please read this before requesting // who i write for
my fic recs!
no longer a why don't we blog. on occasions i will post them, but not going to be prominent. this blog will now be: nhl and anything else i want to post. thank you for being so supportive!!
âď¸ Warnings: NSFW, Threesome, alcohol & drinking, everybody smoochin, oral (m! & f! receiving), not proofread
âď¸ Pairing: Dean Di Laurentis x fem!Reader x Beau Maxwell
âď¸ Rating: 18+, MDNI
âď¸ Words: 2639
âď¸ AN: Ask and you shall recieve (mostly). Written for this ask x
"This is my song!" You shout as the familiar dun-dun-dun-dun of Act Up starts blasting through the stereo speakers.
As if on auto pilot, you lean forward and look back over your shoulder, not caring who your eyes land on as you anchor your hands firmly onto your knees.
Locking into the beat, you drive your hips back in time with each drop of the heavy bass, sending a sharp ripple through your body as your ass moves in sync.
Beauâs standing to the side watching you dance as he waits for his invitation. He knows youâll give it; you just need to dance to a few songs on your own first.
He watches you through countless songs, body moving appropriately to whatever the beat required. The song changes into a slower song and you gesture him over with a curl of your index finger.
Your boyfriend comes to stand behind you, hands on your waist as you gyrate to the music. Beau doesnât need to guide you, if thereâs one thing you know, itâs how to feel the beat of the music through your body. You push your ass back and roll your waist, âFuck,â he groans into your ear.
Your arms raise to the air and your hands find his dark hair. He pulls you impossibly closer, nuzzling into your neck as one slow song blends into the other. Taylor really did have the best assists. Â Â
Another pair of hands find your waist and you look up to see Dean smiling down at you.
âHey gorgeous,â you purr as you wrap your arms around his neck.
The three of you find a comfortable rhythm. Hips swaying and twisting to the music. You feel warm, the mixture of the alcohol in your veins taking effect and the bodies moving around you acting as a furnace.
âShould we take this party upstairs?â Beauâs breath tickles your neck.
You look up at him. He has that look in his eyes, the one that completely contradicts his sweet, dimpled, smile.
âGreat idea,â you smile, slipping out from between them. You grab hold of Beauâs hand and pull him behind you, swerving through the crowd with ease and running up the stairs. Youâre well aware that your too-short skirt is putting on a show for anyone that happened to look up as you were going up the stairs.
Dean doesnât need to be invited to know that heâs supposed to follow you both up the stairs. The unspoken agreement between you all having been in play for months now. He stops at the makeshift bar at the bottom of the stairs, his blonde hair catching in the strobe lights, as he grabs the tequila, salt, and limes.
Once you get into Deanâs room, you pull your shirt over your head and lie back on the bed. You know the drill by now, but the familiar routine does nothing to quell the spike of anticipation in your chest. Â
Dean comes bumbling in seconds later, a careful smile playing on his face when he sees youâre ready for him. He quickly pours two shots, placing one small shot glass in each hand for you to hold. You focus your attention on balancing them as Beau leans over you, his dark eyes locked onto yours as he carefully shakes two thin lines of salt across your stomach, stopping just under the lace of your bra.
Dean puts the bottle of tequila on the nightstand and places a lime wedge firmly between your breasts before shooting you a wink.
âOpen up,â Beau coos, placing his lime firmly in your mouth.
Your stomach knots, theyâre both towering over you and looking at you with a ravenous desire. Itâs intoxicating.
They slowly come to a kneel on the bed either side of you.
âReady?â Dean asks, as they put their hands behind their back.
You nod your head, careful not to move to much and spill the shots balancing on your palms. In unison, they lean forward to pick up their respective shot with their mouth. Itâs a competition now with them quickly downing the shot and spitting out the glass.
Dean gets to your stomach first, using the tip of his tongue to lick the salt. Beauâs tongue is flat and flush against your stomach. He licks a fat stripe up and past your chest. You feel his warm breath against your skin and it leaves a trail of goosebumps.
Dean gently bites one of your breasts before taking the lime thatâs there as Beauâs lips meets yours to suck the juice from the lime. The blonde presses his face further into your breasts, thrusting his tongue between them.
âYou look so fucking pretty like this,â Dean calls, lifting his face from where it was buried between your breasts. âDoesnât she look so fucking pretty, Beau.â
âYou really do look so pretty.â Your boyfriend accompanies his words with a kiss to the tip of your nose.
You smile around the half-eaten lime thatâs still in your mouth. You and Beau had been dating a little while before Dean came into the mix. You couldnât understand why he was so hesitant to introduce you to his best friend. That is, until you saw them together. You saw the bond that he was afraid youâd see and run from. He worried youâd feel jealous and make him choose. But you didnât feel jealous; you saw it for the opportunity it was.
The night you finally suggested bringing Dean into your shared bed, Beau had pinned you down and fucked you so fiercely that even days later, just the memory alone was enough to leave you completely breathless and aching all over again. Â
You shiver as the cold tequila is poured directly into your bellybutton. Two fresh lines of salt are sprinkled across your stomach, and the old limes are replaced. Taking their places on either side of you again, the men exchange a quick smile before leaning forward. Their tongues dive into your navel, brushing against one another as they lap up the liquid pooled there.
They make quick work of sucking up the liquid that had overspilled before tracing the salt lines up your ribs, each using their tongues in different ways. You love the way your body reacts to them.
This time, itâs Dean that moves up to your face. Instead of just taking the lime, he plucks it from your teeth and replaces it with his own mouth. He runs his tongue along your bottom lip before sucking it into his mouth until you dart your tongue out to meet his. He catches your tongue between his lips and sucks on it. He tastes of sharp tequila and a deep, intoxicating familiarity that should be reserved for your boyfriend.
Blonde hair falls across your face as he deepens the kiss, you had told him that you liked it when he kept it longer, he hasnât cut it since.
Heat pools in your belly as Beau gently pulls down the cup of your bra away from your breast. His warm mouth settles over your tight nipple, swirling his tongue around the sensitive skin before sucking on it. His hand is heavy on you, groping your other breast and running a calloused thumb over the sensitive nub. You moan in Deanâs mouth as Beauâs fingers pinch the nipple.
The sensation of having four hands roaming your body and two mouths on yours sends your heart racing. Your short nails scratch Beauâs scalp, urging him on. Your other hand makes its way between your legs where youâre aching to be touched. You run your hands through your slick folds and a satisfied hum escapes your lips.
Your boyfriend releases your nipple and stands up, yanking his shirt over his head and pulling off his jeans. He watches as Dean leaves a trail of kisses down your body, the blonde repositioning himself to settle between your legs.
Dean pulls off your underwear and uses his hands to spread your knees apart. Although youâre completely comfortable with them, you feel a blush creep up your neck. Youâre fully exposed as they eye you hungrily, Dean between your legs and Beau at the foot of the bed, fully naked now and gently palming himself.
Dean looks back at his best friend for approval, they were yours and each otherâs, but you were Beauâs unless he told Dean otherwise. Beau gives him a curt nod. Â Â
You cry out, back arching, as Dean takes your throbbing clit into his mouth. The warmth of his mouth around you has your hips rolling. Dean moves your legs onto his shoulders and leans back to spit directly onto your pussy. He watches the spit roll down before diving back between your legs again, flicking his tongue around your folds in his journey towards your clit.
âHow does it feel?â Beau asks, voice husky, âtell him how it feels.â
âFeels⌠fucking⌠incredible.â Your thoughts are incoherent; all your brain power is focused on the overwhelming pleasure. You look at Beau through hooded eyes to find him looking at you. His dick is growing in his hand as he watches Dean pleasure you. His lips are parted and you can hear his ragged breaths. You can also hear the sound of your wetness between your legs, Deanâs slurping and dragging a finger between your soaking lips.
Youâre too turned on, the need to combust rising quickly within you.
Beauâs still only gently palming himself, not wanting to get too caught up. He doesnât want to come now; he wants to be buried deep in you when that happens.
Your hips jerk up as Dean slides a finger, then two, into you. He curves them inside of you as he flicks his tongue back and forth against your clit.
The combination of the blonde between your legs and your boyfriendâs hungry gaze has you quickly spiralling to an orgasm. You shudder then cry out as your orgasm crashes over you.
âThatâs it, you like that huh?â your eyes roll to the back of your head.
Both men whine at the sound of your moans, itâs their favourite song. Â
Dean gently pulls your leg from his shoulders; youâre still twitching as you come down from your high. A satisfied smile spread across his face, youâre a mess.
âYou taste so sweet,â Dean says, as he sits back on his knees, you can see a bulge in his jeans. âI could eat you for every meal.â
âLet him know how I taste,â you encourage jerking your head towards Beau. You prop yourself up on your elbows to get a better view of the men at the foot of the bed.
Dean pulls off his shirt before climbing off of bed and pulling Beau into a hard kiss.
A jolt of electricity shoots down your body and settles in your stomach as you watch them. The sight never fails to make your breath hitch. The kiss is intense, their teeth are clashing and theyâre moaning into each otherâs mouths. Thereâs no jealousy in you, no concern that youâll be pushed to the side. You unlocked this side of them and you get to reap the rewards of that.
Dean grabs the back of your boyfriendâs neck, deepening the kiss. You swallow hard, your hand coming between your legs again. Youâre already slick, aching for the weight of them to pin you down.
Beau pulls back to unbutton Deanâs jeans, pushing the denim and boxers down Deanâs thighs in one motion. Dean kicks them off the rest of the way.
Both of their chests are heaving, grasping for air as they turn their gazes to you. Youâve taken off your bra and skirt, legs spread open and youâre frantically circling your clit.
âLook at her,â Beau murmurs, his voice thick with desire.
âLie back, baby,â you breathe, âwanna ride you.â
Beau sits on the edge of the bed and lies back. He looks at you and slaps his thighs. âCome take a seat.â
Dean stands between Beauâs open legs and grabs hold of his erection. He helps guide you over Beauâs hips and down onto his hard, leaking, dick.
âCan you feel how wet I am for you?â You whine, taking him in inch by inch. The way you stretch around his thick dick feels so good, you take a minute to feel it before bracing your hands against his chest and beginning to bounce in a steady rhythm.
Beauâs hands slide along your thighs; your breasts are bouncing with each thrust.
âDean, look at how my pretty girl takes me in,â Beau grunts. You make a show of riding him; lewd moans escape your lips as you alternate between bouncing and rolling your hips.
Deanâs still between Beauâs legs, taking care of himself with his hand. That wonât do. âDean, come here. Wanna taste you.â
Your mouth waters, you love sucking off Beau but Deanâs dick is heavier and it falls on your tongue in just the right way.
You turn your head to the side as Dean comes to stand beside you, squatting down a little so you can take him in your mouth. Your tongue swirls around the tip before you take him all in. His neatly trimmed pubic hair tickles your nose as you bottom out.
Your bounces falter as you focus on the throbbing dick in your mouth. Dean looks down at your lips, swollen and stretched around him. âNngh⌠your tongue⌠ah.â Deanâs babbling incoherently.
His hands come into your hair, pulling you towards him as he bucks his hips into you. âS-shit, fuck,â he whimpers and Beauâs hips snap up into you.
Every moan and whimper that your mouth gets out of Dean earns a snap of Beauâs hips up into you.
âThatâs my girl, taking both her boys in.â
Your nails dig into Beauâs chest as Deanâs breathy moans grow louder and faster. Heâs close. Your hand comes up to play with his balls and thatâs all he can take. He pulls out of your mouth as he cums, wanting to coat you both with it. Warm cum trails down your chin as Dean spills the rest of his climax onto Beauâs chest.
His dick continues twitching in his palm as he comes to a seat next to you. He lazily circles your clit as Beau chases his own release, hips snapping into you in a dizzying pace. Your second orgasm hits you more forcefully than the first. Your eyes squeeze closed until you see stars. You cum with a scream of both of their names.
Engulfed in your wet, clenching, heat, Beau cries out.
âIâm gonna fill you up,â he rasps.
You donât think you can move, too exhausted and sensitive as Beau continues fucking up into you with pace. Youâre willing yourself to move your hips, you want to take good care of him.
âFuck.â Beau holds you in place as climaxes into you. You feel him throbbing inside of you and you clench, milking him for all he can give you.
You choke back a sob as you lean forward, completely spent.
Deanâs there immediately, wrapping an arm around you and raising you off of Beauâs softening dick. He lays you down and cleans you off with a washcloth. He wipes you gently, aware of how thoroughly fucked you are, and your heart tightens. He puts you under the covers before cleaning Beau up.
Once cleaned, Beau moves to press up behind you.
âDean, cmhere,â your words slur as sleep threatens to take you over.
Dean climbs into bed beside you and you immediately snuggle into his chest.
âHappy Birthday, boys, I love you,â you say. Two pairs of arms tighten around you and you fall asleep with a smile on your face.
AN: i had 50 cent's just a lil bit on repeat with this one
summary: Dean Dilaurentis has been the only person in your class who comes close to your grade. You've been pretending not to notice him for three months. Then a professor pairs you together for a semester project, and suddenly you have no choice but to sit very close to him in a library for five weeks and figure out what to do about that.
notes: hii i'm back!! i really hope you guys enjoy this one as much as i enjoyed writing it. this came to mind because i'm obsessed with legally blonde the musical thanks to the show, and then obviously i had to rewatch the movie immediately. i read the dean book years ago so i genuinely didn't remember the plot, so for all intents and purposes let's just agree that he went to law school and moved on. also first time writing smut, so i think it's kind of mid, but i did my best đ also the legal cases i mention might not be entirely accurate since i am not a lawyer, but i do feel very comfortable using legal jargon in everyday life. thank you so much for reading and please let me know what you think đ¤
warnings: swearing, kind of academic rivals to lovers, library shenanigans, one very unhappy night librarian, legally blonde references (many), dean is a menace, reader is a menace back, sexual tension with footnotes, and SMUT (making out, oral f!receiving, unprotected piv, light dirty talk, "good girl", dean calls you baby and honey a lot) 18+ only please, mdni.
word count: 11.8k
For the past four years, you had spent countless moments thinking about these final months of college.
Truthfully, college had always felt like a dream, a dream that for a long time had seemed impossible and far away, so when the acceptance letter arrived all those years ago, you had been ecstatic in the disbelieving way of someone who had wanted something so long they had stopped being sure they deserved it. What nobody told you was that dreams came with deadlines, sleepless nights, and enough stress to make your eye twitch on a random afternoon for no particular reason.
The dream of becoming a lawyer had started when you were young. It hadn't started glamorously, no single defining moment, no courtroom drama that changed everything. Although you really did have a knack for binge-watching shows like How to Get Away with Murder and Suits. But the real want had started with the slow, accumulating understanding that the world was not fair, and that fairness was something you had to build rather than wait for, and that the people who built it tended to know the rules better than everyone else. You had decided, young and furious, that you were going to know the rules.
Now, years later, it finally felt within reach.
Last summer you had taken the LSAT. When the score came back â 176 â you had screamed so loudly your roommate came running from the other room convinced something had happened. Something had happened. Everything had happened. Applying to Harvard had been a no-brainer after that, the natural conclusion of four years of work that had never once felt like anything other than work. To say it had all been a dream would be a lie. You had earned every grade, every internship, every recommendation letter. Every achievement had come attached to long nights and sacrificed weekends and more cups of coffee than you were prepared to account for.
Still, every now and then, you allowed yourself a moment to appreciate how far you had come.
Then you remembered the Harvard interview scheduled in just a few weeks, and the knot in your stomach returned immediately. It lived there, that knot had been living there for months, through the application and the waiting and the acceptance, through every good thing that should have dissolved it and didn't. You had stopped expecting it to go away. You had just learned to work around it.
What if you stumbled over your words? What if they asked something you couldn't answer? What if four years of work came down to one bad afternoon?
Which was exactly why Professor Whitaker's announcement nearly made you lose your mind.
The second she wrote Semester Project across the whiteboard, a collective groan spread through the lecture hall. Over the next month, students would work in pairs to complete a research project on the evolution of constitutional rights in the United States , a project worth a significant portion of the final grade.
At any other point in your college career, that would have been merely annoying.
Right now it felt catastrophic.
You could not afford for your GPA to slip. Not when Harvard was finally within reach. Not when everything you had worked for was balanced on the edge of these last few months. And that meant you absolutely could not get stuck with a partner who didn't care like a jock who only cared about a sport, someone who would contribute three bullet points to a shared document at the eleventh hour and disappear for six weeks while your entire future quietly collapsed.
The thought alone made you grimace.
So as Professor Whitaker reached for her roster and began assigning partners, you found yourself doing something you almost never did.
Praying.
"The class will be sorted according to performance on the most recent exam," Professor Whitaker announced, scanning the room over her glasses. "That way the workload stays balanced and the pairing is fair for everyone."
A few students groaned.
You sat a little straighter.
Actually, that wasn't terrible. At least now there was a reasonable chance your partner wouldn't be dead weight. You had carried enough dead weight in your academic career to last a lifetime and you were done with it.
Professor Whitaker called your name first. You looked up from your notebook on instinct, even though she already knew exactly where you were. You hated change. You liked knowing where everything was. You liked routines, systems, the quiet reliability of things being where you left them.
More importantly, you liked being good at things.
Which was why hearing that your partner would be someone on your level was oddly comforting. Most of your life had been spent balancing on a very thin line between confidence and crippling self-doubt. On good days, you knew you were intelligent. On bad days, you were convinced everyone else was smarter and better than you. The trick was not letting either version get too loud.
Professor Whitaker glanced down at her roster.
The next five seconds would remain engraved in your frontal lobe for at least thirty years.
"Dean DiLaurentis."
Silence.
Jesus H. Christ.
Your head snapped up. Not because you needed to find him. You already knew exactly where he was sitting. You always knew where he was sitting, a fact you had never examined too closely and were not going to start examining now.
Middle of the sixth row. Today he was wearing a green cardigan over a white t-shirt, looking far too comfortable for someone who had just become the source of your newest academic crisis. He was mid-conversation with Beau Maxwell when his name was called, laughing at something, completely unaware that your entire carefully managed semester had just been handed to him without his consent or yours.
Dean turned around.
Then he smiled.
That smile. The one that belonged on toothpaste advertisements and nowhere else, the smile of someone who had never once in his life worried about whether he was welcome somewhere. It was the kind of smile that assumed the answer before the question had been asked, and it had always, privately, made you want to argue with it.
His eyes found yours immediately.
The realization landed half a second later, oh, you're my partner, and his grin widened, and then, because apparently the universe had a sense of humor that you had never personally found funny:
He winked.
He actually winked.
You stared back at him with the expression of someone who had just been personally wronged by the laws of probability.
You knew Dean. Not personally, god forbid. But you knew of him, the way everyone knew of him. Hockey player. Trust fund. Chronic flirt. The kind of person who walked into a room and somehow became the room. Loud and charming and surrounded by people at all times, the social gravity of someone who had never once had to earn a seat at the table.
Meanwhile, you considered making eye contact with strangers a form of cardio.
This could not be right. There had to be a mistake. How could Dean DiLaurentis possibly have a grade comparable to yours?
You spent your Friday nights in the library. You color-coded your notes by subject, by date, by relevance. You had cried over constitutional law, like actual tears, in the bathroom of the third floor study room, alone at eleven pm because that was what it cost and you had paid it without complaint.
Dean spent his weekends at hockey games and parties.
The math simply wasn't mathing.
Unless.
Oh.
Oh, god.
He was sleeping with the TA.
That had to be it. Everything suddenly made horrifying, perfect sense. The TA was a graduate student from somewhere in the Midwest who had spoken to you exactly three times all semester, and every single interaction had felt like she was being held at gunpoint. If Dean was somehow managing to maintain a functional relationship with her â
Honestly? He deserved the extra credit for that alone.
Three months earlier, it had started.
Professor Whitaker had a specific way of running discussion that you had privately categorized as controlled chaos. She threw a question into the room and stepped back and let whoever was going to talk, talk, with the quiet authority of someone who already knew what she thought and was waiting to see if anyone else did. The lecture hall always felt different during these sessions. Bigger somehow, the overhead lights slightly too bright, the charged quality of a room full of people deciding whether to say the thing they were thinking.
You almost always said the thing you were thinking.
Today the question was about Shelley v. Kraemer.
You had opinions about Shelley v. Kraemer.
"The court got it right," you said, when Whitaker's gaze landed on you. "State enforcement of a racially restrictive covenant is state action. The fourteenth amendment doesn't care that the covenant itself was private â the moment a court steps in to enforce it, the state is complicit. You can't separate the two."
Whitaker nodded â the small, noncommittal nod that meant continue or let someone else.
"I'd push back on that a little."
You turned.
Dean had his pen between two fingers, not quite raised, the posture of someone making a point rather than asking permission. He was looking at Whitaker, not at you, which was somehow more irritating than if he had been looking at you directly. Like the argument was with the room rather than with you specifically. Like you were incidental.
"The ruling is right," he said, "but the reasoning has a ceiling. If state enforcement equals state action, you've created a framework that depends entirely on whether someone decides to litigate. The protection isn't structural, it's reactive. It only exists if someone can afford to fight for it."
The room was quiet for a moment.
You became aware, distantly, that your jaw had tightened.
"That's not a flaw in the ruling," you said. "That's a flaw in the system the ruling exists inside of."
"Sure." Dean looked at you then, for the first time. His eyes were steady, interested in a way that wasn't performative. "But you're writing a decision, not a philosophy paper. The decision has to function in the system it's handed to."
"So your position is that the court should have ruled differently because the system might not implement it correctly."
"My position is that a protection that requires money and access to activate isn't really a protection." He said it evenly, without heat. "I thought that would be something you'd agree with."
The last sentence landed differently than the rest.
Not unkind. Not pointed exactly. Just specific, in a way that implied he had thought about what you would and wouldn't agree with, which was a thing he should not have been thinking about. Which meant he had been paying attention quietly and consistently.
Whitaker moved on.
You looked back at your notes and wrote nothing for the remainder of class. Outside the lecture hall windows the sky was the flat white of a November afternoon, and you sat with the particular discomfort of someone who had just been surprised by a person they had already decided to understand.
That was when it had started. Which meant that three months later, sitting in the lecture hall watching him smile at you like you were a problem he was looking forward to solving, you did not have the excuse of not knowing better.
The lecture hall emptied in a slow, shuffling wave that you had no patience for.
You were already packing your bag when you heard him.
"So." Dean dropped into the empty seat beside yours with the casual confidence of someone who had never once been unwelcome anywhere. He turned to face you, one arm resting on the back of the chair, bringing with him the faint smell of something clean, something woody, or the cold outside air. "Partners."
"Observant," you said, without looking up from your notebook.
He made a small sound, not quite a laugh, not quite not one. You could feel him watching you with that specific brand of unhurried attention that probably worked on most people and was currently working on you in ways you were categorically refusing to acknowledge.
"We should exchange numbers," he said. "Figure out when we can meet."
"I have time Thursday afternoon." You zipped your bag closed. "After three."
"Thursday I've got practice until five." He pulled out his phone, apparently unbothered. "What about evenings?"
"Tuesdays and Thursdays I tutor until nine." You finally looked at him. "Weekends I pick up extra sessions when I can."
Something shifted in his expression, brief, almost imperceptible. Not pity. Something more like recalibration, the specific adjustment of someone updating a model they had been working from.
You watched him process it and kept your face completely neutral, the way you always did when people did the math on your schedule and realized there was no give in it, no free afternoon that existed just for the sake of existing. You didn't need him to feel bad about it. You just needed him to understand that his time was not the only time being managed here.
"Okay," Dean said, and to his credit, he didn't make it weird. "Wednesday? I'm free after two."
"I have a session at two."
"After three, then."
You considered this. "Three. Library. Third floor."
"Done." He held out his hand for your phone with the easy expectation of someone who had never once been told no and somehow, inexplicably, made that feel more like charm than arrogance.
You looked at his hand for exactly one beat longer than necessary.
Then you unlocked your phone and placed it in his palm, your fingers brushing his warm hand briefly.
"Don't put anything weird in my contacts," you said.
Dean smiled and typed with the focused, two-thumbed efficiency of someone taking the instruction very seriously.
He handed it back.
You looked down.
Dean DiLaurentis đ (ur partner deal with it)
You stared at it for a long moment.
"Truly," you said, "a legal mind."
He laughed then , a real one, surprised out of him, and stood to leave, shouldering his bag. He paused at the end of the row and looked back at you with the expression of someone who was about to say something and had decided against it.
"Wednesday, then."
"Wednesday," you confirmed, already looking back at your notes.
You did not watch him go.
You listened to his footsteps until you couldn't anymore and then looked back at your notebook and found the page completely blank.
By the time Wednesday rolled around, you had done the mental gymnastics of calculating exactly how much this project was going to cost you. Not much, you had decided. You were already at maximum stress capacity between the Harvard interview and the end of semester closing in, so there was simply no room left for anything Dean DiLaurentis-related to take up residence.
This was the conclusion you had reached.
You woke up early anyway, restless, and got ready with the focused efficiency of someone who was absolutely not anxious about a study session. In the kitchen, Elisa was at the stove, hair still in a braid from the night before, doing something that smelled like butter and brown sugar.
"Morning, sugar plum." She turned and pointed her spatula in your direction. "Do you want to have breakfast with me?"
Elisa was the easiest person you had ever lived with, which was not something you said lightly. You had moved into her house sophomore year knowing no one and she had made you feel like you had been there the whole time. Wednesdays were her day off no classes, no obligations, and she spent them cooking elaborate things and playing at domesticity in a way that you found deeply comforting. She called them the Tradwife Wednesdays, in a joking manner.
"I can't, I have a class I can't miss." You grabbed your bag from the hook by the door. "Sorry."
"That's okay." She stirred something. "Are you coming back for lunch? I'm trying a new caesar salad recipe I found on TikTok. Caesar 2.0."
"I can't do lunch either. I have a study session at noon."
"Bring your partner. We can all have caesar salad 2.0."
"My partner is â" you paused, already regretting what you were about to say â "Dean DiLaurentis."
Elisa put down the spatula.
"Shut up."
"I'm not going to â"
"No way. You hate him."
"I don't hate him."
"Despise, then."
"Not even that." You pulled on your jacket. "I don't care about him at all. He just exists in the same world as me."
"Sure," Elisa said, in the tone she used when she was humoring you. She picked up the spatula again. "Ask him if he remembers our little trip in the Mystery Machine."
"Goodbye, Elisa."
"Caesar salad is on the table if you change your â"
You closed the door.
session one
He was already there when you arrived.
