it feels like they’re still right behind the wall, their presence burning holes through your body without even catching sight of your eyes. Like they’re still listening, still watching, waiting.
But then, somewhere between the third and fourth breath you exhale, the sound starts fading and fading until they’re finally out of your reach.
But you don’t know if that’s a good thing or not, because it’s still not quiet enough. The constellation of Jungkook’s uneven breaths mixed with yours rip through the air until it feels unbearable to exist in the same space anymore.
Because now, your fingers curl tighter against Jungkook’s shirt for a different reason entirely. He pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes filled with something that indicates he understood everything at exactly the same time as you. And it’s nowhere near controlled.
“They flagged the room.” You whisper, wide eyes looking up at him in a way that causes Jungkook to curse at himself for thinking with his dick in a situation like this.
His jaw tightens. “Yeah.”
Your mind races, trying to recollect everything until they stick together again. “And the system-”
He cuts you off. “It’s already running.”
Your voice drops as you start blinking so fast it hurts. “Shit, Jungkook, what do we do? They fucking saw us.”
You hate how he doesn’t deny it, how he doesn’t even try to soften it. Because it’s there, everything already happened in a way that’s way too ugly to be repairable, way too real to be covered with a lie.
Jungkook calls your name, slow and calculated. “They’re looking for us.”
The way those words land is so much worse than whatever you had registered previously, leading your chest to tighten until it leaves no space for your breath to exist in your lungs. Everything you just did, everything you just heard– You’re not ahead anymore, you’re inside it, you’re caught right in the middle of everything you were told to stay away from.
You make a mental note of torturing yourself for the way your chest flutters when Jungkook’s hand finds yours, grip firm like he’s scared to let you go, like he’s scared something might happen to you.
“We need to move.” He says, eyes scanning around the room for anything that’s even the smallest thread. But when it comes to actually moving, neither of you really act on it.
Because you both know the mission isn’t the only thing at risk anymore.
SYNOPSIS : Needing Sherlock's help is just an excuse to tease your favourite Holmes.
WORD COUNT : 382
A/N : Just a little drabble I wrote because this stupid man won't leave my brain folds. Enjoy.
By the forty minute mark, your boredom entirely consumes you. You make your way around the familiar office, searching for anything to occupy you. A forgotten chess game, a battered deck of cards, even a ledger with visitors you had seen and signed a million times.
You settle on overanalysing the photographs and paintings in the absence of a partner to play with. Most you've seen on your visits. Some are new, their frames lacking dust. Time stretches onward as you go through each one; there's still no sign of the man you're expecting.
As you crane your neck for an ocean landscape, the door opens.
Mycroft Holmes is rooted at sight of you.
"To what do I owe the pleasure," he lowers his hat, ever the gentleman.
With a smile that is dangerously close to being a smirk, you cross the room to greet him. He tenderly grasps the hand you extend. Your eyes never leave his as he places a kiss on the back of your palm.
Now you can't help the smirk.
"I am here because I need Mr. Holmes," you say. The spot he kissed tickles.
"Well, how may I be—"
"Not you, I'm afraid." To ease the sting, you step closer and place a hand on his shoulder. His eyes follow it.
Mycroft swallows audibly.
"My brother," he sighs at last. "What did he do now?"
"Unfortunately, it is I that find myself in a predicament. And he's got quite the reputation for solving those, doesn't he?"
Mycroft exhales. For someone who supposedly deals with delicate situations at work, the ins-and-outs of polite chatter, and swerving the conversation in whichever direction he likes, he sure does seem to hide his emotions terribly.
Or perhaps, it's because of you that he is so expressive.
Your hand travels up to cup his cheek, feeling it's warmth seep into you. While your situation is urgent, you can't help the excuse to take a detour. The man is practically begging you to leave him senseless.
"Don't worry, Mycroft," you whisper, now so dangerously close that you can feel the exact moment his breath hitches. "You'll always be my favourite."
And if later Sherlock asks why his brother's lips are swollen, it's not your responsibility to answer for him, now is it?
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