That was the first thing that threw you off, small and inconvenient, the kind of detail that shouldn't matter and did anyway. Dean DiLaurentis, sitting at the table you had specifically chosen because it was tucked into the back corner of the third floor, away from foot traffic and group study noise and every possible social distraction. You had chosen it because it was your table, the one you came to when you needed to actually work, claimed over three years of afternoons and late nights. The carpet near the window had a worn patch from your chair. You knew which overhead light buzzed slightly and had learned to tune it out.
He was sitting in your chair.
He had a coffee on each side of the table.
Two coffees.
You stopped.
"I didn't know your order," he said, not looking up. "So I got you black. You seem like a black coffee person."
You were a black coffee person.
You sat down without commenting on it and pulled out your laptop.
"I started an outline," Dean said. "Sent it to your email."
You opened it without responding. It was actually structured. Clean headers, logical progression. You stared at it for a moment longer than you intended, turning it over, looking for the flaw. There wasn't one.
"You cited Marbury v. Madison in the intro," you said.
"It's foundational."
"It's also the first thing every professor expects to see. It makes us look like we opened the textbook once and called it a day."
He looked up then. "So where would you put it?"
"Section three. After we've established the framework."
Dean looked at the outline. Then back at you. "...Yeah, okay."
You pulled it up on your own screen and started restructuring. He watched for a second, then turned back to his own laptop without making it a thing, and something about that: the absence of wounded ego, the lack of argument, the simple yeah, okay, was quietly unexpected.
You worked in silence for a while. A real silence, the functional kind, punctuated only by typing and the occasional ambient noise of the floor around you, someone whispering two tables over, the elevator arriving and departing, the hush of a library in the afternoon when the day outside has gone grey.
At some point he shifted in his seat and his foot knocked against yours under the table. He pulled it back immediately, said a distracted sorry without looking up, and kept typing.
You looked back at your screen.
Ten minutes later it happened again his foot finding yours under the table, settling against it with the absent, unthinking quality of someone who wasn't paying attention to their own body. This time he didn't notice. Or didn't move. You couldn't tell which.
You didn't move either.
You looked at your screen and read the same sentence four times and told yourself it was nothing, the table was small, it meant nothing at all.
His ankle was warm against yours for the rest of the session.
An hour passed, and then another. The coffee went cold. The light through the window shifted from afternoon grey to early evening grey, and you were deep enough in the due process section that you had stopped noticing either.
"Take a break," Dean said, without looking up.
"I don't need a break."
"You've reread that page four times."
You looked up. He was still looking at his notes, which meant he had been paying attention to you without appearing to pay attention to you, which was somehow worse than if he had just been watching you openly.
You closed the case study.
"Fine," you said. "Break."
Dean leaned back in his chair all the way back, with the easy, unhurried comfort of someone who had never had to fight for a seat at any table he wanted to sit at. You had noticed that about him early, the specific posture of someone for whom things had always been available, every room an environment that had been pre-adjusted to suit him. It was the kind of thing that was difficult not to notice when you had spent your entire life doing the opposite.
"You know," you said, mostly because the silence was starting to feel companionable in a way you weren't ready for, "you hooked up with a friend of mine once."
Dean looked up. Something shifted in his expression mild interest, maybe the faintest trace of wariness. "Oh really."
"Daphne."
A pause. He turned the name over, and you watched the moment he didn't find it.
"I don't remember," he said.
"She was dressed as Daphne for Halloween. You were, surprisingly, dressed as Fred."
Something cleared in his expression. "Halloween two years ago?"
"That would be the one."
He considered this with the equanimity of someone who had made peace with a certain kind of personal history. "Can I ask why you're bringing this up?"
"No particular reason." You picked up your cold coffee. "Can you even remember her name?"
"I just said I couldn't."
"Right." You set the coffee back down. "Well. For the record."
Dean looked at you for a moment with the expression you were already starting to recognize the one that meant he was deciding whether to say the thing he was thinking. He usually said it.
"You know," he said, "you hooked up with a friend of mine too."
You kept your expression very neutral. "Did I."
"Garrett."
"We made out at a party freshman year," you said, with the patience of someone correcting a factual error. "Did he tell you we hooked up?"
"He didn't say anything." Dean's mouth curved slightly. "I saw you two leaving and made an assumption."
"A wrong one."
"Clearly." He tilted his head. "So. Has Daphne said anything? About her experience."
You considered the question with the gravity it deserved.
"She tried to tell me," you said. "I didn't want to hear it."
"So she didn't give a great review."
"Ravishing," you said pleasantly. "It almost made me want to sleep with you too." You paused. "But then I remembered I have something called self-respect."
Dean laughed a real one, sudden and unguarded. It was, you noted with some irritation, a genuinely good laugh. Warm and surprised, the laugh of someone who had not seen it coming and was delighted by that fact. The kind of laugh that made you want to have caused it again.
"That's funny," he said.
"I know."
He was still smiling when he looked back down at his notes. You looked back at your case study. The library settled back into its particular silence the low buzz of the overhead light, the distant elevator, thirty people pretending they weren't exhausted but something had shifted in the quality of it. Imperceptibly, the way temperature changes in a room before anyone acknowledges it's warmer.
You didn't say anything about it.
Neither did he.
Twenty minutes later he slid his notes across the table, pointing out something you had missed without making it feel like a correction. You leaned in to look without thinking about leaning in and then you were close, closer than you had been all session, his shoulder warm against yours, and you could see the slight curl of his handwriting on the page and the way his finger traced the line he was pointing to, and you became aware very suddenly of his hands. How big they were. How deliberate.
You had not thought about his hands before. Or you had thought about them in passing and moved on. But up close, right now, pointing at a citation on a page they were careful and unhurried, the kind that did things with attention.
You looked at the citation.
"You're right," you said. "Good catch."
He glanced at you sideways, briefly, with that expression.
You both looked back at the page.
Neither of you moved away.
It was near the end of the session when it happened. You were flagging sources, half your attention on the screen, the room around you reduced to the low hum of concentration, when Dean said, mostly to himself, still reading:
"You always sit in the same seat."
You glanced up. "What?"
He seemed to catch himself, just barely, a slight tensing around his jaw. "In Whitaker's class. Third row, right side, second from the aisle. Every lecture."
The air shifted in a way that was difficult to name. Outside the library window the sky had gone fully dark, the glass reflecting the room back at you, two people at a table, closer than they had been three hours ago, the space between them negotiated down to nothing without either of them signing off on it.
"I like consistency," you said, after a beat.
"Yeah." He looked back at his screen. Something in his jaw had gone slightly careful. "I know."
I know.
Two words. Completely neutral on the surface and yet carrying the specific weight of something that had not been meant to be said out loud. Not an admission exactly. More like a door opened a half-inch before he caught it and eased it shut , slowly enough that you both knew it had moved.
You looked at him for a moment.
He did not look back up.
"We should finish the first amendment section," you said.
"Yeah," Dean said. "Probably."
You both looked at your screens.
Neither of you said anything else about it.
You packed up at eight-fifteen, twenty minutes later than planned. The third floor was empty by then, the overhead lights on their late setting. You walked to the elevator in a silence that had become, somewhere in the last six hours, a different kind of silence entirely, not neutral, not loaded, just inhabited.
In the elevator he stood beside you with his shoulder against yours, the same way it had been at the table, and neither of you shifted. The floor numbers climbed down. You looked straight ahead.
His ankle had been warm against yours for three hours and you had not moved away once.
You filed that under the place where you kept everything you weren't ready to examine yet.
session two
The second study session had started with considerably less hostility than the first, which you were choosing not to read into.
It was late afternoon again, the library emptying out around you as people made the reasonable decision to leave, and you and Dean had been working for three hours straight with the focused efficiency of two people who were both too competitive to be the first to suggest stopping. The case briefs were spread across the table in a system that was half yours and half his and somehow, irritatingly, better than either would have been alone. Your color-coded tabs and his margin notes. Your precision and his instinct for where an argument wanted to go.
You had noticed that yesterday too. Filed it away.
What you had not filed away or had tried to and failed was the moment an hour into the session when he had reached across you to grab a case brief from your side of the table without asking, and his arm had crossed in front of you close enough that you felt the warmth of it before it was gone. He hadn't noticed. He had grabbed the brief and gone back to his side of the table and kept reading, completely unaware.
You had read the same paragraph for twelve minutes after that.
"Okay," Dean said, dropping his pen and leaning back. "Break."
"We just had a break."
"That was an hour ago."
You looked at the time. It had been an hour and twenty minutes, which meant you had lost track of time, which meant you had been absorbed enough in the work â in the conversation around the work, the back and forth of it, the way he argued a point and actually listened when you argued back â that the time had disappeared without asking permission.
You put your pen down.
"Fine," you said. "Break."
Dean stretched his arms above his head with the unselfconscious ease of someone completely comfortable in his own body, the cardigan riding up slightly, a sliver of skin at his waist, the line of his shoulders, the way his head fell back for a moment, which you observed in a purely detached and analytical capacity and then looked at the ceiling.
"So," he said. "Harvard Law."
"What about it."
"That's the goal?"
"That's the goal," you confirmed.
He nodded slowly, with an expression that was hard to read. Then, in a voice of complete casual confidence: "What, like it's hard?"
You turned to look at him.
He was already smiling.
"That's the second time today," you said, "that you have made a Legally Blonde reference."
"Is it?"
"You quoted it earlier when I said the admissions rate was three percent."
"I don't remember that."
"Dean."
"It's a great film."
You looked at him for a moment. "Is it your favorite movie?"
"Top two," he said, without hesitation. "Just after Top Gun."
You stared at him. Dean DiLaurentis. Hockey player, pre-law, top of the class, sitting in the library surrounded by case briefs, whose top two films were Legally Blonde and Top Gun.
"God," you said.
He laughed. "What?"
"Nothing." You picked up your pen. "It explains a lot actually."
"Does it."
"The confidence," you said, gesturing vaguely at him. "The hair. The complete inability to walk into a room without knowing exactly how you're going to be received." You paused. "You've watched both of those films a concerning number of times, haven't you."
Dean pointed at you. "Elle Woods and Pete Mitchell are two of the most â"
"Please don't finish that sentence."
"â compelling character studies in the history of American cinema."
You laughed and put your head down on the table.
His laugh was warm and close and you could feel it more than hear it, and when you looked up he was leaning on his elbow facing you â close, comfortable in the way he had gotten over the past two sessions, close enough that you could see the specific color of his eyes in the library light, and the way they crinkled at the corners when he was actually amused rather than performing it. The late afternoon light was doing something completely unreasonable to his face â the angles of it, the warmth of it, and you looked back at your notes with the focused energy of someone making a deliberate choice.
"Back to work," you said.
"Back to work," he agreed.
But he was still smiling when he turned back to his notes, and you were very carefully not smiling, and the library was quiet around you in that way it had been yesterday, warmer than it should have been, the silence between you easier than it had any right to be.
Top two, you thought, against your will. Just after Top Gun.
God help you.
You made it another forty minutes before it went sideways.
It started, as these things often did, over something small.
Dean wanted to include a law review article you thought was analytically weak. You had said so. He had disagreed. It had escalated with the particular efficiency of two people who were very good at arguing and had been carefully not arguing for weeks, the pressure of it finding the first available exit.
"It's not a weak source," Dean said, for the second time. "You just don't like the conclusion."
"I don't like the conclusion because the methodology doesn't support it. There's a difference."
"You've said that. You haven't explained it."
"I sent you three paragraphs â"
"You sent me three paragraphs about why you were right," he said. "That's not the same thing."
You looked up from your laptop. He was looking back at you with the expression that meant he was done being patient, and something about that, the specific quality of it, the fact that he was allowed to be done being patient when you had been managing your frustration for weeks â
"You know what, it doesn't matter," you said. "Include it. It's fine."
"Don't do that."
"Do what."
"Shut down and say it's fine when it's not fine." He closed his laptop halfway. "If you have a problem with the source, say it."
"I have a problem with a lot of things," you said, and it came out with an edge you hadn't entirely intended. "I have a problem with the fact that I have no idea how much of this grade I'm actually carrying."
The air in the room changed entirely. The low buzz of the overhead light was suddenly very audible.
Dean went very still. "What does that mean."
It means I've been doing this alone my whole life and I don't know how to stop assuming I'm about to have to do it again. That was what it meant. That was not what came out.
"It means," you said, and your voice was measured in the way it got when you were saying something you couldn't take back, "that I don't actually know how you scored high enough on that exam to get paired with me."
Silence.
Dean looked at you. Something moved behind his eyes, not hurt exactly. The thing that came just before.
"Say what you mean," he said quietly.
And because you were frustrated and tired and the Harvard interview was in two weeks and you had been holding this assumption for long enough that it had started to feel like fact â
"I thought maybe you were sleeping with the TA."
The silence that followed was a different kind entirely. Heavy and still, the kind that has a shape.
Dean sat back. He looked at you for a long moment with an expression you had never seen on him before â not the easy charm, not the careful attention, not the almost-smile. Something stripped of all of that, all the way down.
"I got a ninety-four on that exam," he said. "I got a ninety-four because I studied for it. I study for all of them." A pause. Each word placed with precision. "I know you think I'm here because of my last name or my hockey stats or whoever you've decided I'm sleeping with. I know that's easier than just â" he stopped. Exhaled slowly. "I've been doing the work. I've been here every session. I don't know what else you want from me."
You opened your mouth.
"And the TA," he said, " she has a girlfriend. So."
He opened his laptop again. The sound of it was very loud in the quiet room.
You looked at your screen. The cursor blinked in the document you had been sharing for two weeks, both your names in the top corner. You were acutely, uncomfortably aware of the specific kind of wrong you had just been.
Not about the source.
About him.
"Dean â"
"First amendment section," he said. Not cold. Not cruel. Just done. "Let's just finish."
You looked at him for a moment.
"Yeah," you said quietly. "Okay."
The Legally Blonde conversation felt like it had happened in a different library entirely.
Top two, he had said, and laughed, and looked at you like you were something worth looking at.
You stared at the cursor and said nothing else.
Neither did he.
session three
The third session was on a Tuesday.
You knew because Tuesdays you tutored until nine, which meant you had come straight from the library's second floor where you had spent an hour and a half walking a freshman through the commerce clause, and you were tired in the specific way of someone who had been performing competence for other people all day and had very little left over for themselves.
You had also been thinking about what you said for five days straight.
Not continuously. Like something that sits in the back of your mind and surfaces at inconvenient moments â in the shower, between tutoring sessions, at two in the morning when you should have been sleeping and instead were staring at the ceiling cataloguing every assumption you had ever made about Dean DiLaurentis and finding most of them wanting. I thought maybe you were sleeping with the TA. The words had a particular quality in retrospect, the quality of something that could not be unsaid, that existed now in the permanent record of things he knew about you.
You pushed open the door to the third floor reading room and told yourself you were fine.
Dean was already there.
Of course he was. He was always already there, with his laptop open and his notes spread out in the handwriting you had become, against your will, familiar with, slightly left-leaning, inconsistent spacing, somehow completely legible. He looked up when you came in. The room smelled like old paper and the particular warmth of a space that had been occupied for a while, and the overhead light buzzed its familiar note.
"Hey," he said.
"Hey," you said back.
You sat down. Not beside him, you took the chair across the table, the one you had started in, back when the table felt like a neutral territory that required a border. You pulled out your laptop and opened the shared document and did not look at him.
He did not comment on the seating arrangement.
That was somehow worse than if he had.
You worked. The session had the functional efficiency of two people who were both too professional to let personal things affect the work, which meant the work was fine and everything around it was not. He passed you sources without commentary. You flagged edits without explanation. The back and forth that had become almost conversational â the small arguments, the digressions, the way he said okay when you made a point he couldn't refute â was gone.
The overhead light buzzed. Someone turned a page three tables over.
Around the forty-minute mark he said, "the due process section needs another source."
"I know," you said. "I'm looking."
"I found one this morning. Sent it to your email."
"I haven't checked yet."
"It's good."
"Okay."
Silence.
You checked your email. The source was good. You added it to the document without saying so and heard, very faintly, the sound of him exhaling.
An hour passed like that.
You had just pulled up a new case brief when Dean leaned back in his chair and said, to no one in particular, "I don't actually care about the TA."
You looked up.
He was looking at the ceiling, not at you, with the expression of someone who had decided to say a thing and was committed to the delivery. "I just want you to know that. In case it was still sitting there."
Outside the library window, the campus was dark and wet with recent rain, the paths lit amber under the streetlights.
"It was sitting there," you admitted.
"Yeah." He brought his gaze down to his notes. "I figured."
"Dean â"
"You don't have to." He said it simply, without edge. "I'm fine. I just didn't want it to be weird for the rest of the semester."
"It's already a little weird," you said.
"I know."
Another silence â but this one had more air in it, the quality of a silence that had been cleared rather than accumulated.
"I'm going to apologize properly," you said. "I just haven't figured out how yet."
Dean was quiet for a moment. Then, very carefully, not quite a smile: "Does it involve food."
You said nothing.
"It does," he said. "Okay."
"Back to work," you said.
"Back to work."
You heard her before you saw her.
The click of heels on library floor that had nothing to do with studying, moving with the purposeful energy of someone who had a destination and knew exactly what they wanted when they got there. You didn't look up. You were in the middle of a paragraph and you had a system and you were not going to lose your place.
The heels stopped at your table.
"Hey." Not directed at you. You turned a page. "I've been looking for you."
"Hey." Dean's voice, easy and careful. "Didn't know you were on campus today."
"I wasn't. Now I am." A pause with a specific texture. "Come outside for like five minutes."
"I can't right now, we're working."
We. You noted the word and kept reading.
"Five minutes," she said again. "It's not a big deal."
"I know it's not. I just can't right now."
You turned another page. The paragraph was about tort law and you had read the same sentence three times and retained nothing.
"Dean â"
"Seriously." His voice was still easy but there was something underneath it now, something with weight. "I'll text you later, okay?"
A silence. The kind that meant she was deciding something.
"Who even is she?" The question was directed at you. You looked up for the first time, because that was directed at you, and you had opinions about being spoken about in the third person by someone standing four feet away.
The girl was pretty in the specific, polished way of someone who had never had to try very hard at it. She was looking at you with an expression that was more curious than hostile, which somehow made it worse.
"His project partner," you said pleasantly. "We have a deadline."
"It's literally five minutes â"
"We're aware of how long five minutes is," you said, in the tone you had been practicing for courtrooms. "He said he'll text you. The reading room is a shared space and we're trying to work, so." You smiled. "Thank you."
The girl looked at you. Looked at Dean. Looked back at you with an expression that had shifted into something more speculative, something that said she understood more than you had intended to reveal.
Then she left.
The heels clicked back across the library floor and faded, and the room settled back into its particular silence, and you looked back at your notes with the focused energy of someone who had not just done what they had just done.
From across the table, nothing.
You turned a page.
More nothing.
You looked up.
Dean was looking at his notes with the carefully neutral expression of someone using every available resource not to smile.
"What," you said.
"Nothing."
"Say whatever you're going to say."
"I'm not going to say anything."
"Dean."
"I'm just â" He pressed his mouth closed. The not-smile was winning. "Thank you for your help."
"I didn't do it for you," you said immediately. "She was interrupting. It was annoying."
"Completely understandable."
"I would have done the same for anyone."
"Of course."
"It had nothing to do with â" You stopped. "We have three more pages to get through."
"We do," Dean agreed, in the voice of someone being very, very agreeable.
You looked back at your notes.
I would have done the same for anyone.
You were a pre-law student. You were supposed to be good at arguments.
That one had convinced neither of you.
You packed up at nine-fifteen, later than planned, and Dean walked out with you the way he had started doing without either of you deciding he would.
"She's no one," Dean said, when the elevator arrived. Not defensive. Just offered.
You stepped inside. "You don't have to explain yourself to me."
"I know." The doors closed. "I wanted to anyway."
You looked at the floor number climbing. He looked straight ahead. The elevator was small and you were standing close , his arm against yours, the cedar smell of him in the enclosed space, and something about the cleared air of the session, the I'm going to apologize properly, the we he had said without thinking, settled between you like something that had decided to stay.
The doors opened.
"Wednesday," you said.
"Wednesday," he confirmed.
You walked out into the night and did not look back.
You were going to need a very good cake.
session four
It was week four of the project, and Dean had gone back to sitting beside you, in the most inconspicuous way possible.
It had been gradual and deniable at every individual step. First the chair had been angled slightly toward yours. Then it had migrated. Now your thighs brushed every time either of you shifted, and you were acutely, unhelpfully aware of the warmth of his forearm against yours, the cedar-and-cold-air smell of him that you had catalogued in the first session and had been trying unsuccessfully to un-catalogue since.
Things had been a little strange since the fight.
The fight you had caused. With assumptions you had made. About a TA who, it turned out, had a girlfriend.
You had settled, eventually, on cake â specifically the lemon cake Elisa had made that morning, wrapped in foil and sitting on the table between your laptops like a small citrus-scented olive branch, which Dean had looked at when you arrived and had not yet commented on.
You had not told him it was Elisa's. You were not going to examine why.
"So," you started.
Dean looked up from his laptop.
"I would like to apologize."
He held your gaze for a moment. Something in his expression shifted â careful, like he was deciding how much to give you. "It's okay."
"It really isn't, Dean." You turned to face him, which was a tactical error because it meant you were now very close to him, close enough that you could see the dark blue of his eyes in the library light, and the soft fabric of the cardigan where your knee was almost touching his. "I made assumptions. I think the worst of people sometimes and I let it get ahead of me. You've been doing the work. I knew that and I said it anyway. That wasn't fair."
Dean looked at you for a long moment.
"It's truly okay," he said quiet and uncomplicated, completely without performance. "I get it. I know what it looks like from the outside."
"That doesn't make it okay."
"No," he said. "But it makes it understandable."
You looked at him. He looked back at you. The study room was very quiet, the overhead light doing its particular low buzz, the air carrying old paper and coffee and the warm-wool smell of his cardigan.
"The cake is Elisa's," you said, because you needed to say something. "My roommate. She made it this morning and I brought it."
Dean's mouth curved. "You brought me a peace offering."
"I brought us a snack."
"A lemon cake wrapped in foil."
"We've been here three hours."
"That," he said, "is the most you thing I've ever heard." He reached over and broke off a piece without ceremony, and you watched his hands doing it those careful, deliberate and huge hands of his, and felt something tighten somewhere that you immediately filed under irrelevant.
"Good?" you asked.
"Really good." He looked at you with the quiet expression, the one that sat closer to the surface. "Tell Elisa thank you."
"Tell her yourself," you said, and then realized what that implied, and looked back at your laptop.
Dean didn't say anything.
But he didn't look away.
You worked. The tension in the room had changed quality, no longer the awkward residue of an unresolved argument, something else now, something that had been building for four weeks and was running out of places to go. You were aware of him the way you had been aware of him since that first session, the warmth of his arm against yours, the sound of his breathing in the quiet room, the way he tucked the pen behind his ear when he was reading something carefully.
You were looking at your screen. You were not reading anything on it.
He shifted beside you. His knee pressed against yours under the table, not accidentally, not with the absent quality of the foot under the table in session one, but deliberately, with the specific patience of someone making a point without words.
You looked at your screen.
His knee stayed where it was.
Fine, you thought. Fine.
You did not move away.
Another twenty minutes passed like that, both of you working, neither of you acknowledging the point of contact, the room very warm and very quiet. And then Dean reached over, not for a case brief this time, his hand finding yours on the table, covering it, not grabbing, just resting there. Still. Like a question asked very quietly.
You looked down at his hand on yours.
You looked up at him.
He was already looking at you and he didn't say anything, didn't push, just held your gaze with the patience of someone who had been waiting for a while and had decided to stop waiting quietly.
You turned your hand over under his.
Something shifted in his face. Not the smile, something more careful than that, something that meant more.
Then his hand came up slowly, fingers brushing your jaw, turning your face toward his unhurried, giving you every opportunity to move.
You didn't move.
His eyes met yours â a question, patient and certain â and you answered it by closing your eyes and leaning in, and then his mouth was on yours.
You had kissed people before.
This was categorically different.
It started soft and then didn't stay that way. His hand slid into your hair and yours found the front of his cardigan â soft wool under your fingers, the solid warmth of him underneath â and when his tongue met yours you made a sound you were going to spend considerable time not thinking about.
The kiss was unhurried. Calculated in the best possible way. Dean kissed you like he had all the time in the world, and when air became a necessary concern he pulled back smiling, pressed a soft peck to your lips, and began a slow trail of kisses along your jaw and down your neck.
His mouth was warm on your neck, lips dragging slow enough to make your breath catch, and his hand slid down your thigh with a deliberate patience that made it very clear he was in no hurry whatsoever.
You pulled his hair and got a low, rough sound against your skin in return, and then his hand found your waist and pulled, dragging you onto his lap until you were straddling him and there was no distance left to negotiate.
You could feel exactly what four weeks of thighs brushing and careful silences had done to him.
Dean â you heard yourself saying. Dean, Dean â
Your hands had found their way under his shirt, palms flat against his stomach, and when you dragged your nails lightly down his skin he smiled against your mouth and rolled his hips up into yours with a slow, pointed pressure that dissolved whatever thought you'd been forming completely.
A loud, deliberate cough came from the doorway.
Mrs. Miller, the night librarian, stood in the entrance with the expression of a woman who had seen too much and was being paid nowhere near enough.
You scrambled back. Dean straightened. A beat of absolute silence.
"We're leaving," you said, with as much dignity as the situation permitted. "We're so sorry, Mrs. Miller."
Mrs. Miller said nothing. She held the door open with the energy of someone who had made peace with humanity's worst impulses but did not have to enjoy them.
You gathered your things in record time. Dean had the audacity to look almost completely composed, which was deeply unfair given the state of his hair, which was your fault. You looked away.
Outside in the hallway you made it three steps before he said:
"So."
"Don't."
"I was just going to â"
"I know what you were going to say."
A pause. Then, with great personal restraint: "Okay."
You made it to the elevator before you looked at him. He was already looking at you.
"The cake was really good," he said.
"Shut up, Dean."
He laughed. The elevator doors closed. You stood in the small lit space of it with your shoulders touching and said nothing else the whole way down.
You were both smiling though.
session five
The fifth session was on a Wednesday.
You had been avoiding him since the awkward encounter with Mrs. Miller.
Not obviously, you were too disciplined for obvious. You had shown up to every class, done every piece of work, responded to every text within a reasonable time. You had simply pulled back the parts of yourself that had started, over four weeks of thighs brushing and functional silences and one extremely ill-advised study room incident, to lean toward him without permission.
You were good at pulling back. You had been doing it your whole life.
The third floor smelled like old paper and the warmth of a space occupied all day, the radiator ticking in the corner, the last of the evening light grey through the windows. Dean was already at the table. He looked up when you came in. You sat across from him, the original position, the border re-established, and he looked at it and then looked at his laptop and said nothing.
You worked.
The project was almost finished. This was the last session, a conclusion, a bibliography built jointly over five weeks, your color-coded tabs and his margin notes. It was good work. You were going to get an A on this project.
You were also going to have no reason to sit in this library with Dean DiLaurentis after next week.
You were not examining that.
"We need to talk about the conclusion," Dean said, around the hour mark.
"I know. I drafted something last night, it's in the doc."
He found it. Read it. Was quiet for long enough that you looked up.
"It's good," he said.
"I know."
Another silence. He wasn't reading anymore.
"Are you going to keep doing this," he said, "or."
"Doing what."
"You know what."
"Dean â"
"Because I can." Simply, without heat. "If that's what you want, I can pretend that kiss didn't happen and we finish the project and that's it. I'm not going to make it weird." A pause. "Weirder."
You said nothing. Outside the window the campus was dark and wet, the paths amber-lit below.
"But I'd like to know," he said, "so I can stop waiting for you to tell me."
The library was very quiet. The radiator ticked. The overhead light buzzed.
"It's not that simple," you said finally.
"Okay." He waited.
"I have the Harvard interview in four days. I have a GPA I cannot let slip. I cannot afford to be distracted by â" you stopped.
"By me," he said.
"By anything."
He was quiet. "That's fair."
"And you don't â" you stopped. Started over. "You don't do this. Whatever this would be. I've heard enough to know that's not something you do. Rollercoaster ride or something like that."
Dean looked at you then. Fully, the way he didn't always let himself â all the way, no management.
"What have you heard," he said.
"Dean."
"No. Specifically."
You met his gaze. "That you don't do relationships. That it's always casual. That you're consistent about that."
He held your gaze.
"That was true," he said. "For a long time that was true."
"And now?"
He looked at you like the answer was obvious and he was simply waiting for you to arrive at it, with the patience of someone who had been waiting for a while.
You looked back at your laptop. Your chest felt tight. You had spent five weeks building a careful wall and he had just put his hand flat against it and pushed, gently, without drama, without raising his voice.
The same way he had put his hand over yours on the table.
Just resting there. Like a question asked very quietly.
"Four more pages," you said.
Dean was quiet for a beat.
"Yeah," he said. "Okay."
You both looked at your screens.
You finished the project.
Professor Whitaker announced the grades on a Thursday morning.
You were in your seat when she read them out.
A plus.
You looked up. Dean was already looking at you from the sixth row, and the smile on his face was the quiet one, the one you had catalogued in week two and had been trying not to think about since. It crossed the room and landed somewhere specific.
You gathered your things after class with the focused efficiency of someone with somewhere to be, and you almost made it to the door.
"Hey." He fell into step beside you in the hallway, easy and unhurried, bringing with him the cedar smell. "A plus."
"A plus," you confirmed.
"Told you the Marbury placement was better in section three."
"That was my idea."
"I agreed with it enthusiastically."
"You said yeah, okay and went back to your laptop."
"Enthusiastically," he repeated.
You stopped walking. The hallway moved around you, students flowing past, and Dean stopped too, and you were standing in the middle of it looking at him.
You had done it. You had actually done it. Four years of work and one extremely stressful semester and a project partner you had spent the first two weeks convinced was going to ruin everything, and you had gotten an A plus and the Harvard interview was tomorrow.
The knot in your stomach, which had lived there so long you had stopped noticing it, was gone.
Dean was looking at you with an expression that had gone soft in a way you weren't ready for.
You hugged him.
You weren't sure you had decided to. Your arms were around him and his were around you a half second later, one hand flat between your shoulder blades, and he was warm and solid and smelled so good, and you stayed there for a moment longer than was strictly necessary.
The hallway moved around you. Neither of you moved.
When you pulled back he was still looking at you.
"Good luck tomorrow," he said quietly. "You don't need it. But good luck."
You nodded. Looked at him for one more second.
Then you walked away.
You made it to the end of the hallway before you thought â
oh.
oh no.
And kept walking anyway.
the wednesday after
The Wednesday after the interview, you were in the kitchen with Elisa when the doorbell rang.
Elisa looked at you. You looked at Elisa.
"Are you expecting someone?" she asked.
"No."
"Should I get it?"
"I'll get it," you said, in the tone of someone who had a feeling.
You opened the door.
Dean DiLaurentis was standing on your porch in a green cardigan â of course he was, he owned approximately nine of them â holding grocery store flowers and a DVD copy of Legally Blonde.
You stared at him.
"Hi," he said.
"Hi."
"I heard the interview went well."
"How did you hear that."
"Beau knows your roommate apparently."
You were going to have words with Elisa. "It went well," you confirmed.
"Good." He held out the flowers. The stems were slightly damp from the cold outside. "These are for you."
You took them. "And the DVD."
"Also for you."
"Dean." You looked at him. "I don't own a DVD player."
Something flickered in his expression, that almost-smile. "I know."
"So this is."
"A reason to invite me in," he said simply. "So we can watch it on your laptop. If you want."
"My laptop also doesn't have a DVD player."
He made a gesture as if to throw the DVD across the lawn, which made you laugh despite yourself.
You looked at him standing on your porch and thought about five weeks of sessions, the foot under the table, the arm reaching across you, the knee pressed deliberately against yours, the hand resting over yours on the table, quiet as a question.
"You drove here," you said, "with a DVD."
"I did."
"That's extremely old fashioned. You might as well stand under my window with a boombox playing George Michael."
"If that's what you want."
"Most people would have just texted."
"I'm not most people," he said, simply, without needing anyone to confirm it.
You stepped back from the door.
"Elisa made caesar salad," you said. "She's been waiting for an excuse to feed someone new."
Dean stepped inside. The warmth of the house closed around him.
"I love caesar salad," he said.
"I know you do," you said, closing the door. "It's very you. That and like, Steak Tartare."
"What's wrong with Steak Tartare?"
Elisa lasted forty-five minutes before she announced she was going to her boyfriend's and picked up her keys with the energy of someone who had orchestrated something and was not going to pretend otherwise. You did not look at Dean when she left. You heard the door close and the house settle into quiet and then it was just the two of you on the couch with the TV on and Elle Woods on the screen, his arm warm along the back of the cushion behind you, close enough that you could feel the heat of it without it quite touching.
You had made it approximately eleven minutes into the film.
"I got in," you said, to the screen.
Dean went still.
"The interview â" you stopped. The room was very quiet. The lamp on the side table cast everything amber, warmer than the library had ever been. "They called this morning. I got in."
A beat of silence.
"Harvard," he said.
"Harvard," you confirmed.
Another beat, long enough that you turned to look at him. He was already looking at you.
"I knew you would," he said.
And then he kissed you.
It felt like something he had been waiting to do since the door opened, like Elisa leaving had simply removed the last obstacle between the moment and itself. His lips were on yours immediately, and Dean tasted like mint, and you found yourself wondering distantly if he had come here prepared for this, if this was always how tonight was supposed to end.
He didn't kiss like a careful person. His tongue was thorough and consuming and somewhere in the back of your mind you remembered that clichĂŠ about tongues fighting for dominance, that was what Dean was doing, except you found you had absolutely no desire to fight him for it. You would give him whatever he wanted.
Your hands found his shoulders. His found your waist, your thighs, and then settled, decisively, with intent, on your ass. An ass man, you noted, which tracked completely. He pulled you closer and you went willingly, swinging one leg over his knees until you were straddling him. He groaned in satisfaction, his hands pulling you flush against him, his hips rising to meet yours.
Air became a problem. You pulled back, opening your eyes, and found Dean with his eyes still closed, already searching for your mouth again. You gave him a small peck, then made a slow path of kisses from his mouth to his ear to his neck.
On his neck you bit him, lightly, experimentally, and the response was immediate. His hand came down on your ass in a sharp reflexive slap that startled a breathless laugh out of you. Through your skirt and his jeans you could feel exactly how much he was enjoying this, and you rolled your hips deliberately. The sound that came out of him made you stop entirely.
God. You wanted to hear that sound on repeat for the foreseeable future.
He seemed to resurface from wherever he had gone, and then he was standing, actually standing, with you in his arms, your legs wrapping automatically around his back.
"So," he started, eyes dropping to your mouth in a way that was frankly unfair. "Where's your bedroom?"
"Up the stairs, first door on the left," you answered against his neck, punctuating it with another bite.
"Stop teasing me or I'll drop you."
As a direct response you attempted to suck a mark into his neck. He fake-stumbled dramatically on the first step, which made you shriek and then immediately muffle it, and he laughed, low and warm and entirely too pleased with himself.
"I told you," he said.
You made it to your bedroom, and you silently praised the rare burst of energy that had led you to tidy it the night before. He dropped you onto the bed and you propped yourself up on your elbows and watched him pull off his cardigan and then the white shirt underneath.
You let out a slow whistle.
Hockey had been very, very good to him.
"Has anyone ever told you you're kind of annoying?" he said, dropping to his knees at the foot of the bed and pushing your legs open. His eyes went to your underwear. Something in his expression softened. "Cute underwear."
"Only this blond guy I'm sort of into," you said, focusing very hard on something other than what was about to happen. "And I wasn't planning on sleeping with anyone today, hence the polka dot Snoopy panties."
"No, I genuinely think they're cute," he said, and pressed a kiss to your clothed center that made your breath catch. "But they do have to go."
He hooked his fingers in the waistband and pulled them down, and then â you watched, incredulous â tucked them into the back pocket of his jeans.
"Absolutely not â"
"Focus," he said.
"You're so wet," Dean murmured, his gaze on you in a way that made you feel simultaneously embarrassed and triumphant. He kissed the inside of your knee, your inner thigh, everywhere except where you needed him. "All from just kissing?"
"Stop teasing," you whined.
"Not so funny anymore, is it."
"Please, Dean â"
"Please?" He looked up at you, and the expression on his face was criminal. "So you're telling me I spent weeks and months putting up with you being rude to me, when I could have had you this polite just by bending you over a table?"
The image that produced made you moan before you could stop yourself.
"You have no idea how long I've wanted to do this," he said, voice low. "To taste you."
His tongue pressed flat against your center and you moaned so loudly you were immediately grateful Elisa had left. He explored you with single-minded thoroughness, his tongue parting you, learning you, the sounds filling the room obscenely, the wet heat of his mouth and your increasingly frantic responses.
When his mouth found your clit your hands flew to his hair, pulling, trying to bring him impossibly closer.
"You taste so fucking sweet," Dean said against you.
"Fuck â Dean â"
The feeling built and crested and his hand came down across your stomach to hold your hips in place as they jerked. Your thighs trembled. He felt the way you clenched around nothing and knew.
"Be a good girl and come for me."
The orgasm hit like a wave breaking â sudden and total.
"Dean â oh my god â"
He worked you through it, his tongue slowing gradually until he finally pulled back. When he stood you were completely wrecked, sprawled across the bed, unable to form a sentence, staring up at him. His chin was wet. He looked insufferably composed.
He removed his jeans and helped you out of your dress, then came down over you on the bed, his weight settling between your thighs. He kissed you slowly, his hands cradling your jaw with a tenderness that was almost absurd given what had just happened, sweet and careful and at complete odds with the rest of the evening.
You felt him against your thigh.
Oh. He was â yes.
"Breathe, honey."
It was annoying how well he could tell when you'd stopped.
Your hips rolled up against him instinctively, looking for him.
"I need you inside me, Dean â"
"So demanding," he said, cutting you off with a kiss. His hand slid down between you, pressing the length of him against your folds, and the sound you made was not dignified in the slightest. He tapped the head of his cock against you and you dug your nails into his back.
"Please â Dean â please, please â"
He finally gave you what you were asking for, positioning himself at your entrance. The thick head breached you slowly, stretching you out, and you tried to pull him deeper faster.
"Oh fuck â" you moaned as he bottomed out.
"God damn," he breathed. "You're so tight."
His hips pulled back and snapped forward and then he was properly fucking you, hard, deep, everything you had imagined during different library sessions. His mouth found your collarbone, your chest, and then he took one nipple between his lips and you arched off the bed.
"You really do have the most absurd â" he said against your skin.
"Do not finish that sentence â"
"â tits. I could spend all day here."
Your walls tightened around him as the second orgasm built.
"I'm gonna come â" you breathed.
"I know."
He moved back up to your mouth, kissing you as you fell apart, and at the last moment he pulled out, the warmth of him spilling across your stomach. He stood and disappeared into the bathroom, returning with a cloth to clean you up. He discarded it somewhere, then lay down beside you and pulled you against his chest without ceremony, your legs tangling together.
The room was quiet. The lamp was still on. Outside the window the November street was dark and still.
"So," you said finally, staring at the ceiling. "You really are an overachiever."
"Shut up, (Y/N)," Dean said, and kissed you.
You stayed like that for a while, his heartbeat under your cheek, the lamp casting everything amber, the particular quiet of a house when everyone who needed to leave has left.
You had spent four years not allowing yourself anything that wasn't useful. Not a detour, not a distraction, not a single afternoon that didn't have a purpose.
Dean DiLaurentis, you thought, had been the worst possible use of your time.
â summary: jack abbot is sexually repressed, at least thatâs what his therapist says anyways. he heeds her advice and decides to walk into a strip club where he meets you.
â pairing: jack abbot x stripper!reader
â warnings: 18+ mdni, smut, sex work, dry humping, oral m receiving, fingering, cum eating, overstimulation, dirty talk, jack abbot has a dirty fucking mouth, praise kink
â word count: 5.9k
â notes: this is heavily inspired by my clark fic⌠hehehehehehehe
His therapist said it plainly, scribbling it down passively aggressively in her notepad. He was sexually repressed. He was nearly 50 years old and hadnât had a sex drive in almost a decade. Thatâs not to say his dick was broken; he was painfully aware that it still worked. He just had no desire to use it over the past few years. He had no time to feel desire. He supposed thatâs what working in emergency medicine would do to you. If he wasnât working well over his scheduled hours, he was in the field under active fire. Constant adrenaline rushes and life-or-death situations left little room to think of anything else. He was worried heâd fried the neurons in his brain responsible for desire.
Lately, however, heâd found himself sitting in the dark of his apartment, noticing the stillness for the first time in years. He was lonely, not that heâd admit it to anyone publicly. Let alone to any of his friends, so instead he confided in his therapist. A nice older lady, with no energy to deal with any of his self-pity. He tried the dating apps, the more than sketchy websites, and he even tried mingling at a bar downtown to no avail. He tried porn, he tried those books he used to tease his late wife about, hell, he even tried buying sex toys online. Nothing worked. Nothing made him feel that want like he used to. When his body was younger, before he lost so much of himself.
Now it wasn't that Jack Abbot didnât have the means to fix this issue. For that, he was brutally aware. His rugged good looks and quarter of a million dollar salary alone should have gotten him at least a date. His main problem was that he didnât try, not really. He never took days off, accruing over 60 days of PTO before Gloria forced him out of the hospital for a week to avoid litigation over labor laws. He was a workaholic, with no real desire for change in his life. Once again, words from his therapist.
Today was another session, his therapist scribbling down in the notebook as if her life depended on it. It was all mundane until she paused. âHave you ever considered going to a strip club?â
He paused, hands freezing on his thighs. âIâm sorry, what?â
He had heard her, quite clearly, actually. Too shocked to let the words absorb into his brain. She repeated herself slowly, âItâs a very common place for men your age to go. Itâs legal, low risk. Get some ones and see if it brings you back to your glory days as a young cadet. At the very least, youâll have a story to tell me next week.â
So here he was, sitting in the parking lot of the Pink Pony. He changed his outfit twice before leaving, two different variations of the same black t-shirt and jeans. He had over $1000 in various bills shoved haphazardly into his wallet and pockets. Too nervous to undertip, feeling like he had to overpay to apologize for being a pervy old man.
The parking lot was quiet for an unassuming Thursday night; heâd taken a few days off for the affair. If nothing went his way, at least he had time to sulk in his pity before walking back into work on Monday.
He walked in awkwardly, shifting his weight consciously to his prosthetic, attempting to walk normally despite the years-long shift in his hips. He felt like he was crawling out of his skin. Men sat in the corners, dollar bills lazily thrown as girls twirled around on the stages. Half-dressed waitresses carrying overpriced bottles waved at him as he slipped into the bar. He got a whisky on the rocks and slipped into his own corner. He sank into the worn velvet chair, his back to the wall and a small stage in front of him. Secluded enough, and he was able to see all the exits. Old habits die hard.
Meanwhile, you were lounging in the back room, silk robe over your shoulders, while you fumbled around with your curlers. Nursing a lukewarm Diet Coke while music blared from the main stages. You werenât even supposed to work tonight, prompting you to take a shift for a friend who caught a nasty case of the flu. Getting a master's degree wasnât cheap, so you were perfectly fine with the extra hours.
âY/n,â A coworker yelled, âCan I borrow that green set of yours?â
You shrugged lazily, âDonât care, just wash it and return it. Sâin my locker.â You hummed, coating your lips in a little too much lip gloss, adding a little too much highlighter to your face. This was one of your favorite things about your job: sitting in an overpriced fur-lined chair surrounded by girls who only uplifted each other. It all started as a small gig in undergrad, just to make extra money. Years later, you were still here, settling into the night shift like it was your home away from him.
âOh, bitch.â Your coworker Ani squealed, barreling into the dressing room like her heels were on fire. âY/n.â
You twirled around, urging the frantic girl to spit her words out. âAni, whereâs the fire?â
âHot ass old man in front of stage F, wouldnât even look me in the eyes but slid $150 across the stage.â She giggled, sitting next to you, your shoulders brushing.
Ani was your oldest friend here, and one of your closest friends outside of work. She kept you on your toes, but you always looked out for each other.
âHow old?â You pry, lips pursed.
âOld enough to be your father.â There was an evil glint in her eyes.
You let out an over-dramatic moan, âOh, you know me so well.â
âRight?â She yelled, grabbing your shoulder to pull you to the curtain. Both of your heads poked out, your eyes immediately finding the man. His body language was stiff, clutching his sweating whisky like a lifeline. She wasn't wrong; he was hot. In a rugged, soldier way. Exactly the type of customer you loved. So what you had stereotypical daddy issues, didnât everyone?
âOh, Ani,â You sighed, âI could kiss you on the lips.â
She let out a giggle, clearly proud of herself. âConsider us even for you giving me the Russian last week.â
Then her hands were on your shoulders, pushing you back into the room. âWear that sexy little black number, and the clear glitter heels.â She ordered, tossing your clothes, ordering you around.
The two of you fell into heaps of giggles, ignoring the side eyes of the other girls as she helped dress you. Too much makeup and very little clothing later, you were shining, ready to slip out there.
âYouâre gonna kill that old man.â She hummed, bouncing one of your curls between her long nails. âMake me proud, mama.â
With a playful slap on your ass, you were off, slipping into the main area as if you belonged there. Which you did, it was years of working here and owning the stages. Your heels clicked loudly against the tiny stage, hair bouncing down your back with each dramatic sway of your hips.
One hand wrapped around the pole, casual as anything, like it was an extension of you rather than something to perform with. You circled it once, twice, dragging it out, letting the music sway your movements. Your gaze skimmed the room like you were choosing, like you were deciding who deserved your attention. As if he wasnât your target already.
When your eyes did find him, you couldnât help the ridiculous smirk that fell on your lips. His honey brown eyes were dark, locked on yours. With your free hand, you sent him a sultry wave before the lights dimmed. The colored spotlights hit your skin as you brought your legs up around the pole. Twisting and gliding around in your natural habitat. When your back hit the pole, hands up and gliding down it, you watched him watch you.
His watchful eyes are heavy with every shake of your body, every gentle caress of your own skin. You arched your back, letting the pole support your weight as your head tilted back, hair cascading over your shoulders, your chest fully on display. He let himself pretend for just a moment that this was for him and him only. He felt an unfamiliar feeling in his gut, a warmness growing there. A feeling he had longed forgotten, forcing itself through his body the longer he watched you.
You slid down the pole, landing on the cool floor in a split. The song is slowly coming to an end, allowing yourself to change the pace. You let yourself fall on your elbows, pulling yourself up so you were crawling across on your hands and knees. This time, you made sure to keep eye contact with the man, stalking him as prey. Hips rolling with each crawl. He lifted a hand, brandishing a handful of bills very respectfully on the corner of the stage. Once you were close, you grabbed the bills, holding them up in between your perfectly manicured nails.
âThis for me?â You asked, a faux dumb look plastered on your face. Just to see him squirm in his chair, which he did.
He nodded slowly, adjusting himself. His body leaning forward, watered-down whisky long abandoned on the table. âMore where that came from.â He spoke, voice gruff and quiet over the music.
âReally?â You put a hand on your chest, slipping the bills into the thin string of your top. âIâm honored, baby.â
He pretended his cock didnât stir at your voice, and your eyes, and your tits that were practically spilling out of the lace number you had on. He cursed his therapist, he cursed his body, and secondly, he cursed you because he knew you had ruined him from the moment you walked out on stage. He was going to have to go back to therapy and tell her that he came in his pants at the first girl to give him attention.
Your legs swung off the platform, heels hitting the floor with practiced precision as you sauntered over to him.
âYou got a name, âMr. More where that came from?â You growled playfully, letting your hands fall on the armrests, your body above him tits mere inches away from his face. You held all the power in this interaction, and it had his palms sweaty.
âYou can call me Jack.â He spoke, his own voice sounding foreign to him.
âJack.â You purred, letting your body settle between his spread legs. âCan I have a seat?â You asked sweetly, pointing towards his very welcoming lap.
âF-fuck, yeah.â He stumbled, leaning back just enough for you to swing your legs over his. You were perched on his lap gently, barely putting any weight on him. The doctor in him took a beat to notice your core strength, the way you moved expertly against him.
âSo Jack,â You hummed, content on letting your hands rest lazily on his shoulders. âWhat do you do for work?â
âMâa doctor.â He managed to stumble out, making a small laugh escape your lips. He was sure you didnât believe him; your whole job consisted of men lying to you. Everyone was a CEO, a doctor, a lawyer, anything to impress the pretty girl in front of them.
âYeah?â You giggled, a small accent slipping out. âYou know, doctor, Iâve been having a serious problem lately.â
With your perfectly glossed lips in a pout, and your voice purring in his ear, he would have done anything you said. âHm?â Was all he could get out, still tongue-tied by the fact that you were on top of him.
âThese tits,â You sighed, grabbing your chest with both of your hands, âAre just sooo heavy. I really need someone to help hold them.â
âDoctorâs orders, huh?â He couldnât help but laugh.
You nodded, letting your hands fall to the sides of the chair again. âDonât be shy, I donât bite.â
âWhat if I do?â Jack said, his eyes surprising both you and himself. His confidence is growing, slowly but surely.
âI might like that.â You recovered coolly, slipping back into your persona. âCome on, you can touch.â
His hand moved up, twitching ever so slightly but never moving closer to you. He looked nervous, his eyes practically scouring the room as if someone would catch him somehow breaking the law. You noticed, because of course you did.
âHey, we can slip into a private room if you want a dance-â Before you could even finish, he was slipping a few more bills into the bottom string of your thong.
To your credit, you didnât let the flicker of surprise show on your face, even as the bills slid against your skin and his voice settled low and certain in your ear. âIâd prefer that, sweetheart.â
You smiled at that, something pleased and almost fond tugging at the corner of your mouth before you caught it and smoothed it back into something more seductive. His lap missed your presence when you sat up, holding your hand out for him. âDonât keep me waiting.â
He stood a second later, slower than you, but following all the same. His hand was in yours, ignoring all the stares as you guided him into the back rooms. You said something quietly to one of the girls before a thick curtain was opened, revealing a private area. There was a plush couch, a few chairs, and a pole in the middle. The music was quieter, the lights dimmer. There was a faint neon pink glow, making his eyes adjust for a few moments.
âTake a seat wherever youâre comfortable.â You smiled, closing the curtain behind you two. The floor-to-ceiling fabric seemed to dull more sound than he thought, the music almost barely audible. He sank into the middle of the couch, adjusting his legs awkwardly while you frolicked around the room.
âThis your room?â He asked, a small bluetooth speaker crackling in the corner.
âOn most days,â You smiled, smooth rock music echoing throughout the room now, âHope this is okay, you donât strike me as the EDM pop type.â
He shook his head, âNo, I am not.â
He barely had time to settle before you were moving again, letting your hands grip the pole as you walked by.
âFew rules,â You pointed towards the sign on the wall, âAt any point you want to stop, let me know, if thereâs something youâd like to ask nicely and Iâll work with you, no touching new places without asking, and tip well.â
âYes, mâam.â He gave you a mock salute, your hips swaying to the beat. You inched closer and closer until you were close enough to touch. He was still tense as ever, even as you all but crawled into his lap again. The only time he touched you was to slip a few more bills into your thong, this time while your ass was in his face.
You spun around after another song had ended, âNew rule,â You hummed, âRelax.â
âI am relaxed.â He lied, his shoulders were so tense they were beginning to ache, and his cock was so hard he was worried he was going to pass out from all the blood rushing between his legs. It didnât help that you kept ending up hovering above his lap. You hadnât once looked at the tent in his pants, another occupational hazard he assumed.
âYouâre a bad liar,â You pressed your palms against his shoulders, âRelax,â you murmured again, softer this time, your voice losing some of that performative edge.
There was a quiet huff of breath from him, something almost like a laugh, but it didnât quite make it all the way out. Not when you started to move.
A slow roll of your hips, controlled and measured, more about the rhythm than anything else, your body finding the beat and settling into it like second nature. You didnât drop onto him right away, didnât give him that friction yet; you let the anticipation build, let him watch the way your body moved just inches from his, the way your hands slid from his shoulders to the back of the couch, bracketing him in without touching.
His hands still hovered awkwardly at his sides for a second, like he didnât know where they belonged, like he was afraid of getting it wrong.
âDo you wanna touch me?â You ask softly, in that new gentle tone you had reserved for him.
âMore than anything in the world.â He admitted.
You placed his hand at your waist, right where the curve dipped in, where he could feel the heat of your skin beneath the thin fabric. âYou can touch. Thatâs kind of the point.â
His fingers flexed there, tentative at first, like he was expecting you to pull away. As if this were a dream heâd get rudely woken up from. Instead, you moved closer, finally letting your hips settle on his lap. Pressing directly down on the bulge in his pants. At the contact, his fingers squeezed tightly at the flesh, mostly out of instinct. His hands were large and rough. His touch had you arching against him slightly, a shit-eating grin on your lips.
His other hand joined the other side of your hip, steadying you on top of him. You leaned forward just slightly, enough that your chest brushed his, your face close to his now, close enough that he could see the detail in your makeup, the gloss on your lips, the way your eyes held his with a kind of quiet confidence that didnât waver.
âThere you go, doctor.â You whispered, that nickname sticking much to his chagrin. He doesn't know why he was lying to himself, not when you could feel each jump of his cock.
He swallowed hard, his gaze flicking between your body and your mouth like he couldnât quite decide where to land, like he was trying to take in too much all at once and failing. The friction was enough to make the room feel hot, tension building between each perfected roll of your hips.
One specific roll had a curse leaving his mouth, âFuck.â He grunted, his eyes falling shut.
Your stomach burned, his voice going directly between your thighs. âD-does this feel good?â
He nodded, not even able to get a word out. âCan I move?â He asked, more confident, his hands guiding up to your chest before you could even finish your nod.
âPlease.â You breathed out, nearly moaning at the first squeeze of your tits in his palm. His thumb brushes against your hardened buds, squeezing them between his forefinger.
You feel the shift in him, his movements more sure, his face more relaxed. Between his cock heavy between your legs, and his rough hands, you nearly forget youâre the one in charge for a moment. You try not to think about what he looks like underneath his dark, tactile daywear, what he sounds like when he cums, how large his fingers would feel slipping inside of you, or his cock, heavy and thick.
It takes you a second to catch your breath, settling back into the reality of the situation. âPermission to say something uncouth?â He asks, the word choice making you smile dopey at him.
âAlways.â
âYou have the most gorgeous tits Iâve ever seen.â He said, palms still heavy over the fabric of your top. âHow much to get this little top off?â
Fuck, you are so fucked. Because if he looked at you with those respectful brown eyes again, youâd probably fuck him right here if he asked with that much kindness dripping in his voice.
âAll you had to do was ask,â You admitted, âGo ahead, take it off me.â
With ease, he slips the knot in the back open, throwing the strings across the room as if it personally offended him.
âFuck, I was right.â His other hand came up, both hands squeezing your tits.
Your hips stilled momentarily, letting your head fall back, watching him through half-lidded eyes.
âYou like what you see, doctor?â You pant, steadying your hips again. Letting the now damp spot on your bottom rub against his bulge again.
âYouâre like a dream.â He sighed, moving his hands down your stomach back to your hips. Helping you grind against him, the pleasure makes his toes curl.
âYou-â he cuts himself off, breath catching, jaw tightening before he tries again, quieter this time. âYou might need to slow down.â
âYeah?â You tease, the delicious drag of your clit making your own breath heavy, âWhy?â
âYou know why.â He grunted, gripping your hips tighter, stilling you on top of him.
You slow down, âWhat if I wanted to make you cum?â
The words leaving your mouth made both of you tense; the song changing left an awkward beat of silence.
âIâm sorry,â You cringed, âWas that too much? Youâre just really-â
âReally, what?â He smiled, amusement in his eyes.
You faltered, not liking how you lost control of the situation. âYou know, my friend told me you were here,â you admitted, âSexy older man, looks slightly traumatized. Iâve wanted to jump your bones from the moment I saw you.â
âShe knows your type, huh?â
You nod, âAnd you doctor, are making me wanna break all my rules.â
âWhat are those rules?â He hummed, letting his palm spread, gripping your ass gently.
âNot wanting to fuck my clients,â You jutted your bottom lip out, âThatâs a big one.â
âDonât I feel special.â He grinned, his cock still twitching in his pants at the sight of you. âSâbeen a while for me sweetheart.â
You made a sound between a scoff and a laugh, waiting for him to make a joke. Instead he just kept his smile locked on you, his hands warming your flesh.
You click your tongue against your teeth, âWell, that canât do.â
Before he can reply, youâre sliding down his body. Letting your knees fall to the floor, leaving you between his spread legs. His eyes flare, with something dark and dangerous. You rest your cheek on his upper thigh, your lips so close to the ever prominent bulge in his pants.
âThis okay?â You asked sweetly, your hands coming up to grip his thighs.
âY-yeah, god yeah,â He sighed, lips parting in disbelief, âAre you sure-â
You shush him letting your hand fall on his knee, and he flinches. His whole body twinging underneath your touch, as if he was just pulled harshly back into reality.
You pause, it very clearly doesnât feel like a knee, but you keep your face blank, looking up at him through your lashes. It didnât take a rocket scientist to figure out what you were touching; it was common, especially among soldiers. Youâd know, considering your field of study.
âDid I hurt you?â You asked sweetly.
He shook his head, âI just, uh. I donât have, thereâs a- â
You pause, âI donât care what happened, just wanna make sure I'm not hurting you. Would you like me to move my hand?â
âIf you want to move it, I wouldnât be offended.â He stutters, tensing up again.
You donât move your hand; instead, you continue pulling his pants down with the other. âWhen was the last time you got your cock sucked, doctor?â
âIf I said over 10 years, is that embarrassing?â He breathes out, his hands fisted by his sides.
âNot at all.â Your mouth is watering as his heavy cock slips out of his boxers. Just like you thought, heâs thick and large. âIf you need me to stop, please tell me.â
âY-yes, whatever you want.â He nearly whimpers.
You lean forward, wrapping your lips around his red tip. Swirling your tongue around it, before slowly bobbing your mouth around him. He tasted salty and warm as you moaned around him.
This was heaven; Jack had surely died and gone to heaven.
His cock twitched in your mouth with each bob, the small patch of salt and pepper hair tickling at your nose each time he prodded the back of your throat.
âOh, hell.â He grunted, one of his hands coming to gently push your hair back from your face. Your eyes fluttered shut, your hands wrapping around the little bit you couldnât fit in your mouth with each thrust. You ignored the tears threatening to leak from your eyes, your cheeks hollowing, your tongue pulling elicit sounds from the back of the older man's throat.
âLet me see those gorgeous eyes, yeah, eyes on me.â He cooed, his hand holding your hair in a makeshift ponytail.
You obliged, opening your watery eyes to look up at him. âGonna let me fuck that mouth of yours?â
Jack had a filthy mouth, and with each low command he whispered to you, your thighs were rubbing together, attempting to get the smallest bit of relief. You nodded, relaxing your jaw around his thick cock. He braced himself, guiding your head up and down on his length slowly. Each thrust hits the back of your throat.
It was messy, the squelching sound of him fucking up into you nearly overpowered the slow speaker still playing in the corner of the room. The small moans and whimpers of praise that left his mouth were music to your ears.
âBreathe.â He ordered, noticing just how red your cheeks were getting from the intrusion. You ignored him, trying to breathe through your nose, continuing to flick your tongue against the bulging vein on his cock. He shivered at the feeling, but his concern outweighed it.
âOff,â He pulled at your hair, âNow.â
Your lips trailed up with a pop, a string of spit hanging off your wet lips connecting to his tip. Your makeup was a mess, eyes sparkling as you took a few heavy breaths.
âSorry,â You breathed out, licking his tip once more. âThis fucking cock. What a travesty, no one's been sucking it for the last 10 years.â
âYou okay?â He asked, his fingers pressing against your carotid. No doubt checking your racing heart rate, making sure you werenât about to have a coronary.
âMâ okay.â You mumbled, wrapping your lips around him again with a moan.
âGood girl.â He praised, gently pushing your head back down on him. With each wet, messy gargle of him fucking into your throat, he was willing himself not to cum. âYou listen so well, donât you?â
You nodded with him in your mouth, making his eyes roll back. You knew he was close, you could tell by how tight his balls were, or by the frantic pulling of your hair.
âF-fuck,â He cried out, his hips thrusting up into your throat causing you to gag around him, âIâm gonna cum. Gonna fucking cum.â
You didnât stop your movements, moaning around him in response as you felt him twitch once before he cums directly down your throat.
His head is thrown back in the couch cushions, his muscles peaking through the too-tight t-shirt he wore with each heavy breath as he came down.
You slowly pulled your mouth off of him with a pop, using your thumb to pick up the little bit of cum that had dripped down your chin. His eyes were glazed, his lips wet and red from biting down on them.
âOpen,â He demanded, moving his hand from your hair to your chin. He helped you relax your jaw, showing your tongue out to him showing him not a drop was wasted. âFuck, youâre unreal.â
You were giggly, cockdrunk off that alone. You helped him pull his pants back up with gentle hands, slipping back into his lap as if you belonged there.
âHow was your first blowjob in over a decade?â You teased, your legs outstretched on the couch cushions while you sat perched on his leg.
He pinched your bare leg lightly, âLittle minx. You know exactly how dangerous that mouth is.â
You rolled your eyes playfully, ready to swing off his lap and prepare to part ways. Instead, he grabbed your hips, keeping you exactly where you were.
âWait,â He whispered, âYou can say no, but itâs very rude not to offer to make a lady cum. Especially after she just gave you the best blowjob of your life.â
You froze, brows flying up your forehead. âYou wanna make, me? Cum?â You asked, as if it were such an unbelievable request.
He nodded casually, as if he was asking about the weather. âI didnât even need the blowjob, donât get me wrong I enjoyed it so fucking much, but Iâd have just as much fun getting to taste your sweet little cunt. What an honor would it be to make you cum, over and overâŚ.â
Your chest flushes, legs nearly trembling at the words he was whispering in your ear. Where the fuck did this man come from?
His hand moved to your thigh, fingers tapping on the skin.
âFuck,â Unable to keep the whine from escaping you, âY-yeah. Touch me, please.â
Thatâs all Jack needed, gently positioning you facing away from him. Your back pressed against his chest, your legs spread against his.
His lips dragged gently against your neck, his breath hot with each word he spoke. âI knew these little panties would be soaked for me.â His fingertips trailed against the now-soaked fabric, pressing just enough to make you mewl against him.
âYouâre so fucking hot, hard not to.â You panted.
He chuckled, pulling the fabric aside so he could glide his fingers against your wet folds. He moaned louder than you did at the contact, his rough fingertips finding your clit expertly.
âThere you go,â He cooed, rubbing steady circles on the twitching bud. Your legs were all but trembling now, chest rising with each stroke.
After a while, you were aching, throbbing for more. âP-please-â You begged, not even sure what you were begging for.
âHmm?â
âPlease, wanna feel you.â You cried, gasping in relief when his thick softy slipped into your entrance, with very little resistance.
âThere you go, good girl using her words.â He praised, rewarding you with his fingers pressing deep inside of you. Reaching places your fingers couldnât even think of touching.
He could feel the effect his words had on you, each gentle praise had you squeezing around him. Even as he slipped in another finger, stretching you out around him.
âOh, you like that, donât you?â He tutted, âMe in control?â
You nodded, eyes rolling into the back of your head. Those large fingers you spent the past hour imagining felt even better than you could have thought. He was so deep, his fingers curling with each rock of your hips.
âKnew it.â Was all he said, as his spare hand wrapped around your throat gently. He didnât squeeze, didnât even attempt to hold on. Just kept his hand there, forcing you into his hold.
You lost your ability to think, too lost in his strong hold as he curled and scissored his fingers inside you. âJ-jack.â
âThatâs my name, sweetheart.â He mocked playfully, his thumb moving to rub at your oversensitive clit. Thatâs all it took for you to come apart against him, crying out his name.
He didnât stop, his hands continuing their movements.
âToo much,â You whined, your fingernails digging into his thigh as he kept going. The lewd sounds of his fingers slipping in and out of your soaked cunt had your head spinning.
âI donât think so, I think you can take one more.â
You nearly laughed, delirious, âGod, youâre so fucking hot.â
âSo are you baby, being so good for me.â He sighed, âPerfect fucking pussy, and she wants to cum again for me? Doesn't she?â
You nodded frantically, feeling his fingers curl even deeper pressing against your sweetspot with each movement.
âYou wanna cum again so bad, I can feel it.â
You hated how right he was, how your hips were jerking into him. You were already so close to cumming again, off his words alone.
âRight there,â You gasped, âDonât stop.â
âNever,â He pressed a kiss to your neck, feeling your cunt suckle in his fingers greedily. You came wordlessly, nothing but pitiful moans leaving you. His hand was soaked, your release dripping down his palm as he stroked you through your second orgasm of the night.
You were breathless, panting miserably.
âFuck.â You cried out, your head falling back into his shoulder. âI donât think Iâve come that hard in years.â
âYou donât have to lie to me, sweetheart.â He hummed, gently slipping his fingers out of you.
âMânot lying.â You shake your head, "Would never lie to a man about that.â
âWhat losers have you been sleeping with?â He frowns. âA real man makes sure his girl cums at least twice before he even thinks about himself.â
A shiver runs down your spine as he continues, âIâd take good care of you, you know?â
You nearly moan, âReally?â
âHm,â He nods, his palm spread wide on your bare thigh. âWould buy you whatever you want, make you cum so hard every night until you forget your name. Youâd never have to entertain these losers here again.â
Heâs not the first man to claim he can swoop in and be your knight and shining armor, but he is the first man to make you believe that he means it.
âWhat if we start with dinner?â You smile, pressing a gentle kiss to his lips. It was humorous that both of you had made each other cum, without even kissing. It was ridiculous, completely unorthodox, borderline unethical, but you couldnât find it in yourself to care. Not when his soft, honey brown eyes were looking at you like you hung the moon.
âI think I'd like that, sweetheart. Give me a chance to treat you right.â He smiled, smoothing down your hair with his free hand.
You exchanged numbers and even texted him first. Promising him again, this wasnât something you normally did. You offered to walk him out, but he declined, pressing one last kiss to your lips, pretending not to see the very large stack of cash he slipped on your side table.
âIâll be expecting your call.â He smirked before he slipped through the curtain.
âA text! Who calls anymore old man?â You teased, walking him slink down the hall. You waited for a beat, watching his bow-legged sway as he walked out the door.
It was only seconds later that a head popped out of the room across from yours, Aniâs eyes wide. âBitch! What happened?â
â-Why did you stop-â A manâs voice rang out behind her, only making her slam the curtain shut.
All you could do was squeal at your friend, pressing your hand to your beating chest.
Jack Abbot walked out of the club to the crisp morning air, and a pep in his step that wasnât there a few hours ago. He feels 10 years younger and has a weird sense of hope in his chest. Your number sits heavy in his phone, the smell of your perfume on his shirt, and your touch is still on his skin. The entire drive back home, he has a dopey smile on his face, and all he can think about is which fruit basket to buy his therapist as a thank-you.
â summary: you start as the new sous chef at the pitt, where working under the intense jack abbot proves almost as thrilling as being beneath him
â pairing: chef!jack abbot x sous-chef!reader
â warnings: 18+ mdni, smut, cursing, power-dynamics, fingering, oral sex, unprotected sex, p in v, cream pie, rough sex, semi public sex, size kink, chef kink, dirty talk, slight choking, jack abbot talks you through it
â word count: 9.4k
â notes: so obviously i listened to the quinn audio and opened a doc. my fingers were on fire (please support them instead of pirating btw) also im not a chef i literally just watch the bear and gordon ramsey ijbol but can I also say this might be the hottest smut iâve ever written LOL
When you step foot into The Pitt, the first thing you notice isnât the fresh scent of lemon and herbs, or the sparkling countertops, itâs the precision with which Jack Abbot runs it. Itâs controlled chaos. Every bang of a pan, crackle of flame, and metal scraping against metal is almost orchestral.Â
And right there in the center, is head chef Jack himself. His sleeves rolled up to his elbows, his apron splattered with various sauces.Â
âAgain,â He instructed a line cook, his broad shoulders straining against his shirt as he crossed his arms. âIf it doesnât feel right, donât send it. If it doesnât make you feel anything, then you arenât doing it right.âÂ
He didnât hear you slip in through the delivery door, didnât notice you standing there with your coat draped over your arm and bag on your shoulder. Youâre leaning against the stainless steel prep table, watching the girl carefully pipette dollops of sauce on a plate next to a perfectly roasted slice of duck.
âYour spacingâs off,â you say finally, voice calm but carrying easily over the noise. âYouâre crowding the protein. Let it breathe. Itâs the star of the show, the sauce is the supporting act.â
The woman startles, eyes snapping up to you, then immediately over your shoulder like sheâs checking if sheâs about to get in trouble.
âWhat,â he starts, turning sharply, already halfway into irritation, âdid I just say about-â
His eyes land on you, a flicker of confusion on his face about the stranger who was relaxing against his station, as if she belonged there.Â
âWho are you and why are you standing around like you own the place?â He asks gruffly, his hands leaning against the table now. His arm veins protruded as his body weight rested on the limbs.Â
âThe person who does own the place gave me a key,â You hold up the silver key between your fingers, âAnd Iâm Y/n Y/l/n, the new sous-chef.âÂ
âThe one from France?â he asks, stepping closer, wiping his hands on a towel but not breaking eye contact.Â
You give a curt nod, a smirk still gracing your lips. It made it very hard for Jack not to stare at your pursed lips as he sized you up.
âAh, yes,â Ellis chimes in, grinning as she leans against her station, clearly enjoying this far too much. It wasnât often that many people gave Jack shit. âThe prodigal daughter back from studying abroad in France. Here to give this old guy a run for his money?â
âOld?â His voice echoed in the kitchen, making Ellis put her tattooed arms up.Â
âRespectfully.â She whistled, holding her hand out for you to shake.Â
Her grip was firm as she gave you her name, âEllis Parker, Chef de Partie for the French girl.âÂ
You nearly flushed at her warm gaze, dropping her hand as she grabbed her plate, giving you and your new boss time to talk.Â
âAlright,â he says. âLetâs see what Robby thought was worth importing.â
He holds his hand out in front of him, guiding you through the massive kitchen.Â
âCareful,â you murmur. âYou might like it.â
Something in his gaze darkens at that, interest threading through the challenge, but itâs gone just as fast as it appears. Your stuff is put up in a locker, while you throw an apron over your head.Â
The tour is less formal than most restaurants youâve worked in. Thatâs the first thing youâve noticed, just how close-knit everyone seems to be. Which was a stark contrast to most other posh workplaces youâve spent the last few years in.Â
âHead of house, Frank Langdon with his assistant Mel King.â He points through the glass window into the dining room where the tall brunette was wildly explaining something to do with menus to the eager blonde.Â
Youâre on his heels as he walks, keeping up behind him like you were in a moving current.Â
âDana, house manager. She keeps this place running, donât ever piss her off.â He grumbles, and you hear the blonde put the phone down to yell loudly at the man.Â
â-I heard that!âÂ
âAnyways,â he continues, his shoulder pushing open another door for you two to glide through. âSantos and Garcia, our resident bartender and sommelier.âÂ
The younger girl is shoulder to shoulder with the older girl, polishing wine glasses with expert precision. You wave softly to them, trying your best to be polite while Jack is all but dragging you through the restaurant at lightning speed.Â
Youâre back in the kitchen, a guy is on his knees scrubbing at a spot on the floor while the other is rinsing the sink.Â
âWhittaker, our busboy, and Ogilvie his assistant of sorts. I donât really know what he does, he cleans.â Jack pauses watching the boy squint at him before youâre off in the kitchen again.Â
The smell of sugar and vanilla hits your nose as you walk through the pastry kitchen. âSamira Mohan, our Pastry Chef. I donât care what bullshit you saw in France, sheâs better.â He boasts, and you barely catch a glance of the girl as sheâs pulling another rack of pastries out of the oven.Â
âThere are some people Iâm missing,â He huffs, âYou met Ellis, then we have Shen and Crus our other chefs. We have our prep cooks Princess and Perlah, donât tell them anything they gossip.âÂ
He lets out a short laugh as youâre suddenly right back where you started, âMcKay and Javardi are our hosts, Joy and Emma are our veteran waitresses. We love them, Emma does our social media. So if she asks you to make a TikTok, youâll do it because sheâs too sweet to say no to.âÂ
âUnderstood,â You let out a breath, still trying your best to remember all of the names.Â
âYou met Robby and Heather, theyâre hardly here since their daughter was born so that leaves me.â He smiles, rocking on his feet. âJack Abbot.âÂ
âNice to officially meet you,â You nearly laugh, sticking out your hand to shake his. You nearly shiver at the way his large warm hand encompasses yours.Â
He switches in and out of Head Chef mode easily, immediately going into a deep explanation of how they work here. Their processes, what makes it work, and how under no circumstances are you to deviate from the plan. He was a stickler for order, that much was obvious, but you had to be in this line of work.Â
âDid you memorize the menu?âÂ
âOf course.â You nod, thinking back to Robby shoving a binder in your hand upon hiring and telling you to study up. You didnât think youâd actually be tested until Jack started throwing questions at you.Â
âMiso cod,â he says. âWhat finishes it?â
âWhite miso glaze, reduced until it clings,â you answer without hesitation. âCaramelized under high heat, served over a bed of jasmine rice with a ginger-scallion emulsion and pickled shiitake for contrast.â
His eyes flick toward you briefly.
âCitrus?â
You donât miss a beat. âYuzu zest in the emulsion. Bright, but not overpowering.â
He hums, not quite approval, not quite dismissal.
âFilet.â
âDry-aged,â you reply. âPan-seared, basted in brown butter, garlic, and thyme. Rested properly. Served with pommes purĂŠe thatâs more butter than potato and a red wine bordelaise reduced to almost syrup.â
âTemperature.â
âMid-rare,â you scoff. âObviously, anything higher is a crime.â
That earns the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth.
He stops suddenly at the pass, picking up a plate, holding it between you like a test youâre meant to fail. Itâs still steaming, but thereâs not much cooking happening besides prep.Â
A smile quirks up at your lips, thinking of him preparing a dish just to quiz you on. You take the challenge.Â
Itâs a roasted chicken, split and pressed, the skin blistered and golden, glistening under a brush of jus. It sits over a bed of truffle-laced pommes anna, layered thin and crisp at the edges, soft and buttery at the center. Thereâs a swipe of charred leek purĂŠe, dark and smoky, and a scattering of pearl onions lacquered in something sweet and reduced.
He holds it out slightly toward you, pulling a fork out from his pocket.
âRoast chicken,â he says. âWalk me through it.â
You step in closer without hesitation, close enough that your shoulder nearly brushes his as you lean in.
âAir-dried for at least twenty-four hours,â you start, eyes scanning, picking it apart piece by piece. âHigh heat to render the skin, then finish slower so it stays juicy. Basted in butter, thyme, maybe a little garlic toward the end so it doesnât burn.â
Your finger hovers just above the pommes anna, not touching, just tracing the shape with the fork. You bring it up to your lips, unaware of Jackâs sudden interest in the counter after your tongue swipes against it.
âPotatoes layered with clarified butter, pressed, cooked low and slow, then crisped. Truffle folded in at the end, not during, or it disappears.â
âSauce,â he prompts.
âChicken jus, mounted with butter,â you reply. âReduced enough to coat the back of a spoon, not so much that it turns sticky.â
He nods once, then tilts the plate slightly.
âWhat doesnât belong?â
You hum, twirling the fork around.Â
You lean in just a little more, close enough now that if you shifted even an inch youâd touch him, your voice lowering without you meaning to. The fork stabs one of the pearl onions, you shove it into your mouth, and grimace a little.Â
âTheyâre glazed in balsamic,â you say.
âAnd.â
âItâs too heavy,â you continue, straightening slightly, meeting his eyes again. âYouâve already got richness from the chicken, the butter, the potatoes. The balsamic makes it sweet and acidic in the wrong way. It pulls focus instead of balancing.â
He watches you carefully.
âSweetness is bad?â
âNot if itâs intentional,â you counter. âBut this isnât. Itâs competing, not complementing.â
Then you tilt your head just slightly, a hint of something playful slipping in.
âYouâd be better off with something brighter. Maybe a preserved lemon glaze, or even a light cider reduction. Something that cuts through instead of sitting on top.â
He makes a noise of satisfaction, âMost people wouldâve said the truffle,â he admits.
âThe truffle isnât overdone, itâs a good addition. If itâs in the budget, Iâd put it on the menu, minus the onions.â You smiled crookedly.Â
Heâs trying to hide how impressed he is, as he shuffles around. âWell, try not to slow us down tonight.âÂ
âOh, I donât like it slow.â You purse your lips, âDonât worry about me.âÂ
He has an amused look on his face, âYou are gonna give me a run for my money huh?âÂ
You shrug, âGuess youâll just have to wait and see.âÂ
And you donât make him wait long.
Service hits like a wave and you step into it without hesitation, sliding onto his line as if youâve always belonged there, like the rhythm of this kitchen is something your body already understands. This is where you belong, even when the tickets start stacking. Jack glides through the kitchen like he could do it blindfolded.
You match him without thinking, your hands moving before the words even fully land, reaching for pans, adjusting heat, finishing sauces before he even has the chance to bark out orders.Â
âTwo scallops, one duck, one filet,â he calls.
âScallops walking,â you answer just as quickly, already flipping them, butter foaming, the edges caramelizing into that perfect golden crust. You tilt the pan, baste once, twice, then pull them at exactly the right second, sliding them onto the plate like itâs elementary.Â
Jack tries not to stare, tries to focus on his own job but he finds the way you move mesmerizing. Even when you reach for the wrong item, still gaining your footing here, youâre majestic.Â
âDuck?â he presses.
Youâre already slicing it, the blade gliding clean through, juices held exactly where they should be. âRested,â you say, fanning it out, dragging the cherry reduction into a sharper line, tightening the plating just enough to elevate it without losing its soul.
âYouâre moving fast,â he mutters, more to himself than you.
You donât look up. âI told you, I donât like it slow.â
Thereâs something in the way you say it that makes him pause for half a second too long before snapping back into motion.
The longer the service goes, the clearer it becomes. Youâre not just keeping up with him, youâre anticipating him. Adjusting before he asks, finishing thoughts he hasnât spoken yet, stepping into the exact spaces he leaves open without ever colliding. It isnât chaotic, it isnât competitive in a loud way. Youâre not working against him, youâre not showing out. Itâs a dance.Â
At one point your hands brush when you both reach for the same pan, and neither of you pulls back immediately. He lingers, and you let your fingers dance over his before pulling the pan out from him.Â
When service is over, the place takes a deep breath. Jack pretends he canât smell the sweat clinging to your neck, and the soft scent of your shampoo when you pass him.Â
âIs every night like that?â You ask, your skin still vibrating from the adrenaline rush. successful service.Â
âIf weâre so lucky,â Shen smiles, patting you on the back, âYou were on fire back there.âÂ
âThank you.â You smiled, listening to their compliments while your eyes were on Jack. He gave you a simple nod of encouragement, before he leaned back down to scrub at the oven. You took that to heart, ignoring the weird flutter in your chest at his approval.Â
You roll your shoulders back, trying to shake the adrenaline loose, but itâs still there, buzzing under your ribs, settling somewhere deeper instead of fading.
âCareful,â Ellis calls from across the line, flicking water from a rag in your direction. âYou keep that up, youâre gonna make the rest of us look bad.â
âYou already do that on your own,â you shoot back, not missing a beat.
A few laughs ripple through the room.
âYeah,â She whistles, tossing you a sponge, âYouâre right where you belong.âÂ
You move through cleanup as you worked here for years, not a single night, falling into rhythm beside them, trading small comments, quiet jokes, letting yourself settle into something that feels dangerously close to belonging already.Â
Princess is already whispering something to Perlah that makes them both glance at you and grin, Danaâs voice carries faintly from the front, still managing something even this late, and Shen is already halfway to the espresso machine without needing to ask. He brings you a coffee in a shot glass, a wide smile on his face. âTo surviving your first shift at The Pitt.â
By the end of your first week, the kitchen stops watching you like youâre a baby deer on new legs, and starts moving with you as if youâve always been there. By the end of your second, they start trusting you. And by the end of your first month, there isnât a single person on the line who doesnât adjust when you step in, who doesnât listen when you speak, who doesnât look for you the same way they look for him when something matters.
Service becomes something electric between you and Jack.
You learn his tells, the slight shift in his posture when something is about to go wrong, the way his voice drops when heâs focused, the exact second he expects a plate to land in the pass. And he learns yours too, whether he wants to admit it or not. The way you move faster when youâre challenged, the way you donât wait to be told, the way you fix things before they ever reach him.Â
âToo much salt,â he mutters one night, barely glancing at a pan.
Youâre already beside him, tasting, adjusting, adding a splash of stock and a knob of butter, bringing it back into balance like it was never off.
âBetter,â you say, sliding it back.
He watches you for a second longer than necessary, before youâre already back at your station.
âYou donât miss,â he says.
âNeither do you,â you reply, and he pretends it doesnât make his knuckles shake. Heâs too old for a crush, he tells himself. But it doesnât stop the way he looks at you with stars in his eyes every night.Â
Thereâs a push and pull to it, something unspoken but constant. You challenge him in small ways, tightening a plate here, swapping an element there, offering suggestions that are just bold enough to make him pause but never reckless enough to break the integrity of what heâs built.
âLose the microgreens,â you murmur one night, adjusting a dish before it goes out. âTheyâre filler.â
âThey add color.â
âThey add nothing,â you counter, meeting his eyes. âIf you need color, fix the dish, not the garnish. Microgreens are shipped in by the pound to every wanna be Michelin star restaurant in the US. We donât need it.â
He wants to argue, you can see it on his face. Then his brows furrow, and he watches the plate so intensely youâd almost believe it was speaking to him.
Then he pulls them off himself.
âSend it,â he says.
You donât smile, but you feel the way your cheeks burn.Â
You find your place in the quieter moments too.
Samiraâs kitchen is the first space that feels different. Warmer, softer, but no less precise. The scent of caramelizing sugar wraps around you the second you step inside, vanilla and citrus layered over butter and heat. She hands you a spoon without looking.
âTry that.â She orders.Â
You do. A dark chocolate crĂŠmeux, smooth and rich, finished with a hint of sea salt that lingers at the back of your tongue.
âRespectfully,â You start, the spoon still in your mouth, âI think Iâd do anything you asked me to do if you keep making things like that.âÂ
She laughs, a loud one that comes from her throat. âJack was right, I like you.âÂ
You donât press on what she means, because the idea of Jack boasting about you makes something coil in your stomach.Â
Itâs easy to fall into rhythm with the staff. Youâd bum a cigarette off of Santos after long nights, the two of you chain-smoking with Dana in the freezing Pittsburgh weather. Samira would sneak you pastries in exchange for tips you had picked up in France. You brought her in some cookbooks from your time there, and she nearly cried. The next day thereâs a container waiting for you in the breakroom fridge, your name written across the lid in careful script. Chai tiramisu, layered perfectly, the spice warm and unexpected against the bitterness of espresso.Â
Frank and Mel were a joy to be around, you sat with them one day learning the inner workings of the magic they create out front. Your first outing with the crew was one weekend Javardi had convinced all the girls, barring Dana who was always busy, to go out and get drinks one night. Despite the girl's only memo, Shen showed up an hour in and got so drunk that Ellis had to carry him two blocks home.Â
Somewhere in all of it, you find your place.
Not just in the kitchen, not just on the line, but here, in the middle of this strange, chaotic, loyal little family that somehow makes space for you without question.Â
Thatâs why, you think, the first time it cracks makes it hurt a little more than if this were any other job posting.Â
The kitchen is running hot, faster than usual, the kind of night where everything is just slightly off and everyone feels it. Tickets pile, timing tightens, and Jack is sharper than usual, voice cutting a little cleaner, a little colder.
A braised short rib, rich and heavy, sitting over a parsnip purĂŠe with a red wine reduction that leans deep, almost too deep, into itself. Itâs Jack Abbot on a plate, almost.Â
You taste it as it comes up, quick, instinctive, and your brow pulls just slightly. Itâs good, actually, itâs fantastic, but itâs missing something vital to him.Â
A splash of sherry vinegar, just enough to lift it. A touch of orange zest, subtle, brightening the edges without changing the core. You swirl, taste again, and it opens up immediately, the richness balanced, the flavor sharper, more alive.
You plate it and send it without thinking.Â
Jack catches it at the pass, because of course he does.Â
âWhat is this,â he asks, not loud, but dangerous in how controlled it is. Everyone seems to tense, knowing exactly what the inflection in his voice means.Â
You donât hesitate. âShort rib.â
His eyes flick to yours, then back to the plate. He then narrows his eyes at the sauce you have sitting on your station.
âYou changed the sauce.âÂ
Itâs not a question, but you answer anyway. âYes.â
âI didnât ask you to,â he says, voice tightening, the edge finally showing. âYou donât touch my dishes without clearing them first.â
âIt needed it,â you reply, your voice steadier than you feel.
âThatâs not your call,â he snaps, sharper now. âYou think because you worked in France and have all these fancy restaurants under your belt that you get to walk in here and rewrite my menu? Youâve been here a little over a month, donât think youâre more important than you are because Robby wanted a new shiny chef to look good in the media.â
There it is.Â
The version of him everyone else warned you about. The version of him you have yet to see. The one no one had seen since you arrived. Because, Robby thought youâd mellow him out. Inspire him again, lighten the kitchen up.Â
For a second, the kitchen holds its breath. Waiting to see if you crumble, or if you start yelling back.Â
If anything, something in you sharpens right back, your eyes catching the light in amusement.Â
The anger simmering in his chest only burns hotter when he sees your plush lips fighting off a stupid grin.Â
âTaste it,â you say simply.
He scoffs. âThatâs not the point.â
âThen make it the point,â you counter, stepping closer, lowering your voice just enough that itâs not for everyone else anymore. âBecause if youâre going to be mad, you should at least be right.âÂ
His warm eyes are dark, with something you canât quite place.Â
âYou come into my kitchen, and say my dish needs fixing?â He scoffs, both of your faces inching towards each other. The chaos of service still bustles around you, but both of you tune it out. Too fixated on each otherÂ
âI mean no offense,â You start, âBut that dish was supposed to be you on a plate right? It was wrong, it needed a boost, a light in it if you will.âÂ
âDonât try to sound like my therapist,â His voice raises, âThe sauce was fine-âÂ
âI never said it wasnât.â You stressed, âI just made it better. Iâm sorry I didnât tell you, wonât happen again Chef.â
His jaw tightens at that, like the words themselves are a physical thing he has to chew through. For a second it looks like heâs going to refuse just to prove a point, to keep the argument alive on principle alone.
But he doesnât, because heâs a chef first. And much to his chagrin and anger, he trusts you.
Jack snatches the spoon from the pot with more force than necessary, then drags it through the sauce you changed. The motion is sharp, almost aggressive, and when he brings it to his mouth, the entire kitchen somehow gets even quieter.
âItâs good,â he says finally, his voice not coming out as flat as heâd like.Â
Your lips curve before you can stop them.
âChef,â you correct softly, just to press him a little more.
His eyes snap to yours immediately, the irritation running back up his broad shoulders. âItâs good, Chef.âÂ
Jack leans in just slightly, not enough to touch, but enough that the space between you stops feeling safe. His hand grabs your upper arm, to pull you closer or just as an excuse to touch you. He isnât sure which one it is.Â
âYou pull something like that again,â he says quietly, voice rougher now, âand it will be your last day in my kitchen.â
âYes, Chef.â You whisper to him, a little too close to his ear. Your warm breath on his neck makes him shiver, his fingers dropping the grip he had on you.Â
It occurs to you in that moment, that this is foreplay. For both of you.Â
Both of your chests are panting, eyes dark with something neither of you dared to name. This is what every challenge in this kitchen has been. You push him, he pushes back, and you enjoy the rush.Â
He steps back like your presence burns, turning his attention back to the tickets that were piling up.Â
âBack on the line,â he calls, voice louder now, reestablishing control, forcing the kitchen back into motion.
As the rhythm picks back up, Crus passes behind you and bumps your shoulder lightly with his elbow, a grin tugging at his mouth.
âYou poked the beast,â he murmurs, shaking his head like he canât decide if heâs impressed or terrified for you.
You glance at him, calm as ever. âHe survived.â
Crus snorts under his breath. âBarely.â
Across the line, Jack doesnât look back at you again for the rest of the service, but you know he feels it. The coil wound tight between the two of you. What was once just longing stares and brushes of skin, was now a pressure cooker ready to explode all over the kitchen he spent the last few decades building from the ground up.
After that night, nothing really goes back to how it was before.
It doesnât get worse, not exactly, but it changes shape. The kitchen doesnât stop moving, doesnât lose its rhythm, but thereâs something threaded through it now that wasnât there before. A pressure. A quiet awareness that sits under every callout, every pass, every brush of shoulders in tight spaces. People feel it even if they donât say it out loud, even if they pretend they donât see it.Â
Princess and Perlah catch it immediately, and it spreads all the way to the front of the house. Frank catches it in the way Jackâs eyes flick toward the kitchen door whenever youâre not on the line. Mel notices it in how quickly the tickets start moving when youâre working beside him, like the pace shifts just slightly to match the two of you instead of the system. Dana, of course, clocks it immediately and says nothing, which somehow makes it worse.
Santos says it out back one night, smoke curling between her fingers as she watches you lean against the brick wall after service.
âWhatâs going on between you and Jack?â She asks.Â
âWhatâs going on with you and Garcia?â You pirate back, dangling the cigarette between your lips.Â
She ignores your comment, continuing on.Â
âYou two are going to burn this place down with the passion between you two,â she says mildly, like sheâs commenting on the weather.
You just take a drag of your cigarette and exhale slowly.
âWe just both love food, passion makes us run hot, sâall,â you reply.
She hums like he doesnât believe you.
Inside, Jack doesnât say anything either, but he starts noticing everything. The way you stand a little closer than necessary when youâre correcting a dish. The way your hand lingers for half a second too long when you pass him a pan. The way you donât look away first anymore.
Someone texted Robby about it, because of course they did. He gets a call one morning, asking if heâs running off the new chef or if heâs trying to commit an HR violation. Jack hangs up before he gets the chance to start making jokes anymore.Â
Itâs a random Thursday when you slip through the back door like normal, a little earlier, and a lot more dolled up. Your makeup is done, hair is down, and you have on a sweater as compared to your normal work attire. Samira whistles playfully as she walks into the breakroom, complimenting you as you begin to talk between yourselves.Â
Jack hears you but doesnât look up right away.
âYouâre early,â he says, voice low, still facing the stove.
âEmma needs a headshot of me for the website,â you reply, shrugging off your coat and hanging it without slowing down. âShe said she likes to take them in front of the sign. Iâm also filming a few videos with her.â
He hums in acknowledgment, but his attention stays on the braise for the beef, on the way the liquid moves when he tilts the pot slightly, checking consistency, tasting with a spoon without thinking. He looks up at you, and thatâs when everything goes wrong.Â
You look beautiful. Youâve always been beautiful, even bare-faced with a dirty bandana tied around your head, but this? This was different, it was seeing you in another light. The Y/n you were outside of these walls, outside of being the best chef heâd ever met.Â
Jack shifts slightly closer to the burner, adjusting the heat under the pot mindlessly, and thatâs when it happens. He pulls back immediately, a sharp hiss escaping through his teeth before he even fully processes it. The side of his hand sizzles against the heat, and everyoneâs heads turn.Â
âYou good, boss?â Crus asks, and you see Shen and Ellis falling into each other hiding their amusement.Â
This is the first time in his career he had burned himself, and it suddenly feels like his world is falling apart in front of him. The clicking of your heels against the floor makes his brow furrow as he wraps his hand in a rag.Â
âJack,â you say, already moving.
He likes the way his name sounds coming from your lips.Â
âIâm fine,â he answers automatically, but itâs too quick, too tight.
You donât argue, just step in beside him, gently but firmly taking his wrist and turning it under the cooler sink before he can insist otherwise. The skin is already red, irritated, not serious but enough to sting, but enough to make him finally go quiet and let you work.
âI said Iâm fine,â he mutters again, though softer now.
âAnd I didnât ask,â you reply, adjusting the water slightly, your touch steady and unhurried as you check the burn properly.
You reach for ointment in the first aid kit without asking, careful as you apply it, your fingers light but precise as you wrap the gauze around his hand. He doesnât pull away, doesnât interrupt, just stands there letting you take control. Something he normally doesn't let happen.Â
âYou distracted me,â he says after a beat, quieter now, like heâs admitting something he doesnât fully like saying out loud.
You glance up at him briefly while tying off the bandage.Â
âI wasnât even doing anything,â you laugh.
That earns a faint exhale from him that almost, almost sounds like a laugh heâs holding back. âExactly,â he replies.
Thereâs a pause then, as your head tilts to the side watching him carefully. âIs it the heels? Because I know theyâre not kitchen standard, but I have an outfit change before service.âÂ
âItâs not the heels,â He breathes out, but then his eyes do rake down your body for a fleeting moment before he meets your eyes again, âMaybe itâs the heels.âÂ
You chuckle again, patting his now bandaged hand softly. âYouâre all set to go.âÂ
âYou must have been a doctor in another life,â He smiles, âI feel better already.âÂ
âHealing hands.â You wiggle your fingers at him playfully, taking a short step back. You go to turn away, but you pause leaning back into his space. âBe careful, I wouldn't want you to hurt yourself again watching me walk away.âÂ
With those words youâre off, spinning on your heel and walking into the dining room with an unnecessary added sway in your steps.Â
âJesus,â He grumbles, feeling a flush run up the back of his neck as he indeed did watch you walk away. Ignoring all the alarm bells that were ringing in his head, as he tried his best not to get hard in the middle of prep.Â
Heâs not subtle at all with the way his eyes keep finding yours that night. At one point there was no shame as he stood in front of the pass window, watching Emma direct you and pose while Joy stood there following Emmaâs every polite command.Â
âYou are not slick brother.â Robbyâs voice bellows through the kitchen.
Jack barely reacts, just exhales through his nose like heâs been caught doing something mildly inconvenient rather than completely transparent. He turns his head slightly, watching Robby step into the kitchen like he still owns part of the air in it.
âYouâre here,â Jack says flatly. âAlmost forgot you worked here.â
âYeah, yeah.â He takes the tease, hugging him gently. âIâm observant,â Robby adds, glancing past him straight to you, then back to Jack with a faint smirk. âAnd Iâve been hearing things.â
Jackâs jaw tightens just a fraction. âFrom who?â
âLittle birdies,â Robby says casually, leaning against the edge of the pass like heâs got all the time in the world. âMostly the kind that tells me my head chefâs been acting like he forgot how to breathe around his new sous chef.â
Jack scoffs, immediately turning back to the line like thatâs the end of it. âPeople talk too much.â
âPeople always talk,â Robby replies, watching him carefully now. âWhatâs interesting is that Iâve been here two minutes and I already see it.â
Then, lighter, almost teasing, but not quite. âTheyâre saying sheâs changed you.â
Jack doesnât answer right away, just focuses a little too hard on the clock.
âShe hasnât changed anything,â he says finally.
Robby hums like he doesnât believe him for a second. âSure.â
Service pulls them both back in before anything else can be said, and the kitchen does what it always does, it swallows everything that isnât immediately necessary. Orders fire, pans heat, voices cut across each other in practiced rhythm. Youâre back on the line fully now, moving like youâve always belonged there, correcting, plating, adjusting without hesitation, and Jack tries to stay locked in the way he always does.
But he keeps looking.
He catches himself doing it twice, maybe three times, eyes flicking up without permission, drawn to you like itâs reflex now. Youâre leaning over a station explaining something to Ellis, hair slightly loosened from earlier, even as itâs pulled back, your expression focused and animated in a way that makes the whole room feel a fraction warmer. It annoys him more than it should that he notices how easily people orbit you now.
By the time service winds down, the kitchen is in that slow collapse, energy draining out of it in waves. The clatter softens, the urgency fades, and whatâs left is exhaustion and the quiet satisfaction of getting through it.
Shen is already at the back counter when you finish cleaning your station, pulling shots of espresso with practiced ease, humming under his breath like heâs done this a thousand times and will do it a thousand more.
âYou look like you need this,â he says, sliding a small glass toward you.
Ice cream first, espresso second, the classic affogato, simple and perfect in a way that feels like a reward for surviving the night.
You take it gratefully, leaning against the counter beside him.
âSaved my life,â you murmur after the first bite.
Shen shrugs like itâs nothing. âYou say that every time.â
âBecause itâs true every time.â
Across the room, Jack is wiping down his station, slower now, watching the kitchen settle back into itself. Or at least pretending to. His eyes flick toward you before he can stop them, landing on the two of you draped across the bar as you belong. The way your faded lipstick still clings to your lips that are wrapped around the spoon.Â
Shen leaves before you do, bidding you a goodnight. No doubt stealing yet another glass bowl from the restaurant. You tell him not to eat and drive, and he flips you off as the door shuts behind him.
You finish your affogato and set the glass down, turning slightly like you feel Jack watching from behind you.Â
âYou two are close,â Jack says, voice level, neutral on the surface but just tight enough underneath to give it away.
Itâs then you realise that you are the only two left. The lights are dim and the room smells of cleaning supplies and that slight metallic smell of polished stainless steel permeates through the air.Â
âHeâs a mess,â You comment, placing the bowl into the sink slowly.Â
He makes a noise of agreement, tossing his rag around his neck.Â
âNot as close as we are, chef,â you say lightly, almost teasing, but steady enough that it lands exactly where you intend it to. âDonât worry, youâre still my favorite.âÂ
âAm I?â He asks, running his hand through his tousled salt and pepper curls.Â
Your teeth bite down on your bottom lip, mischief in your eyes as the only thing that separated you two was the kitchen island. You lean your palms against the cold metal, leaning forward.Â
âOf course you are.âÂ
He pretends he canât see down your thin undershirt now, he finds his fingers itching to touch the exposed skin of your collarbones.Â
âYouâre my sous chef,â he says after a beat, like he needs to remind himself of something solid.
âMm,â you murmur, stepping closer to the island, palms pressing lightly against the edge as you lean in more. âAnd?â
âAnd,â he repeats, but it comes out quieter than he intended, like the word itself has lost some of its authority.
You tilt your head, watching him carefully now, the teasing still there but softened by something more focused, more aware.
âWhite pinot goes best with cod,â you say casually, like youâre talking about nothing important at all.
His brow furrows slightly, thrown off for a second. âWhat?â
You shrug, eyes flicking briefly to his mouth before returning to his gaze like you didnât just do that. âI thought we were just naming the obvious.â
His breath shifts slightly, like heâs trying to steady it without making it obvious, and he pushes off the counter, stepping closer without fully thinking about it until suddenly there isnât really any space left between you and the island doesnât feel like an obstacle anymore, just something your bodies are pressing against from opposite sides.
âThatâs not,â he starts, then stops, jaw tightening as if heâs actively trying to regain control of the situation, of himself. âWe canât just-â
âCanât just what,â you interrupt softly, not moving back, not giving him an inch. âTalk?â
His eyes drop for half a second, as they betray him before he can stop them, and when he realises just how close you both are. Even with the counter digging into both of your hips, it feels like thereâs no space between you two at all.Â
âYouâre pushing it,â he says, but thereâs no real force behind it anymore.
âI think you like it when I do,â you reply, and this time your voice drops with it, something slower threading through the words as you shift just slightly, your nose brushing against his. Your lips hovering over his warm skin, âDonât you?â
He moves, nearly stumbling backwards as he does. Like your touch burned him just as bad as the burner did earlier.Â
You follow him like itâs instinct, like the space he creates is just something youâre meant to fill. He doesnât back up once, he just lets you step across from himÂ
âListen, if Iâm reading this wrong you can tell me.â You say softly, âI wonât be offended.â
His eyes flick to yours, sharp, guarded, but itâs slipping at the edges now.
âYouâre not- fuck,â he replies, but it comes out lower than he intends, less certain than it should be. âThatâs not it.â
You hum faintly, stepping just close enough that the air between you changes again, warmer, tighter, charged in a way that makes the quiet hum of the kitchen feel miles away. The towel around his neck catches your attention, and without asking, you reach for it.
He doesnât stop you,if anything his body shivers anticipating your touch.Â
Your fingers curl around the fabric, not pulling hard just enough to feel the tension in him as you draw him a fraction closer, enough that his breath shifts slightly when you do it. You pull his neck down to your height, meeting his eyes.Â
âThen what is it?â You ask, that teasing jilt in your tone again. The same one you throw out during service that makes his cock twitch in his pants.Â
His hand comes up, hesitates for half a second like heâs still trying to decide whether he should stop this or not, and then it settles at your waist, firm but controlled, pulling you just slightly closer until the space is gone between you two entirely.Â
âYouâre my sous chef,â He repeats, his mouth dry. âYou work under me, itâs a- I donât wanna- take advantage of you-âÂ
âJack,â You coo softly, âIâm a big girl, if anything I wish youâd take advantage of me-âÂ
Thatâs all that it takes for that coil to snap. He leans forward, his hands pulling your hips flesh against his as your lips meet.Â
Itâs frantic, hot, and wet. Your lips are warm against his, teeth nearly gnashing together at the intensity of it. Before you know it, heâs pressing you against the edge of the counter, cornering you there. His hands on your hips grip tighter, before they lift you as if you weigh nothing.Â
You plop down on the metal slab, your lips still chasing each other as his knee knocks your legs open wide for him. You oblige, pliant in his hands as yours are tugging against his curls. He pulls your shirt over your head as if it personally offended him, the fabric falling somewhere near the glasses.Â
You nearly whine when his lips part from yours, but itâs soothed over with a moan when he kisses down your jawline to your neck.
âTell me what you want.â
Your back arches, the ache between your legs growing stronger with each touch.Â
âJust, f-fuck-â You can barely get the words out when his canines bite down into your skin.Â
âDo you like that?â He panted against your neck, his lips alternating between sucking and licking at the supple flesh. He moved down to your tits, kissing the exposed skin.Â
âI want you to tell me how you want it,â He demanded, âBoss me around just like you do every fucking day in this kitchen. Tell me how to touch you, where you want my lips, how slow, how fast, how you like to be fucked..âÂ
Your eyes nearly roll into the back of your head at his words, your hands gripping his biceps like a lifeline.Â
âGet these pants off,â You manage to bark out, lifting your hips to give him space to pull your pants to your ankles. The thin fabric separating you from him was damp, a dark patch that had been there since the start of your verbal foreplay earlier during service.Â
âYou are so fucking beautiful.â He whispers, his eyes never once leaving yours even as his lips trail down your body. âIâve thought that from the moment you walked in here, correcting my chefs like you owned the place.âÂ
âYeah?â You panted out, watching his fingers slide your underwear to the side.Â
âAnd thisâŚ.â He breathed out, staring at your wet heat. He used his fingers to spread you open wider for him, a guttural moan leaving his lips. âThis is gonna be the best fucking meal Iâve ever had. Isnât it?âÂ
You canât speak, youâre breathing too hard, anticipation making your skin crawl. But you see the glint in his eyes, the smirk on his face.Â
âYouâre so mouthy during service, whatâs wrong? Hmm?âÂ
âFuck,â You nearly whine, feeling his fingers ghost around everywhere but where you need him the most. âIt is gonna be the last meal if you donât do something-oh.âÂ
Your head falls back against the wall as soon as his tongue makes contact with your clit. Itâs an experimental swipe through your folds, enough to have your fingernails digging into his arms.Â
âI was right,â He moans into you, "Delicious."Â
Jack Abbot was not lying when he said this would be the best meal heâd ever had, because the way his mouth was moving against you youâd think the man had never eaten in his life. Itâs messy, his tongue teasing in and out of your aching hole in between frantic sucks of your clit into his mouth.Â
You were moaning his name like a prayer, jutting your hips up into his nose without even meaning to.Â
âFingers,â You gasped out in need.Â
âYeah?â he hummed, slipping an arm between your legs so he could slip a finger inside of your soaking entrance. âYouâre so wet, baby. What got you like this?âÂ
His finger stretches you out with a delicious burn, youâre already aching for more by the time he curls the digit just right. Itâs like he can read your mind, slipping another deep inside. Theyâre so thick it takes you a moment, before youâre clenching around him.Â
âYou, just you.â Your hands are now gripping the side of the counter, watching him through half-lidded eyes. âBeen thinking of those fingers of yours, every time youâd- oh my god- stick your fucking finger into a sauce. Sucking on it like you knew I was watching.âÂ
âSame way youâd suck on those spoons while looking at me,â He whispered, bringing his mouth back down to your throbbing clit.Â
The sound was just as disgusting as it was the hottest thing youâve ever heard in the world. With each loud squelch of his fingers prying you apart, he was moaning desperately into you. His cock was hard and straining against his slacks.Â
âSâgood,â You praised, shifting your hips a little in his hold, âA little faster, wait- right there- yes, yes,âÂ
He listened intently, waiting to hear that sharp intake of breath and to feel your legs tremble around his head. He wouldnât admit how many nights he went home, fisting his cock in the shower imagining just how youâd sound when you came. How youâd taste, how youâd feel wrapped around him.Â
You could feel your orgasm approaching, and it almost pissed you off how fast you were coming apart around him. No other man had made you feel this way, but with his tongue lapping against you and his fingers curling deep inside right against your g-spot you were cumming with a loud moan.Â
âThere it is,â His voice was slurred and muffled against you.
Your shoulders dropped back, back arching and legs trembling as he didnât change his rhythm once. Your head fell back, mouth parted as his fingers slid through your folds drawing out your orgasm until you couldnât take it anymore.Â
His head was pulled back up by your fingers in his curls, your release was dripping down his chin. His eyes were sparkling as he looked up at you.Â
He brings his fingers up to his mouth and licks them clean like he made a mess eating the most expensive chocolate in the world. Not a drop is wasted, and youâre already clenching around nothing.Â
âRemember,â You start, still trying to catch your breath, âHow you wanted me to tell you how I wanted to be fucked?âÂ
He nods eagerly, slowly rising back up to your eye level.Â
âI told you I donât like it slow.âÂ
He smirks, the crinkles by his eyes deepening as you pull him closer towards you by his belt loops.Â
âGet this off-â
âEager?â He teases, his boxers falling to the floor.Â
âFuck.â You almost laugh, watching his heavy cock fall between his legs. He was veiny, and his tip was red and leaking.Â
âI donât have any condoms-âÂ
You cut him off, eyes still locked on the massive cock that was twitching with neglect. âIâm clean, and I have an IUD.âÂ
Heâs about to ask you another question before you bring your hand down, wrapping gently around his length. He hisses at the touch, warning you to go slow.Â
âSorry, this is just- god the biggest cock Iâve ever seen.âÂ
His chest puffs in pride, watching your thumb swipe a bead of his pre-cum around his sensitive tip. He can barely take it, he needs to be inside of you so bad his legs are practically shaking.Â
âThink you can take it?â He asks, grabbing your thighs to push them up on the counter, as he settles between them.Â
âYes, chef.â You say jokingly, but you feel the way he tenses you see the way his eyes darken. You tilt your head at him, while heâs lining up at your entrance.Â
âYou like that donât you?âÂ
Heâs silent, but huffs as he rubs his tip against your soaked slit.Â
âYou gonna fuck me?â You ask, âPlease Chef-âÂ
Youâre barely able to finish your teasing when he slips inside of you slowly, a gasp gets lodged in your throat. His palm is heavy on your stomach, thumb rubbing small circles into your clit as he inches in.Â
âYouâre okay,â He cooed, âBigggg stretch, almost in baby. Youâre doing so fucking good. F-fitting like a glove, so wet for me.âÂ
You feel so full, almost impossibly full. Each time you think heâs done, he keeps pushing more into your greedy velvety walls. With one final roll of his hips, he bottoms out. His hips meet yours.Â
âFuck.â He moans, leaning his forehead against yours to kiss you gently. âNeed. This. Off.â
Your bra is unclasped with one of his hands, and pushed to the side. His head lowers to catch a nipple into his mouth, he swirls his tongue around the bud before pulling off with a pop.Â
âYou okay, honey?â He asks softly, doing his best to keep you relaxed as your body adjusts to him.Â
You nod lazily, the dull ache turning into searing pleasure after a minute of his tongue expertly sucking at every sensitive spot he could reach.Â
The first thrust has you nearly crying out in bliss, his tip is nudging so deep you swear you can feel him in your throat. Heâs slow at first, steady enough to make sure heâs not hurting you and that your cunt is still dripping around him.Â
As soon as he feels your hips rocking against his, he braces his hands on your hips.Â
âMâmember what you said, baby? How you donât like it slow?âÂ
Your jaw goes slack, the moment he thrusts harder, pulling his cock all the way out before slamming back in with fever.Â
Then, heâs everywhere. His lips mouthing at your neck, his cock rearranging your guts, his thumb flicking your clit. Itâs overwhelming, in the best way possible.Â
âIâve been thinking about this ever since you walked in here in those fucking heels,â He admitted in a gasp, already lost in the warm wet of your cunt wrapped around him. âHell, since the first day I met you.â
It was one thing to have a massive cock, it was a completely other thing to know exactly how to use it. And god, did he know how to use it.Â
All control you held onto slipped through your hands, cockdrunk already on him.Â
The lewd sounds of skin slapping against skin echoed through the quiet kitchen, alongside the pathetic moans you couldnât stop from slipping through your lips.Â
âSâ fucking big.âÂ
âYouâre taking it so well,â He praises, âFeels sâgood doesn't it baby?â
The moment your nails scratch down his shoulders so hard he winces, he knows heâs angled his hips just right. âThere it is,â he says, under his breath. âThatâs the spot isnât it?â
When you donât answer in coherent words he speaks up again, âCome on, talk to me. Tell me thatâs the spot baby.âÂ
âThatâs the spot,â You cry out, âThatâs the fucking spot, donât stop. Keep fucking me.âÂ
âWouldnât dream of stopping,â He huffs, pulling the hem of his white t-shirt up his torso. The hem finds itself slotted in between his teeth, keeping it out of the way as he jackhammers into you.Â
The sight of his salt and pepper hair, and his abs glistening with sweat is all it takes for the familiar feeling to creep up your spine. And he knows it too.Â
âYouâre gonna cum for me, chef.â He orders, and you feel your cunt pulse around him. âGonna cum all over my cock.â
âY-yes, chef.â Youâre gone, eyes closed and hips thrusting upwards as he pushes you down with his palm on your stomach to keep you still.
âThatâs it,â He grunted, âGive it to me- fuck use this fucking cock.âÂ
You came so hard your ears rang, pleasuring licking up your spine even hotter than before. You can feel yourself creaming around him, each thrust only making your high ride out that much longer.
âShit- youâre squeezing me so fucking tight- Iâm barely gonna last.â He spoke through gritted teeth, his hand cupping the back of your neck harshly while the other ran up and down your side, squeezing the flesh harshly.Â
âW-wanna feel you cum.â You babbled, head lolling to the side, only being held up by his hand. âFuck me full of your cum.â
âYeah?â His brows squinted in concentration, keeping your eyes on you. âWatch me while I cum.âÂ
Tears are filling your waterline as he fucks into you so hard youâre worried the shelving units are going to fall off the walls.Â
Drool is sliding down your chin by the time his hand wraps around your throat, as he groans your name loudly into your neck.Â
His hips stutter as he comes, and you can feel him twitch and release inside of you. The ropes of sticky cum are warm, filling up your cervix with each twitch until youâve milked him dry.Â
âHoly fuck,â He pants, pulling your head into his sweaty chest as the two of you come down.Â
You were both sticky and out of breath, bodies aching from the intensity of it. But still, your brows were furrowed, lost in thought before you spoke up.Â
âWait,â You pant softly, âHave we ever thought about putting a new pasta dish on the menu?âÂ
His brows furrowed, sweat still clung to his top lip. âWhat?âÂ
âI just started thinking of an herb roasted chicken mafaldine pesto pasta, with like sundried tomatoes and shallots,â You rambled, as if his cock still wasnât seated deep inside of your cunt. âWe could top it with parmesan and some lemon, freshly cracked black pepper.â
âYou realize,â He shifted, âIâm literally still inside of you.âÂ
You rolled your eyes, he wasnât wrong. His release was still dripping out of you, coating the inside of your thighs. âYes, you should be proud your dick inspired such a wonderful dish from my brain.âÂ
It was then he realised he was more far gone than he had ever been before.Â
He thinks heâs in love with you.Â
All he could do was shake his head.Â
Thatâs how you ended up staying there late into the night, both of you working to make your impromptu post orgasm dish a reality.Â
âHm, I still think itâs missing something.â He mused, looking at the freshly made pasta dough and steaming chicken that was thrown together on the tasting plates, and you nodded letting him hand-feed you yet another bite.Â
âI think,â You swallowed, âYou should take me home, and we can shower and you can fuck the missing ingredient out of my head. How does that sound?âÂ
The fork was dropped within seconds, practically grabbing your hand and pulling you out of the door. âBut, wait we need to clean up-â
âFuck them, Iâm the boss.â He shrugs, and you find yourself in an endless fit of giggles.Â
Summary: sometimes⌠you meet a handsome doctor during an unexpected airport delay while travelling over the holidays.
Warning: Smutty thots đ(18+MDNI), strangers to lovers, meet-cute (one of those "is there a doctor here!? moments), medical situation at airport (seizure), language, alcohol, competency kink, mutual pining, flirting, slow burn-ish, fluff, mentions of death and loss, mentions of sex toys and kink, Â jealousy, romcom vibes?, sexual tension, mel is your homie, (smidge pitt spoilers regarding mel)
A/N: This is something that Iâve been working onâoff and on, and decided to weave the holidays into it. It may come across a bit Hallmark, maybe even a little silly, but I loved writing it. More than anything, I hope it makes someone out there feel a little happier, even just for a moment. Also, Happy Holidays! GIF by @aenslem. This GIF altered my brain chemistry. I cannot wait for season 2 for all the new, wonderful GIFs that our creators will make. Smooches to all of you.
Masterlist | Youâre reading Part 1 l Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5
December 22nd - Laguardia Airport
The cursor blinked at you like it was mocking you. You had already typed three different headlines, each one not sounding quite right.
"Is Your Holiday Romance Real Love or Just a Frosty Fling?"
Deleted. Too cheesy.
"Cuffing Season or Winter Coating: How to Tell the Difference?"
Deleted. Too blah.
"Snowflakes Melted, But Did Your Love?"
Deleted. Way too dramatic.
You sighed, swirling the straw in your half-finished gin and tonic, while around you, the bar hummed with the low buzz of travelers. You werenât sure why your editor had pushed this assignment on you since your usual column had never been about loveâit was about travel. You were the one readers turned to when their flight was canceled at 2 a.m, and they needed to know how to squeeze a meal voucher out of an airline that swore they didnât owe them one. You wrote about the art of packing two weeksâ worth of outfits into a single carryâon without looking like youâd slept in your clothes. You guided them through budget adventures, pointing out the best street food stalls in Bangkok or the cheapest train pass that could carry them across Europe. You loved writing about how to navigate a city where the language was unfamiliar, but the adventure was irresistible.
Which was why it felt so strange, almost laughable, that your editor had suddenly decided readers wanted your advice on love (with a travel spin) and how to navigate fucking cuffing season.
You tapped out another attempt:
Is Your Holiday Romance a Direct Flight to Loveâor Just a Layover in Lust?
Better. Not perfect, but better.
Ironically, you were currently experiencing a delay yourself. It was the kind of endless waiting that made time feel heavy. When the announcement cameâtwo hours delayedâa collective groan had rippled through the gate area.
Now, typing at the bar near the gate, you noticed himâŚthe same man youâd seen earlier, leaning against the counter, his drink in hand. He was striking, the kind of presence that drew your eye without effort. You recognized him instantly as a fellow passenger on your flight to Pittsburgh. You remembered seeing him, sighing heavily and pinching the bridge of his nose as if the weight of the delay pressed down harder on him than anyone else.
For a moment, you thought about talking to him, but then your eyes caught the glint of a wedding ring. That small detail was enough to hold you back.
The handsome ones were always taken.
So, you kept your thoughts to yourself, sipping your drink and continuing to type. Suddenly, the atmosphere shifted. A commotion broke out a few seats awayâsomeone had collapsed, and a panicked voice rang out: "Is there a doctor here?" The bar fell into stunned silence, until the man youâd been watching stood up. Without hesitation, he pulled out a badge, his voice steady as he identified himself as "Dr. Abbot" and in an instant, he was at the side of the fallen passenger.
He pressed two fingers against the manâs neck, checking for a pulse, then looked up suddenly.
"You," he barked.
You froze, glancing around, convinced he must be talking to someone else. But his eyes locked on yours.
"M-me?" you stuttered, pointing at yourself.
"Yes, you," he grunted, already shifting his focus back to the man. "I need you to hold down his arm. Heâs seizing, and I canât get a clear line.
Your heart hammered, nerves sparking, but you shut down your laptop, moved closer, and got on your knees. The man on the floor was convulsing, his body jerking uncontrollably. Dr. Abbot had already tilted the manâs head to keep the airway clear, but he needed another set of hands.
"Here," Dr. Abbot guided you quickly, placing your hands on the manâs forearm. "You sure you can handle that?"
You swallowed hard, palms slick with adrenaline, but you did as you were told. He leaned down close enough that his forehead almost met yours.
"Good, keep steady pressure," he instructed, his voice low but commanding. He slipped off his jacket, folded it, and slid it beneath the passengerâs head to cushion the impact of the convulsions. The manâs body jerked violently once more, but Dr. Abbot was already adjusting and loosening the collar of the manâs shirt.
A woman knelt on the other side of the man, her face pale with panic. Dr. Abbot glanced at her.
"Has he ever had a seizure before?" he asked.
She shook her head quickly. "Noânever. I donâtâheâs never had anything like this."
Dr. Abbot leaned in close, his fingers pressing firmly against the manâs neck again, just beneath the jawline. His brow furrowed in concentration, shutting out the noise of the bar, even your own ragged breathing.
"There," he murmured, almost to himself. His eyes sharpened, catching the subtle thump against his touch. "I can hear it. The pulse is irregular, but itâs there."
Dr. Abbot glanced up sharply. "A glass of waterâquickly," he called to the bartender.
As the bartender scrambled, Dr. Abbot reached into his bag and pulled out a small pouch. "Keep holding firm. Heâs almost through it." he instructed you.
From the pouch, he produced a vial of lavender oil and a small packet of powdered magnesium. The bartender returned with the water, and Dr. Abbot tore the packet open, sprinkling a measured pinch into the glass before stirring briskly.
"Natural relaxants..." he explained to you.
He dabbed the lavender oil onto a cloth and held it near the manâs nose, speaking firmly: "Easy now. Breathe."
The convulsions began to slow, the violent jerks tapering into tremors. You felt the tension in the manâs arm ease beneath your grip. When the spasms subsided, Dr. Abbot guided the cup to the manâs lips, helping him take small, careful sips.
"Magnesium helps calm the nervous system," he murmured.
The passengerâs eyelids fluttered open, his gaze unfocused but present.
"Youâre alright. You had a seizure, but itâs passed. Just stay still."
The woman whoâd been traveling with the man let out a breath that sounded like it had been trapped in her chest for minutes. Dr. Abbot guided the man slowly onto his side, ensuring his breathing stayed even. After a minute, Dr. Abbot helped him sit upright.
"Easy," he said, steadying the man with a hand on his shoulder.
The man nodded faintly, whispering a shaky "thank you." Around you, the barâs tension dissolved into murmurs of relief. A few travelers clapped softly, others smiled in gratitude. The woman surged forward in a sudden, instinctive motion and threw her arms around Dr. Abbot. You could tell instantly that the hug caught him off guard but then he managed a polite return of the embrace. A small, trembling sound escaped her before she finally pulled back, wiping at her eyes with the heel of her hand.
The woman turned to you next.
Her eyes were still glassy, her breath still uneven, but she reached out and grabbed your hands.
"Thank you," she said, voice thick with relief.
Dr. Abbot finally turned back to you, his eyes locking with yours again. This time softer, less commanding. Suddenly, you felt trapped in a gaze that had a fire licking up your spine.
You opened your mouth, but nothing came out. So, you did the only thing you could manage. You nodded. A small, awkward, probably-too-fast nod that felt embarrassingly insufficient for everything that had just happened. But your throat was tight, your thoughts scrambled, and you werenât sure your voice would come out right if you tried to use it. You pretended to brush dust from your jeans, anything to avoid the truth flickering at the edges of your thoughts. Because you didnât want to admit (even to yourself) that watching Dr. Abbot had done something to you.
Competence shouldnât have been attractive. Not like that. Not in a moment like this.
But it wasâŚ
The passenger, now steady enough, managed to stand with Dr. Abbotâs help. He gave a faint smile and settled into a nearby chair, sipping water while the color slowly returned to his cheeks.
Your hands were still trembling when you slipped back onto your stool at the bar. The adrenaline hadnât quite burned off, leaving your chest tight and your pulse erratic. You grabbed your glass and drained the rest of your gin and tonic in one long swallow, the sharp burn of alcohol grounding you in the moment.
"Another," you said, your voice hoarse.
The bartender gave you a lookâand slid a fresh glass across the counter.
"On the house," he winked.
You managed a weak smile, wrapping your fingers around the cold glass. Before you could take a sip, you felt a gentle pressure on your shoulder. You turned, startled, and found yourself staring into Dr. Abbotâs eyes.
This guy wasnât just handsome; he was the kind of man who made you forget what words were supposed to do. Up close, you could see the way his hazel eyes caught the light, flecks of gold sparking: they were steady, piercing, and far too beautiful. His biceps strained against the sleeves of his athletic long-sleeve shirt, fabric stretched tight like it was barely containing him. You couldnât help but noticeâŚexploding out of the shirt was the only way to describe it.
Normally, you didnât fawn over men with grey hair. It was never your thing. But on him? Holy hell. It was devastating.
And then your gaze dropped again to his wedding ring.
The reminder hit you like a splash of cold water. Married. He was married.
Your thoughts snapped back into place, the attraction suddenly tangled with guilt. What the fuck are you thinking? you scolded yourself, forcing your eyes away from the ring, away from him, back to the drink in your hand.
"You alright?" he asked.
You let out a shaky laugh, more nerves than humor. "That was⌠crazy," you admitted, shaking your head.
He didnât move away when you answered. Instead, he pulled out the stool beside you and sat down. The bar noise carried on around you with ice clinking in glasses, muffled announcements over the PA, but it all felt distant.
"You did well," he said.
You shook your head quickly, almost reflexively.
"I didnât do anything," you muttered, staring down at your drink. You were the one who knew what to do. I was just⌠holding an arm."
"No. Donât minimize it. If you hadnât held him, he couldâve thrashed harder, bitten his tongue, or slammed his arm against the floor. People can break bones during a seizure. You kept him steady enough that I could focus on his airway and his pulse."
You blinked, the weight of his words sinking in.
"I didnât realizeâŚ"
"Thatâs the point," Dr. Abbot said, leaning forward slightly. "Most people donât. They panic, or they freeze. But you didnât."
You swallowed hard, the adrenaline still lingering in your chest.
The bartender slid a napkin across the counter, but neither of you moved to take it. Dr. Abbotâs gaze stayed on you, unwavering, until you finally exhaled and nodded faintly.
"Okay," you said quietly. "Maybe I did something."
"You did," his lips curved into a sexy smile (it was just as blinding as it was contagious), though his eyes stayed serious. "And you should remember that."
You mustered a nod, now noticing the green in his eyes.
"So..." he said, voice casual now, almost conversational, while he raked his fingers through his luscious hair. "Is Pittsburgh home?"
You shook your head, realizing he had probably recognized you as one of the passengers on his same flight as well.
"No. I live in Brooklyn. Iâm visitingâwell, surprisingâa friend of mine."
"Surprising?"
"Yeah," you said, a small laugh escaping. "Sheâs actually a doctor, too. A resident. Her scheduleâs absolute shit, and itâs going to stay that way until the new year. But sheâs off tomorrow, so I thought⌠why not spend the day with her?"
"Youâre flying out from New York during the holidays⌠just to see your friend for a single day?" he cocked his head to his side, clearly intrigued.
You shrugged, suddenly aware of how impulsive it sounded when spoken aloud. "I guess so. Sheâs important to me. And sometimes one day is enough."
His expression shifted, surprise flickering into something more thoughtful. He studied you for a moment longer.
"Thatâs⌠rare," he said finally. "Most people wouldnât bother. Especially not with holiday chaos stacked against them."
"Well, my best friend deserves it. I honestly donât know how she does it."
"Does what?"
"The doctor thing," you waved your hand toward him. "You guys work all the time. It sounds exhausting."
"It is exhausting. But you get used to it. Or at least you pretend you do."
You nodded, then found yourself spilling more than youâd planned. Maybe it was the gin, maybe it was the adrenaline still humming in your veins, or maybe it was just the fact that he was a stranger, and it felt safe to let the words tumble out.
"My friend⌠when her mom died, she basically became the primary caretaker for her sister. And then she matched in Pittsburgh, and has had to hire a part-time aid to help cover things while sheâs at the hospital. So, sheâs either working or taking care of her sister. Thereâs never really a break for her."
"Thatâs a lot. For anyone," he said, brows furrowing over his perfect features when he looked at you with genuine concern.
"Yeah. She doesnât complain, though. She just⌠keeps going."
"Sounds like sheâs lucky to have you. Flying out here, even for one day, even just to remind her sheâs not aloneâthat matters."
"I hope so. I donât know. I just⌠wanted to show up. Thatâs all."
He exhaled, a sigh that seemed to carry more than just fatigue. His shoulders relaxed, and for a moment, he looked almost vulnerable.
"Sometimes showing up is everything."
Your fingers traced the condensation on your glass, a nervous habit you couldnât quite stop. "What about you? Is Pittsburgh home?"
"Yeah. I guess Pittsburghâs home," he said, giving you a small grunt.
"Why were you in New York then?"
He rested one arm on the bar. "A favor, actually. A friend of mine works at Mount Sinai. They had a patient with a complicated case, and he asked me to fly out last night to provide a consult this morning. Thereâs a chance the patient will need to finish their treatment back in Pittsburgh."
"Sounds like it made sense for you to come in then."
"Thatâs one way to put it," he chuckled, the sound low and warm. "But itâs worth it. The patient is important to me," His eyes caught yours, steady and deliberate. "And sometimes one day is enough."
The words landed with a weight you hadnât expected. It took you a beat to realize he was throwing your own line back at you, and when you did, heat rushed to your cheeksâgiddiness dripping from your limbs.
The loudspeaker crackled overhead, pulling you both out of the quiet bubble youâd been sitting in.
"Ladies and gentlemen," the gate agentâs voice rang out, weary but practiced, "we apologize again for the delay. Your aircraft has now arrived at the gate. Boarding will begin shortly."
Around you, the bar shifted, travelers straightening, gathering bags, finishing drinks with hurried gulps. The low hum of conversation turned into the shuffle of movement.
You glanced at Dr. Abbot, and he was already sliding his arm back into his jacket, his expression returning to something more professional. "Guess thatâs our cue."
You stood too, tucking your laptop back into your bag.
"Yeah," you muttered, trying to hide your internal struggle with a smile. "Have a safe flight."
"You too," he said, before slinging his bag over his shoulder and heading toward the gate.
And then he was gone, moving toward the gate, and you watched him disappear into the crowd, realizing with a sudden pang that you two had never actually exchanged names. He knew nothing about you beyond fragments of conversation, and yet it felt like heâd seen more of you than most strangers ever did.
When boarding was finally called, you joined the line, inching forward with the rest of the passengers. As you scanned your boarding pass, you spotted him ahead since his zone called before yours.
Later, as you stepped onto the plane and made your way down the narrow aisle, you caught sight of him again. He was already seated, aisle seat, his bag tucked neatly beneath the chair. For a moment, his gaze lifted, catching yours as you passed. Your heart suddenly felt like it was thumping in your throat.
You offered a small, shy smile. He returned it with the faintest nod, then lowered his eyes back to the book in his hands.
And just like that, you kept walking, sliding into your own seat a few rows back.
Almost automatically, you pulled your laptop back out, the cursor blinking at you like it had earlier. The half-finished headline stared back, daring you to pick up where youâd left off.
You hesitated, glancing down the aisle where he sat, book in hand, already absorbed. Then you forced your focus back to the screen. Fingers hovered over the keys, and you began typing again.
Holiday romances are like flight delaysâunexpected, inconvenient, and sometimes revealing more about us than weâd like. The question isnât whether theyâre real, but whether they last once the turbulence settles.
December 27th - Pittsburgh
When you knocked on Melâs apartment door the day you landed in Pittsburgh, you hadnât expected the reaction to hit so hard. The moment Mel opened it, her eyes widened, disbelief flashing across her face before it broke into something raw. Tears welled instantly, spilling down her cheeks as she pulled you into a hug so tight it nearly knocked the breath out of you. Her shoulders shook against yours, relief pouring out in waves, and you brushed at her damp cheeks with a soft laugh.
That night, you somehow convinced her to go out. The bar was quiet, unassuming, and she allowed herself one drinkâher version of 'drunk.' Sure enough, after a single glass of wine, she was giggling, cheeks flushed, leaning against you like the weight of residency had finally lifted for a moment.
The next day, you two laughed a lot, the kind of laughter that came easy after months of exhaustion. Becca, her sister, also joined you, and the three of you spent the afternoon wandering, eating, talking about everything and nothing. At one point, Mel begged you to come back in a couple of days because her hospital was hosting a holiday party, and she wanted you there.
You promised, even though you knew youâd be driving to Cleveland for Christmas Eve and Christmas Day. Family obligations pulled you away, but you carved out the time. You spent the 24th and 25th wrapped in the familiar insanity of home, the 26th lingering with family, before packing up again.
Now, back in Pittsburgh, you stood in front of the mirror, tugging at the hem of a tight mauve dress, getting dressed up for the holiday party Mel had begged you not to miss. The city outside was cold, streets glittering with leftover Christmas lights.
You slipped on your coat and glanced at Mel as she adjusted her earrings in the hallway mirror. She gave you a quick grin, nerves and excitement tangled together, and you pulled out your phone to hail an Uber. The car arrived within minutes, headlights cutting through the frosty air as you both hurried down the steps, laughter puffing out in little clouds.
After a quick ride, you and Mel stepped into the Andy Warhol Museum. The space had been transformed for the holiday party with strings of twinkling fairy lights draped across the high ceilings, vintage film projections flickered softly on the walls, and a Christmas tree stood proudly in the corner, its ornaments shimmering in gold and crimson. Soft jazz music played in the background, mingling with the hum of conversation and laughter.
Mel introduced you to her colleagues first, her fellow residents, nurses, and some attending physicians. You shook hands, exchanging quick introductions.
Then Mel led you over to her mentor, Dr. LangdonâFrank.
He seemed approachable, if a little 'Ken doll' in appearance, as youâd joked to Mel earlier.
You liked him enough, and compared to the mentors Mel had slogged through at the VA so he felt like a step up. You could tell Frank was probably tough on her, in the way residency demanded, but it was clear he treated her with genuine regard.
"Ah, there you two are," Frank said, his eyes twinkling with recognition. Turning around, you and Mel pivoted to face two men who had just entered the room behind you. You heard Mel begin to speak, her voice friendly and a little excited, as she introduced you.
"These are my attending physiciansâDr. Robby andâ"
But before she could finish, your eyes widened, recognition hitting you like a sudden jolt. "Dr. Abbot," you said, the name escaping before you could stop it.
Time seemed to freeze for a heartbeat as your gazes met. He was in a tux, the crisp black fabric framing in a way that made your mouth go dry. Dr. Abbot looked just as surprised to see you as you were to see him.Â
Mel glanced between you, confusion knitting her brow, but you couldnât look away. Big hazel eyes swept over you, lingering on your curves a little too long, the look deliberate and unhurried, before returning to your face. Your eyes were just as greedy as his and the weight of his stare sent a rush of heat through you, your pulse quickening in response.
Then, as if to break the tension, a faint smile tugged at his mouth. "Jack is fine."
Jack. The name echoed in your head.
And the way your name rolled off his tongue after he shook your hand sent a jolt of arousal right to the center of you.
Dr. Robby tilted his head, curiosity sparking, and asked how you knew each other. You explained (briefly and very factually) the situation at the airport, the collapsed passenger, the way Jack had stepped in. As you spoke, Mel stood there wide-eyed and not making a signal fucking sound.
It was the look of someone connecting dots, realizing this was the man youâd mentioned the other dayâthe 'hot guy' from the airport. Her gaze flicked between you and Jack, a silent seriously? My attending? What a small world? written across her face.
Turning his attention back to you, Dr. Robbyâs smile widened.
"Are you a doctor too?"
"No," you chuckled softly, shaking your head. "Iâm not. Iâm a writerâI write a silly column," you replied. "Nothing too special. Nothing like what you guys do." You gave a modest shrug, a little self-deprecating.
Mel frowned while Jackâs brows shot up.
Before anyone could respond, a voice cut through the hum of conversation.
"Robby," Dana (the fabulous nurse you met earlier) called as she approached, she gave the group a quick smile before turning to Dr. Robby. "Gloriaâs looking for youâsomething about a patient, Mr. Thomas Henderson. She said it couldnât wait. Itâs regarding his post-op cardiac case."
Dr. Robby groaned audibly, rolling his eyes.
"I swear to God, if this is related to patient satisfaction scoresâŚ" he muttered, half to himself, half to the group.
Dr. Langdon straightened beside him, nodding. "Thatâs our case," he said, glancing at Mel with a look of recognition. "We should go check in."
Mel gave you a quick squeeze on the arm, a silent be right back, before following Dr. Langdon and Dr. Robby across the room toward Gloria. Dana trailed after them.
And just like that, the circle dissolved, leaving you standing with Jack.
"Dr. King is the friend youâre visiting?"
It was always weird hearing people refer to Mel as 'Dr. King' ⌠it sounded so adult. Â
You nodded, the word catching in your throat before you could shape it into something more. "Yeah," you managed, but then your teeth found your lower lip, worry pressing in.
Fuck.
You had unknowingly shared something so intimate and private about Melâs life with one of her fucking attendings.
Your teeth pressed harder into your lip, nerves spiking. What if he saw her differently now? What if he judged her, thought she was distracted, less capable? What if youâd just made things harder for her?
The thought made your chest tighten and you wanted to rewind, to take it all back, but the words were already out there, probably lodged in his memory.
Jack shifted slightly, adjusting his cuff, the silence stretching between you. Finally, he offered a small, polite smile.
"Looks like you stayed for more than one day," he said, his tone casual, almost forcedâlike he was trying to be nice, to fill the space with small talk. But the words only made you want to throw up. The guilt surged, sharp and immediate, and before you could stop yourself, you blurted out, "What I told you about MelâI didnât know who you were. I thought you were just⌠some guy I would never see again. I never wouldâve said anything if Iâd known." Your voice stumbled over itself, rushed and uneven, nerves spilling out in every syllable. "I shouldnât have⌠I mean, it wasnât my place. I donât want her to be treated differently because of what I said."
Jackâs expression shifted as he caught the edge of your panic and slowly invaded your personal space just enough for you to smell his cologne.
"Hey," he said, calm but firm. "You donât need to worry. Â What you told me stays with me. Iâd never repeat it, not to anyone. Besides, from what Iâve seen, sheâs damn good at what she doesânothing you said changes that." Jackâs mouth curved faintly, almost like he was letting you in on a secret. "If anything," he added, "what you told me only makes me respect her more. Sheâs balancing more than most people could handle, and still showing up at the top of your game. That says a lot."
"Itâs kind of crazy seeing you again," you admitted, heat creeping up your neck the moment the words left your mouth.
And suddenly you were rambling with words tumbling out faster than your brain could filter them.
"I meanâI know you live in Pittsburgh, obviously. But you and Mel working togetherâitâs justâ"
You know that feeling on a roller coaster ride when just as youâre about to descend down a sharp hill? Thatâs how you fucking felt, so you made a helpless gesture, searching for the right word and failing spectacularly.
"âunexpected. In a⌠statistically improbable kind of way."
"Yeah," he said, letting out one of those noncommittal sounds men made. "Itâs⌠pretty damn random."
A waiter appeared at your side, silver tray balanced effortlessly in his hand, offering you some champagne. You murmured a quiet 'thank you' as you took one, the bubbles fizzing gently against your lip as you sipped. Jack accepted a glass too.
"What kind of column do you write?" he asked.
"I write for Cosmopolitan. Itâs nothing Pulitzer Prizeâwinning."
"Guess Iâll have to cancel my subscription then."
You giggled. "You have a subscription to a womenâs lifestyle magazine?"
"Well, not me. My wife does."
The word wife hit you like a sudden drop, your smile faltering as your mind raced. There it is, you thought.
"Or⌠she did," you heard a crack in his voice. "She passed away a few years agoâŚ" he cleared his throat, "and I never got around to cancelling it."
Your heart dropped into your toes at his reveal.
Fuck.
He was a widower.
You were unsure of what to say and assumed that Jack probably preferred it that way. Without the need for empty expressions of Iâm sorry or that must have been hard from a fucking stranger. You knew he wasnât asking for sympathy. He was simply stating a fact, as if that was all it needed to be. You forced yourself to breathe, to push past the heaviness that threatened to settle between you. Instead of letting silence swallow the moment, you tilted your head, a wry smile tugging at your lips.
"So, sheâs the reason my rentâs been paid all these years. I wish I could give her a thank-you card."
The words werenât meant to erase what heâd shared, only to acknowledge it without drowning it in pity.
Jack didnât laugh outright. He didnât seem like that kind of man. But his eyes shifted, the tension in them loosening, and the corner of his mouth tugged just enough to suggest the ghost of a smile. It was subtle... but you caught it.
He stared at you with those god damn eyes, and in that silence, you understood: he appreciated that you hadnât tried to fill the space with platitudes. He lifted his glass in a brief, private salute, then let the moment pass.
"Itâs a travel column," you finally said.
"I honestly didnât know that Cosmo had a travel section," he said in this velvet timbre before taking a sip of his drink.
You swallowed thickly, trying to squash the way his voice made you tremble.
"You and me both. When I first interviewed for the job, I thought the magazine was all about sex positions and toys and kink."
Jack choked on his sip, lowering his glass and coughing into his fist, eyes wide for a beat before he recovered. You giggled, the sound light and a little breathless, and leaned forward, letting your fingers brush the rim of his glass. "Donât act so scandalized," you teased, voice soft. "You're a doctor!"
His mouth twitched into a grin, making you huff out a relieved laugh, especially after seeing the apples of his cheeks dust in a shade of pink.
"Honestly, the sex stuff just gets the headlines. The rest is what keeps people reading. I like to think of my job as being a professional tourist with deadlines," you swirled the champagne in your glass, watching the bubbles rise. "Now it doesnât require as much travel as it once did, which honestly, Iâm thankful for. ButâŚ" A thought flickered in the back of your mind because you were getting older, the constant flights and jet lag not as glamorous as they once were.
You paused, the words catching.
"But?" Jack asked, voice gruff.Â
"Iâve got a masterâs in journalism. And sometimes I wonder if I should be reporting on⌠I donât know, real stories. Not just writing a column telling you where to drink cocktails in Paris and where not to order sushi in Madrid."
Jack angled his head, eyes narrowing just slightly, as though he were about to crossâexamine you in court.
"What about the hotel stays?" he teased just enough to earn a roll of your eyes, "I thought travel writers lived for the luxury perks."
You snorted, unable to help yourself. "Luxury perks? Half the time, itâs me fighting with a broken coffee machine in my room. But youâre right, I also write hotel reviews, suggested itineraries, and general "I tried it" travel, from yours truly."
Jack studied you for a moment.
"Do you like writing your column?"
You stalled, thinking of the long flights, the endless airport security lines, and the nights you wrote half-delirious in hotel lobbies. The truth was sometimes your career was lonely, exhausting, and fucking chaotic. But even in the worst of it, youâd never stopped wanting to share with your readers about adventures worthy of their PTO and providing glimpses into new cultures and experiences that reminded them about how vast and varied the world could be.
"Uh⌠yeah," you hesitated, then nodded. "I love it."
Jackâs throat bobbed as he swallowed, before he gave you a simple shrug. "Then thatâs what matters."
You chuckled at his evaluation.
The conversation shifted naturally, and Jack steered things in another direction, asking about how you knew Mel. You explained that she had been your nextâdoor neighbor growing up, younger than you, someone youâd always felt a quiet responsibility to look out for. Over time, that protectiveness had deepened into something more permanentâshe became like family.
You learned he was an army veteran, sharing with you about dusty forward operating bases, long nights on watch, the small, sharp moments that stayed with him.
A medevac that came too late.
The way a sunrise could feel like a small mercy.
The camaraderie that made the worst days bearable.
It was the kind of back-and-forth that let strangers become familiar. You talked about everything. It sortaâŚfelt like a first date. You found yourself laughing at his dry asides, pausing to listen when he grew quieter, offering details you didnât usually give out. He would smirk with flirty eyes, and it made you feel dizzy inside. You couldnât shake off the butterfly feeling in your stomach. You couldnât help but study the way his eyes crinkled when he smiled or the way his dimples deepened in his cheeks.
Then⌠Mel came back not alone but with someone. Dr. Mohan.
AndâŚshe was fucking stunning.
Jackâs attention shifted the second she stepped into the circle, and you watched them orbit each other and felt suddenly very small. You watched them talk, their voices low, their smiles small but real, and a ridiculous thought flashed through your mind: Are they sleeping together? It was intrusive, uninvited, and yet it rooted itself before you could shove it away.
You told yourself it was ridiculous. You didnât even live here. Youâd probably never see him again after tonight. Still, a hot, stupid jealousy flaredâsharp and embarrassingâbecauseâŚbecause for a momentâGod, for a stupid, fleeting momentâyouâd let yourself believe he might have been flirting with you this evening.
"Idiot," you grumbled to yourself.
Mel glanced at the clock and groaned, saying she couldnât believe how late it had gotten.
"Wanna head out?" you asked, already anticipating her answer.
"Yes," she said, but her face betrayed the contradiction. "Yes, but also noâbecause it means youâre leaving tomorrow."
Jackâs head lifted at the word leaving, his attention snapping back to you with a quiet, startling precision. His expression didnât shift dramatically, but something in it tightened, a flicker of surprise or⌠disappointment? You couldnât tell. You didnât trust yourself to guess anymore.
"Tomorrow?" he asked, his eyes roaming your face freely, pink tongue coming out to wet his full bottom lip.
You nodded, trying to keep it casual, trying not to read into the way his gaze lingered on you. If you were being honest, his eyes bore into yours with an intensity that made your thighs clench.
"Back to Brooklyn, huh?" he exhaled through his nose.
"Yeah," you said, tucking your bottom lip between teeth to hold back your groan. "Back to reality."
Mel clapped her hands together, the universal signal that she was about to start her rounds of goodbyes. You could practically feel her energy shift, as she leaned in to hug Dr. Mohan first, murmuring something about how sheâd text her later. Then she turned to Jack.
"Iâll see you tomorrow night."
She had a night shift with him.
He met your eyes for a beat, and you felt warm. You wondered if it was because of the way his eyes seemed to shine when he looked at you.
"It was nice seeing you again," he murmured, with that sex-on-legs voice of his.
Heat pooled through you.
You heard the politeness in it, the social lubricant of a line people use to close out conversations. You told yourself he was being courteous, that the words were the kind he could have said to anyone. Still, when the words landed, you were unable to stop the shy smile that tugged at your lips. You tried not to agree too eagerly like a fucking lunatic, and definitely failed miserably.
"Yeah," you said, shifting your feet. "It really was."
A smirk flickered on the ends of his lips.
December 30th â Manhattan
Your editorâs office was always too bright. Overhead fluorescents humming, the windows letting in the kind of cold December light that made everything look a little washed out. You sat across from his desk, hands folded over your notebook, pretending not to watch the way he skimmed your draft for the third time.
He didnât speak for a while. He never did. He liked to make you sweat.
"Well," he said, tapping the printed pages with the back of his pen, "Itâs not what I asked for."
"I know."
Finally, he leaned back, glasses sliding down his nose as he looked at you over the frames.
"This is good."
"Yeah?" You blinked.
"Yes," he confirmed, then added, "Different than your usual stuff. But I like it. I think your readers will like it too."
A slow warmth crept up your neck. You werenât sure if it was pride or nerves.
He flipped the pages together, squared them against the desk, and slid them aside. "After a few edits, I think it will be ready to go to print for the January issue." Then he smirked. "You sure you donât want to start writing about love and relationships? Youâve got a voice for it."
"No way," you said immediately, laughing. "Absolutely not."
"Shame. Youâd be good at it."
You rolled your eyes, gathered your things, and stepped out into the hallway. As soon as the door clicked shut behind you, you pulled out your phone and opened Melâs text, the one from earlier asking for that chicken recipe.
You typed back, Happy almost New Year. Love you. And then, without thinking, you hit the little paperclip icon and attached the recipe your mother had sent you.
Back in Pittsburgh, Mel finally checked her phone during a lull in the night shift, expecting the chicken recipe youâd promised. Instead, she saw a long attachment icon and a preview that definitely did not look like a list of ingredients.
She frowned, thumb hovering, then tapped it open.
Her eyes widened in surprise, then narrowed as she read further, and widened again when she realized exactly what she was looking at. By the time she reached the end of the article, she exhaled slowly and lifted her head, still processing what sheâd just read.
Across the nursesâ station, Dr. Abbot was leaning over the counter, pen moving across a patient chart. Every so often, heâd pause, tap the pen against the clipboard, then jot something else down. He shifted to the computer next, typing in vitals. The soft glow of the monitor lit the edges of his face, catching the faint lines of fatigue around his eyes. He didnât notice her staring. He was already flipping to the next chart, scanning it with a small frown of concentration, reaching for a fresh pen when the first one began to skip. He muttered something under his breath, shook his head, and kept going.
Melâs phone felt suddenly heavy in her hand.
She looked down at the screen again. Then back at Dr. Abbot. Then down. Then back.
Dr. Abbot finally glanced up, sensing movement more than anything.
Mel snapped her eyes away, too quickly to be casual.
"Hey," he said, pen hovering above the chart, "how did Mr. Lawson do after surgery? Did he wake up okay?"
Mel jolted like heâd caught her doing something she absolutely shouldnât be doing.
"What? Ohâuhâyes. I meanâyeah. Heâs good. Stable. Totally fine."
"You sure?"
âYep. Great. Perfect.â She cleared her throat, forcing her voice into something steady and professional. "Soâuhâyeah. Surgery went well. The laparoscopic approach held up, no complications. His blood pressure stabilized once we got him into recovery, and heâs already responding to fluids."
"Good. Thatâs good to hear."
Mel looked at her phone again, her pulse ticking visibly at her throat.
Whatever she was thinkingâŚwhatever she was about to doâŚshe hadnât decided yet.
"Dr. King⌠you sure everythingâs alright?" Dr. Abbot turned back to his chart, but only halfway.
She hesitated.
Then took a slow breath.
Then stepped closer.
"Dr. Abbot...I know what Iâm about to do is completely unprofessional."
Dr. Abbot looked up. His face twisted, a frown deepening between his brows, and his concern sharpened.
Mel swallowed, eyes flicking down to her phone, then back up to him. "If you need to take me off your service after this?" She exhaled, a humorless little laugh. "Feel free."
Then Mel held out her phone.
Dr. Abbot took the phone from her slowly, like he wasnât entirely sure what he was about to see but understood it mattered. His eyes dropped to the screen, and then his eyes moved over the titleâand Mel watched the moment recognition hit him. His brows pulled together, not in confusion, but in a kind of startled focus when he saw your name.
DRAFT Jan 2026 Article: Hereâs something Iâve never said in print beforeâand Iâm already cringing because my parents read my column (hi Mom, hi Papa, please avert your eyes):
Iâve never had a one-night stand.
I know. I travel for a living. I spend half my life in airports, hotels, and cities where no one knows my name. If anyone were likely to have a casual fling in a foreign place, it should be me.
But Iâm just⌠not wired that way.
Itâs hard for me to meet a stranger and immediately think, Oh yeah, letâs get naked. My brain doesnât work like that. My heart definitely doesnât.
When I date, I date seriously. Not in a is this my husband panicâmode way, but in a I like being a girlfriend way. I love the small, everyday rituals that look boring on paper but feel like glue in real life: brushing our teeth side by side, sending each other photos of ridiculous things we see, debating whose turn it is to pick the movie, knowing exactly which snacks to grab for them at the grocery store. I like the comfort of shared routines, the quiet intimacy of folding laundry together, the easy joy of having someone to debrief the day with.
I like being the person who shows up. And I like being shown up for.
So why am I sharing this incredibly personal and perhaps mildly mortifying fact about myself? Well⌠partly because my editor asked me to. (He claims readers "love vulnerability," which is convenient for him because heâs not the one whose mother will be texting her about this later.)
But also becauseâŚI met someone recently.
And no, it wasnât like that. Not even close. There was no dramatic kiss, no hotel keycard exchange, no cinematic moment where I suddenly became the kind of woman who has a wild holiday fling in a city she doesnât live in.
It was just⌠nice.
Nice in a way I didnât expect. Nice in a way that made me remember what it feels like to talk to someone and actually feel something. That tiny spark of warmth you canât manufacture or plan for.
He was a stranger, technically. But talking to him didnât feel strange. It felt easy. Comfortable.
And maybe thatâs why Iâm writing this. Not because I suddenly believe in fate or holiday magic or whatever nonsense Hallmark has been peddling for decades, but because sometimes a simple, human moment with someone unexpected can shake something inside you.
Not lust. Not infatuation. Just⌠possibility.
So, my advice this New Year? Just go for it.
Maybe that guy from work is interested. Maybe the stranger from that bar thinks youâre the most amazing person theyâve ever met. Maybe someone you talked to for five minutes is still thinking about you on their commute home. And lookâŚif you feel a spark with someone at an airport or a holiday party or in line for that $7 overpriced latte: say hi, flirt a little, see what happens.
You know what⌠maybe even go have that one-night stand.
Also: be smart about it. My best friend is a doctor and would materialize midâsentence to remind you to use protection, get consent, and look after your health. Sheâd also happily hand you a chart of STD stats⌠because thatâs her and she cares.
But the point is: Lean into the moment instead of talking yourself out of it.
Because hereâs what I should have told that guy.
Youâre a total catch. I think youâre smart, charming, and genuinely funny, and talking to you felt⌠really, really good. And yesâyouâre extremely attractive, too.
I didnât say any of that at the time. Not because it wasnât true, but because the moment slipped past me while I was busy being practical⌠and maybe a little scared. Scared of misreading things. Scared of wanting something I couldnât have. Scared of stepping into a connection I didnât expect with someone who carries his past with a kind of quiet dignity that made me realize he once loved someone deeply.
Maybe this New Year, we all give ourselves permission to feel somethingâŚeven if itâs small, even if itâs fleeting, even if itâs just a spark for a moment and then becomes a story we tell later.
So go for it. Say the thing. Take the chance.
And who knows? Maybe next time, with the next guy, I will too.
December 31st â Park Slope, Brooklyn
Your favorite coffee shop was already buzzing by the time you slipped inside and claimed your usual corner table by the window, the one with the slightly wobbly leg and the perfect view of the street
You werenât working. But you were kind of working since you had already been assigned your February issue article. You toggled to another tab to scan your favorite vintage shop in Greenpoint, because tonight you were going to a New Yearâs party in Tribeca. It was one of those loft spaces with exposed brick, overpriced champagne, and people who pretended not to care about midnight kisses even though everyone absolutely did.
Pulling your sweater tighter around your shoulders, you found a dress on their website that looked promisingâand in stock. You would hop on the G after you finished your coffee to go to the vintage shop. Of course, you were trying to buy a dress today. You were halfway through convincing yourself that buying it on New Yearâs Eve wasnât irresponsible but festive, when a voice drifted over the low hum of the cafĂŠ.
A manâs voice. Familiar in a way that made your stomach tighten before your brain even caught up.
"Just go for it, huh?"
You froze.
Suddenly, the dress didnât matter. The coffee shop didnât matter. The entire city outside the window couldâve gone silent for all you noticed.
Because you knew that voice.
You looked up.
And there Jack was, his delicate five o'clock shadow peeking through.
He looked unfairly good for someone whoâd just walked in from the cold. He somehow looked even better than the last time you saw him, a bad habit you were quickly learning that he had. A charcoal wool coat hung open over a navy sweater. It was soft, fitted, the kind that hinted at the shape of him without trying. His sleeves were pushed up just enough to show the strong lines of his forearms. His hair was slightly windâtousled, a few strands falling across his forehead in a way that made him look younger, warmer.
"D-Dr. Abâbot," It came out as a stutter, and suddenly you were feeling sixteen again.
"Jack," he corrected. Confidence smoldered in his stare before his teeth came out in a blinding smile. He pulled out the chair across from you and sat down like it was the most natural thing in the world. "I forgot to ask you something at the holiday party," he said, settling his hands on the table.
"W-what was that?"
"What are you doing tonight for New Year's Eve?"
"IâNew Yearâs?" you echoed, trying to play off how flustered you were, but the slight shake in your voice didnât go unnoticed by Jack. You felt like your brain was still catching up to the sight of him, a light flush of red swept up his neck and along his cheeks from the cold.
"Yeah. Itâs my day off. Iâm here until tomorrow night."
"You⌠have a day off," you said slowly, "and you decided to spend it in New York?"
He leaned in just a little, elbows resting on the table, voice dropping into something softerâsomething that felt like it was meant only for you.
"Sometimes," he winked, "one day is enough."
The smile that spread across your face could not be contained.
Masterlist | Youâre reading Part 1 l Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5
Pairing: Cassian x Rhysand x Azriel x Feyre x f!reader
Summary: Youâre posed, exposed, and they canât stop tracing the lines of your body.
Warnings: nsfw, smut, rough sex, teasing, unprotected sex, foreplay/oral female and male receiving, girl on girl, multiple men, MMMFF group scene
Word Count: 2,212
Day 20 | Kinktober Masterlist | Day 22
âCan you tilt your head back a bit more?â Feyre asked, biting her lower lip, her eyebrows furrowed in concentration.
Heat rushed to my cheeks as I rested my head against Rhysâs bare chest. His skin was warm and firm beneath my cheek.Â
I still donât know how they convinced me to do this. I donât know why I agreed so quickly.
Her gaze flicked from the canvas to us, and my hands started to sweat.
âCass, move your hand higher,â she murmured, her brush pressing against the canvas in short strokes.
Cassianâs hand slowly slid up my inner thigh. His body pressed more firmly against one side of me, all heat and muscle.
âAz, put your hands on her knees.â
Azrielâs scarred hands moved to my knees as he knelt before me. His grip tightened just enough to make my breath hitch.Â
I swallowed, eyes closing as I tried to calm my heart pounding in my chest.Â
Why did I agree to this?Â
Why did I say yes to sitting here, barely clothed, pressed between them?
Now here I was, pressed between three of the most handsome men in all of Prythian, dressed in nothing but sheer fabric, heart pounding, skin tingling, all because Feyre wanted to paint live models.
Cassianâs thumb grazed the sensitive skin of my inner thigh. Azrielâs hands gently pressed my knees apart. Rhysâs hands tightened on my shoulders.
The room grew brighter as the fireplace cracked. I felt warm, too warm, burning alive with the touch and smell of them.Â
Feyreâs eyes lingered on the way my nipples peaked beneath the sheer fabric.
I could smell the arousal in the air, the unmistakable scent of desire. I felt Azriel inhale deeply as he scented the same thing I did.
âRhys,â Feyre said, her voice trembling slightly. âPlace your hands on her jaw. Keep her head tilted back.â
My head tilted back against his lower stomach, looking up into Rhysâs eyes as his hands cupped my jaw, my pulse pounding beneath his touch.Â
The corner of his mouth twitched into a smirk as his thumb brushed along the line of my jaw.
He knew exactly what he was doing to me. I looked up at him, pleading. I couldnât take this much longer.
I heard Feyreâs breath hitch as I looked up at her mate.
I shouldnât be doing this.
I shouldnât be feeling like this.
But her eyes darkened, her brush moved faster across the canvas, and I realised she was enjoying this.Â
âGod,â I whispered beneath my breath as Cassianâs hand slid even higher.
His fingertips traced the spot where my thigh met my hip. I watched Rhysâs smile widen before he nodded once, a silent command passed between the three men without words.Â
I felt Azrielâs hands pressing my knees further apart, spreading me open before him.Rhys's hands stayed still, forcing me to keep eye contact with him.Â
My lips parted, maybe to ask for something I shouldnât, maybe to whimper something desperate and pathetic, instead his thumb brushed across my lower lip.Â
My tongue darted out without thinking, licking his thumb, and my cheeks blushed a deep red.
His smirk turned into a grin, slow, predatory, satisfied. His thumb pressed past my lips, slipping into my mouth, and I looked up at him as I sucked and swirled my tongue over him.Â
I could hear Feyreâs brush moving frantically across the canvas.Â
I felt Azriel shift beneath me. Cassianâs hands helped me to the edge of the lounge chair.
I should have pulled away. I should have said something, done something, been stronger than the desire burning between my thighs.
Azriel pressed wet, hot kisses to the inside of my thigh. A soft whimper left my lips as my eyes fluttered shut, as Azrielâs mouth pressed higher.
Cassian pulled away the sheer fabric, his fingers finding my nipples. Pulling them just as Azrielâs mouth pressed fully against me, his tongue licking a long, slow line from my entrance to my clit.
I groaned as my lips parted, arching against Rhys. Rhys slid two fingers into my mouth, smiling as I squirmed.
Azrielâs tongue was relentless, circling my clit with precise strokes that made my vision blur.
Cassianâs fingers twisted and pinched my nipples before he soothed them with his mouth. His tongue was hot and wet as he grazed my nipples with his teeth.
I heard Feyre let out a gentle sigh, the sound of her brush strokes filling the room between my moans and the sound of Azrielâs soft grunts as his tongue tasted me.Â
Rhysâs fingers finally left my mouth, covered in my saliva. The palm of his hand tapped against my cheek.
âGood girl,â he whispered, his voice low.
My head fell forward, finally able to see the two men whose mouths were devouring me.Â
Cassianâs mouth was attached to one breast, his hand massaging the other.Â
I groaned, my eyes flickering to Feyre as she watched me.
Her brush was still clutched in her hand, though her chest heaved with rapid breaths, and her gaze, fixed on Azrielâs face buried between my thighs.Â
Rhys moved behind her, his hands sliding slowly up the sides of her body before squeezing her breasts through her shirt.
He whispered something in her ear, her cheeks flushing pink as she leaned back into him.
I opened my mouth to speak, to say something, anything, but Azriel chose that moment to slide a single finger inside me.
The sound that tore from my throat was raw.
He immediately found the spot that made stars explode behind my eyes. His mouth closed around my clit, sucking gently as his finger moved in a slow, devastating rhythm that had me begging.
âPlease,â I gasped, my voice cracking on the word. âPlease, I needââ
Cassianâs teeth grazed my nipple as Azriel added a second finger, stretching me.
My moan echoed through the room as I clenched around his fingers, desperate for more.Â
âLook at how pretty she is,â Rhys murmured in Feyreâs ear, his fingers tugging at her clothes.
Cassian left hot kisses from my breasts to my mouth, his mouth claiming mine in a rough kiss.
His fingers continued to pinch my nipples as I whimpered against his mouth, my body trembling between the two men.
âLook at you,â Cassian whispered, his lips trailing from my jaw to my throat. âMaking a mess all over Azrielâs face.â
My cheeks flushed red, but I couldn't deny it as the wet sounds of Azrielâs fingers inside me filled the room.
I glanced over at Feyre, Rhysâs hands squeezed her breasts, pinching and twisting her nipples between his fingers. She arched into his touch, her paintbrush discarded on the floor.
Azrielâs fingers curled deeper inside me, Cassianâs teeth marked my throat, as Feyreâs moans began to fill the room.Â
I looked over at her. Rhysâs hand was between her thighs.
I came before I could stop it, my pussy clenching around Azrielâs fingers as Cassian swallowed my cries, his tongue down my throat.Â
Azriel slowly withdrew his fingers as he and Cassian guided me onto my hands and knees on the rug.Â
I felt the head of Azrielâs cock press against my entrance, while Cassian knelt before me, his cock hard, glistening with pre-cum.Â
âOpen,â he commanded, his voice low and rough.
I obeyed, taking him into my mouth. Forcing my throat open around him, I gagged as he pressed deeper. Tears pricked at the corners of my eyes as I tried to breathe through my nose.
âThatâs a good girl,â Cassian said, his hand tangling in my hair and forcing his cock deeper. âTake all of it.â
He held me there, my nose pressed against the base of his cock.
Azriel filled me in a single thrust.
I moaned around Cassian. The vibration made his grip tighten in my hair.
I turned my head as much as I could with Cassianâs cock in my mouth, watching Rhys lift Feyre onto a table, her legs wrapped around his waist as he stood between her thighs. His cock was already pressing into her.Â
Cassian thrust into my mouth as I watched Rhys pull all the way out of Feyre, the head of his cock glistening with her arousal, before thrusting deep within her again.
Azriel mirrored his movement, withdrawing until only his tip remained inside me before slamming back in.
I moaned around Cassian in unison with Feyreâs cries. Azrielâs cock hit that spot inside me that had me trembling. Cassian filled my mouth, as my saliva dripped down my chin.
âSuch a pretty mouth,â Cassian groaned, his hips thrusting faster. âMade to be fucked.â
Azrielâs hands gripped my hips hard enough to bruise, his thrusts becoming harder and harder.
Each impact drove me forward onto Cassianâs cock, forcing him deeper into my throat.
Feyreâs moans grew louder and more desperate as Rhys maintained a relentless pace.
Azrielâs hand found my clit, rubbing tight circles that made my thighs shake. I whimpered around Cassian, the sound vibrating through his cock.
âThatâs it,â Cassian groaned.
Feyre cried out, her body going taut as her orgasm crashed over her.Â
Azrielâs thrusts become erratic, his fingers pressing harder on my clit. Cassianâs grip in my hair tighten painfull.
I came undone, my entire body shaking as pleasure crashed through me. My pussy tightened on Azrielâs cock, as he groaned behind me.Â
I felt him pulse inside me, his release filling me.
Before I could take a breath, Azriel flipped me onto my back, and Cassian settled between my thighs.
He buried himself inside me, and the sound that tore from me was a scream and a sob.Â
Cassianâs cock pushed Azrielâs cum deeper, forcing it further into my body with each brutal thrust of his hips.Â
âFuck,â Cassian groaned, as my head rolled from side to side.
Each thrust forced my breasts to bounce, my hands clawing uselessly at the carpet. The pleasure was painful, almost violent, bordering on too much.
I watched as Rhys helped Feyre to her feet, his hands steadying her as she swayed.
âLet me taste him, please,â I whimpered, the words leaving my mouth before I could stop them.Â
Cassianâs laugh was dark and breathless. He slipped his arm beneath my knee, lifting my leg higher, angling his hips to go deeper.
The new position had tears fall from my eyes, my back arching off the floor as he hit something inside me that made stars burst behind my eyes.
Feyre straddled either side of my head. Her thighs trembled as she lowered herself; her pussy hovered just above my mouth.
My tongue licked a long, slow line from her dripping hole to her clit. I groaned into her, my hands reaching up to wrap around her waist, pulling her down onto my mouth.
She was shaking as my tongue pressed deeper, licking every drop of Rhysâs release.
âGod,â Feyre moaned, her hips rolling against my face. âPlease. Please donât stop.â
Cassianâs fingers found my clit, pressing down in tight circles as he fucked me. I whimpered into Feyreâs pussy, the vibrations making her cry out above me.
My tongue traced every fold to her clit, flicking it with the tip of my tongue. Her breath came in short, desperate gasps, and I could feel her body tensing.Â
âIâm, oh god, Iâm going toââ
She pressed herself harder against my mouth, and I felt her release flood my mouth and chin. I followed her, my walls clenching down around Cassianâs cock.Â
I felt him pulse inside me, his own cum adding to the mess inside me.Â
We stayed like that for a moment, me beneath him, Feyre still trembling above my face.Â
Cassian withdrew from me slowly, the sensation making me whimper as I felt their cum leak from my body.Â
Feyre didnât climb off me as I expected. Instead, she bent forward, her hands reaching for the back of my thighs, and I felt her warm breath against my sensitive pussy.
My pussy was swollen and aching, still pulsing from my orgasm, and the feeling of her tongue was too much, overstimulating me.Â
âFeyre, I canât, itâs tooââ I gasped.Â
She didnât stop. Her tongue pressed into my entrance, tasting every drop of cum that dripped from my body.
I came fast and hard, my face burying into her soaking pussy as my body arched.Â
The scream that tore from my throat was muffled by her pussy, my hips grinding against her mouth.
Her tongue continued its torture until I lay beneath her, whimpering and broken, coated in her release and Rhysâs, my body trembling.
Finally, she climbed off me, collapsing beside me. My hand reached for hers, our fingers intertwining as my eyes met the others.Â
Azriel sat with his back against the lounge chair, his face still glistening with my wetness, his cock hard in his hand.Â
Cassian sat beside me, his chest rising and falling heavy, his own hand working his cock in lazy pumps.Â
Rhys leaned against the table, his eyes watching us, hungry and predatory.Â
My breath hitched as I watched three men stroking themselves, knowing that the night was far from over.
spoiler free summary. Bucky subscribes to an OF page and becomes obsessed.
summary with spoilers. (if you are like me, and you do not have self control, read this) you swore you could keep your two lives separate: medical intern by the day, faceless fantasy online by night. But then Bucky Barnes walks in for a check-up⌠and later logs in to watch you strip. He knows. You donât. And the deeper he falls, the harder it is to keep both worlds from colliding.
warnings. highly suggestive themes, age gap (reader is an intern), MDNI, eventual smut, masturbation, mutual masturbation, phone sex, dom bucky, unprotected pnv, angst, hurt/comfort, everything works out in the end.
Summary: in which you and Macklin experiment ⌠for science
Warnings: 18+ content
Series Masterlist
Itâs a Wednesday night in late February, and Macklin is sprawled on your couch watching game tape on his laptop while youâre supposedly studying for your Criminal Law exam.
Supposedly, because youâve been staring at the same page of your casebook for ten minutes, and he knows because heâs been counting.
âYouâre not actually reading that,â he says without looking up from his screen.
âI am.â
âYou havenât turned the page in ten minutes.â
âMaybe itâs a really interesting page.â
He glances over, grinning. âWhatâs it about?â
You close the book with a sigh. âI have no idea. I canât concentrate.â
âWhy not?â
âBecause youâre sitting there all-â You wave a hand at him. â-distracting.â
âIâm literally just watching tape.â
âYouâre biting your lip. You always bite your lip when youâre analyzing plays. Itâs hot.â
He laughs, closing his laptop. âYou think my game tape analysis is hot?â
âI think everything about you is hot.â You set your book aside, crawling across the couch to straddle his lap. âItâs a problem.â
âSeems like a good problem to have.â
You kiss him, slow and deep, and he groans into your mouth. His hands find your hips, pulling you closer.
âI thought you had to study,â he murmurs against your lips.
âI do.â
âSo we should stop.â
âWe should.â But youâre grinding against him now, and heâs already getting hard. âWe really should.â
âAbsolutely.â His hands slide under your shirt. âVery important exam.â
âCritical.â
âLife or death.â
You laugh, pulling back to look at him. Your eyes are dark, pupils blown wide. âOr we could take a study break.â
âA long study break?â
âVery long.â You roll your hips again, and he can feel the heat of you even through both your clothes. âEducational, even.â
âEducational?â
âMmhmm.â You lean in, biting his earlobe. âI could teach you something new.â
His breath catches. âYeah? What did you have in mind?â
You pull back with a smile that makes his heart race. âYouâll see. Bedroom. Now.â
He doesnât need to be told twice.
***
In your bedroom, you push him onto the bed and he goes willingly, already pulling his shirt over his head. You stand at the foot of the bed, watching him with that look that makes him feel like heâs on fire.
âStrip,â you say.
âBossy.â
âYou love it.â
He does. He strips down to his boxers, then pauses. âThese too?â
âEverything.â Youâre already taking off your own clothes, and he watches, transfixed, as more and more skin is revealed. âI want you naked.â
He obeys, and then youâre climbing onto the bed, straddling his thighs. Youâre completely bare, and the sight of you never gets old â the curves of your body, the way you look at him like you want to devour him.
âHi,â you say, grinning.
âHi.â
You lean down to kiss him, and he can feel your breasts against his chest, your heat so close to where he wants you. He reaches for you, but you catch his wrists.
âPatience.â
âI donât have any.â
âI know. Itâs cute.â You pin his wrists above his head. âKeep them there.â
âAre you serious?â
âVery.â You kiss down his neck, his chest, taking your time. âYouâre going to be good for me, right?â
âAlways.â
âGood boy.â
The words go straight to his cock, and you notice, glancing down with a satisfied smirk. âSomeone likes that.â
âYou know I do.â
âI do.â You kiss down his stomach, and he has to fight to keep his hands where you put them. âYouâre so responsive. Itâs one of my favorite things about you.â
âWhat are the others?â
âYour persistence. Your passion.â Youâre at his hip bone now, biting gently. âThe way you look at me. The way you touch me. The way you fuck me.â
âJesus,â he breathes.
You look up at him, eyes wicked. âYou want me to touch you?â
âPlease.â
âWhere?â
âYou know where.â
âSay it.â
âMy cock. Please touch my cock.â
âSo polite.â You wrap your hand around him, and he nearly comes off the bed. âSo hard for me already.â
âAlways hard for you.â
You stroke him slowly, and itâs torture â good torture, but torture nonetheless. He wants to thrust into your hand, wants to flip you over and bury himself inside you, but he keeps his hands above his head like you told him to.
âGood boy,â you murmur, and he whimpers. âYouâre being so good. Keeping your hands where I put them.â
âItâs hard.â
âI know.â You lean down, licking a stripe up his length. âBut you can do it. You want to be good for me, donât you?â
âYes. Fuck, yes.â
You take him into your mouth, and his hips jerk involuntarily. You pull off immediately.
âStay still.â
âSorry. Sorry, IâllâIâll be good.â
âI know you will.â You take him again, deeper this time, and he has to concentrate on not moving, not thrusting, not grabbing your hair and fucking your mouth.
Itâs the sweetest torture heâs ever experienced.
You work him with your mouth and hand until heâs trembling, right on the edge, and then you pull off with a wet pop.
âDonât come yet,â you say.
âIâm trying not to.â
âI know. Youâre doing so well.â You crawl back up his body, kissing him. He can taste himself on your tongue. âReady for something new?â
âYes. God, yes. Anything.â
âHands on the headboard.â
He reaches up, gripping the headboard. You reach into your nightstand, pulling out a condom. You tear it open with your teeth â which shouldnât be as hot as it is â and roll it onto him slowly.
âOkay,â you say, positioning yourself over him. âWeâre going to try something different.â
âDifferent how?â
Instead of facing him like you usually do, you turn around.
His view is suddenly your back, the curve of your spine, the swell of your ass. And when you sink down onto him â slowly, so slowly â he can see everything. Can see himself disappearing inside you, can see your body taking him inch by inch.
âOh fuck,â he groans.
âGood?â you ask, and your voice is strained.
âSo good. Holy shit, this isâyou look-â
You start to move, and the angle is different, tighter somehow. He can see everything â the way you move, the way your body takes him, the way your hands grip his thighs for balance.
âYou can touch,â you say breathlessly. âYour handsâyou can touch me.â
He doesnât need to be told twice. His hands find your hips, your waist, helping guide your movements. Youâre rolling your hips in a way that must feel incredible for you because youâre moaning, your head falling back.
âIs this-â He can barely speak. âIs this what you wanted to teach me?â
âYes. This isâfuck, Macklinâthis is reverse cowgirl.â
âBest. Position. Ever.â
You laugh, but it turns into a moan as you sink down harder. âThe angle is good for you?â
âThe angle is insane. I can see everything. Youâre soâgod, youâre so fucking beautiful like this.â
One of his hands slides up your back, the other stays on your hip. Youâre setting the pace, taking what you need, and heâs happy to let you. Happy to watch you ride him, watch your body move, watch himself slide in and out of you.
âTouch yourself,â he says suddenly.
âWhat?â
âI want to watch you touch yourself. Please.â
You reach down between your legs, and he can see your fingers finding your clit. You moan louder, your movements getting more erratic.
âThatâs it,â he encourages. âMake yourself feel good. Use me.â
âMacklin-â
âYou look so good like this. Taking my cock, touching yourself. So fucking perfect.â
Youâre getting close â he can tell by the way youâre moving, the sounds youâre making. He grips your hips tighter, helping you move, thrusting up to meet you.
âIâm-â you gasp. âIâm close-â
âCome for me. Want to feel you come on my cock.â
That does it. You cry out, your whole body tensing, and he can feel you clenching around him. Itâs almost enough to make him come too, but he holds off, wanting to feel this for as long as possible.
When you finally slump forward, catching your breath, heâs still rock hard inside you.
âDonât move,â you say. âJust give me a second.â
âTake your time.â
Youâre still seated on him, and he runs his hands up and down your back, soothing. After a moment, you start moving again â slow, rolling movements that make him groan.
âYou didnât come,â you observe.
âWanted to make sure you did first.â
âAlways so considerate.â You look back over your shoulder at him. âYou want to come now?â
âPlease.â
âThen fuck me.â You brace your hands on his thighs. âHard as you want.â
He doesnât need more encouragement than that. He grips your hips and starts thrusting up into you, hard and fast. The position gives him leverage he didnât have before, and he uses it, driving into you over and over.
âYes,â you gasp. âJust like that. Fuck, Macklin-â
Heâs mesmerized by the sight â your body taking him, the way your ass bounces with each thrust, the curve of your back. Itâs almost too much, too good.
âIâm-â He can barely get the words out. âIâm gonna-â
âDo it. Come for me.â
He does, with a broken groan, his hips stuttering as he empties himself into the condom. You keep moving, milking every last bit of pleasure from him until heâs boneless and spent beneath you.
You carefully lift yourself off him, and he immediately misses the warmth of you. You collapse beside him, both of you breathing hard.
âSo,â you say after a moment. âThoughts on reverse cowgirl?â
He laughs, still trying to catch his breath. âI think it might be my new favorite thing.â
âYeah?â
âThe view was-â He turns his head to look at you. âYouâre incredible.â
âYouâre not so bad yourself.â You curl into his side. âYou liked watching?â
âLoved it. Seeing you like that, seeing us-â He breaks off. âIt was the hottest thing ever.â
âWe should definitely do it again then.â
âYes. Absolutely. Whenever you want.â
You laugh, pressing a kiss to his chest. âGive me like twenty minutes to recover first.â
âFair.â
Youâre quiet for a moment. âYou know what else we could try sometime?â
âWhat?â
âThereâs this thing where I face you, but I lean back and-â
âYes. Whatever it is, yes.â
You laugh. âYou donât even know what I was going to say.â
âDonât care. If it involves you naked and on top of me, Iâm in.â
âGood to know youâre so easily convinced.â
He rolls over, pinning you beneath him. âOnly when it comes to you.â
You kiss him, slow and sweet, and he can feel himself starting to get hard again already.
âTwenty minutes,â you remind him.
âEighteen now.â
âMacklin.â
âWhat? Iâm a professional athlete. I have excellent recovery time.â
You shake your head, but youâre smiling. âFine. But this time I get to try something else Iâve been thinking about.â
âYeah? Whatâs that?â
You whisper in his ear, and his eyes go wide.
âReally?â
âIf you want to.â
âIâyeah. Yes. Definitely yes.â
âEnthusiastic consent. I love it.â You kiss him again. âBut seriously, give me a few minutes. I need water and maybe a snack.â
âIâll get it.â He starts to get up, but you pull him back down.
âIn a minute. Right now I just want to lie here with you.â
So he does, holding you close, running his fingers through your hair. Heâs thinking about what you just told him, about all the things you want to try, about how lucky he is that you trust him like this.
âHey,â you say softly.
âYeah?â
âI love you.â
His heart swells. âI love you too.â
âEven though Iâm corrupting you?â
He laughs. âEspecially because youâre corrupting me.â
âGood.â You kiss his shoulder. âBecause I have a whole list of things I want to teach you.â
âYeah?â
âMmhmm. Weâve barely scratched the surface.â
âIâm a very eager student.â
âYou really are.â You prop yourself up to look at him. âYou know what I love about you?â
âWhat?â
âYouâre always so enthusiastic. About everything. Hockey, learning new things, making me feel good. Itâs-â You pause, searching for words. âItâs refreshing. Most guys would be too proud to let their girlfriend teach them things.â
âWhy would I be proud about not knowing how to make you feel good? Thatâs stupid.â
âSee? This is what I mean.â You kiss him. âYouâre soâyouâre perfect, you know that?â
âNot perfect.â
âPerfect for me.â You settle back against his chest. âMy eager, enthusiastic, perfect boyfriend.â
He holds you tighter, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. âYour boyfriend who really loves reverse cowgirl.â
You laugh. âThat too.â
***
Later â after water and snacks and another round where you do indeed teach him that other thing you mentioned â youâre both thoroughly exhausted and tangled together in your bed.
âI have a question,â Macklin says into the darkness.
âHmm?â
âHow do you know all this stuff?â
âWhat stuff?â
âLike positions and techniques and-â He gestures vaguely. âAll of it.â
Youâre quiet for a moment. âDoes it bother you? That Iâve done this before?â
âNo. God, no. Iâm justâIâm curious. Youâre really good at it.â
âAt sex?â
âAt teaching. At knowing what you like and what works.â He runs his fingers up and down your arm. âAt making me feel like Iâm good at it too.â
âYou are good at it. Youâre very good at it.â
âBecause you taught me.â
âI gave you some pointers. You did the rest.â You shift to look at him. âYou want to know the truth?â
âAlways.â
âMy ex was terrible in bed.â
âWhat?â
âI mean it. Terrible. He never wanted feedback, never asked what I liked, just did the same thing every time.â
âThat sounds awful.â
âIt was.â You trace patterns on his chest. âSo after we broke up, I did some research. Read some books, watched some videos. Figured out what I actually liked.â
âVideos?â
âPorn, Macklin. I watched porn.â
âOh.â Heâs quiet for a second. âThatâs hot.â
You laugh. âYou think so?â
âYeah. You figuring out what you like, so you could teach me? Thatâsâyeah. Really hot.â
âYouâre such a guy.â
âYou love it.â
âI really do.â You kiss his chest. âAnd for the record, youâre so much better than my ex ever was.â
âBecause you taught me.â
âBecause you listen. Because you care about making me feel good. Because youâre not too proud to ask questions or take direction.â You look up at him. âThat makes you better than like ninety percent of guys out there.â
âOnly ninety?â
âOkay, ninety-five.â
He grins. âBetter.â
You shake your head, but youâre smiling. âYou know what else makes you better?â
âWhat?â
âYou genuinely enjoy it. Making me feel good. Youâre not just doing it to get to the main event.â
âMaking you feel good is the main event.â
âSee? That.â You kiss him. âThat right there. Thatâs why youâre the best Iâve ever had.â
He knows heâs blushing. âReally?â
âReally. Youâre attentive and enthusiastic and you make me feel-â You pause. âYou make me feel like Iâm the only thing that matters when weâre together.â
âYou are.â
âAnd thatâs why I love you.â You settle back against him. âAlso because youâre really hot and really good with your tongue.â
He laughs. âRomantic.â
âI can be romantic. But right now Iâm just being honest.â
âI like your honesty.â
âGood. Because I have more things I want to try with you, and Iâm going to need to be very honest about what I want.â
His interest is immediately piqued. âYeah? Like what?â
âYouâll find out.â You yawn. âBut not tonight. Tonight we sleep.â
âTease.â
âYou love it.â
âI really do.â
Youâre quiet for a while, and Macklin thinks youâve fallen asleep. But then you speak again, softly.
âMacklin?â
âYeah?â
âThank you.â
âFor what?â
âFor being so open to learning. For trusting me. For-â Your voice gets smaller. âFor making me feel safe enough to ask for what I want.â
He pulls you closer. âAlways. You can always ask me for anything.â
âI know. Thatâs why I love you.â
âI love you too.â He kisses the top of your head. âAnd I love learning new things with you.â
âEven when Iâm bossy about it?â
âEspecially when youâre bossy about it.â
You laugh sleepily. âGood. Because Iâm about to get a lot bossier.â
âPromise?â
âPromise.â
He falls asleep with you in his arms, already thinking about all the things youâre going to teach him, all the ways youâre going to make each other feel good.
***
The next morning, he wakes up to you kissing down his body.
âGood morning,â you murmur against his stomach.
âBest morning,â he corrects, already getting hard.
âWant to try something else?â
âAlways.â
You grin up at him, wicked and beautiful. âGood boy.â
And as you take him in your mouth, as you show him yet another thing he didnât know he could love, Macklin thinks that being your eager student might be the best position of all.
***
Later, over breakfast â which is really lunch because neither of you got out of bed until almost noon â youâre scrolling through your phone while he makes eggs.
âOh,â you say suddenly.
âWhat?â
âThereâs this article-â You hold up your phone. âAbout different positions and their benefits. Flexibility, muscle engagement, that kind of thing.â
âAre you reading sex articles at the breakfast table?â
âItâs research.â Youâre grinning now. âVery important research.â
âFor what?â
âFor us. Look, it says reverse cowgirl is great for deep penetration and G-spot stimulation. Which tracks with last night.â
He nearly burns the eggs. âYouâre going to kill me.â
âWhat? Iâm just sharing information.â
âYouâre going to kill me and Iâm going to die happy.â
You laugh. âIt also has some other suggestions. Positions that might be good for us to try.â
âYeah?â
âMmhmm.â You stand, coming around the counter to wrap your arms around him from behind. âWhat do you think? Want to work through the list?â
âIs this list long?â
âVery long.â
âThen yes. Absolutely yes.â
You kiss his neck. âSuch an eager student.â
âYou make learning fun.â
âI try.â Your hands slide under his shirt. âThe eggs can wait, right?â
âThe eggs can definitely wait.â
You pull him back toward the bedroom, and he goes willingly, laughing, already hard again.
Being your student, he decides, is the best education heâs ever had.
And heâs got a lot more to learn.
***
Over the next few weeks, you work through your list. Some things are great â the standing position you try in the shower makes him see stars. Some things are good but not great â that one thing you saw in a video is more complicated than it looks and you both end up laughing too hard to finish.
And some things are absolutely mind-blowing.
Like the night you tie his wrists to the headboard and ride him until heâs begging.
Or the morning he wakes you up with his face between your legs and you come so hard you actually scream.
Or the afternoon youâre supposed to be studying and you end up bent over your desk instead, his hand in your hair while he fucks you from behind.
Every time is good. Every time he learns something new â about you, about himself, about what makes you both feel incredible.
And every time, you praise him, guide him, teach him.
âGood boy, just like that.â
âPerfect, youâre so perfect.â
âYes, right there, donât stop.â
The praise still makes him weak. Makes him want to be better, do better, make you feel better.
âYou know what you are?â You ask him one night, after heâs made you come three times in a row.
âGood student.â You pull him up for a kiss. âThe best student.â
And later, when youâre both too exhausted to move, wrapped up in each other and completely satisfied, Macklin thinks about how far heâs come.
From that first time, nervous and inexperienced, asking you to teach him.
To now, confident and skilled, able to make you fall apart with just his hands, his mouth, his body.
All because you were patient enough to teach him. Brave enough to tell him what you wanted. Trusting enough to let him learn.
âI love you,â he says into the darkness.
âI love you too.â Your voice is sleepy, content. âMy perfect, eager, absolutely incredible student.â
âBest class Iâve ever taken.â
âWait until next semester.â Youâre grinning â he can hear it in your voice. âIâve got a whole new curriculum planned.â
âYeah?â
âMmhmm. Advanced techniques. Extra credit assignments. Very hands-on learning.â
He laughs, pulling you closer. âI canât wait.â
âGood.â You kiss his chest. âBecause youâre going to need to study hard.â
âIâm very dedicated to my education.â
âI know you are.â You yawn. âThatâs why youâre my favorite student.â
âI better be your only student.â
âObviously.â Youâre falling asleep now, your words slurring together. âMy only student. My only love. My only everything.â
He holds you as you drift off, thinking about reverse cowgirl and shower sex and all the things you still want to try together.
Thinking about how lucky he is to have found someone who makes learning so fun, who makes vulnerability safe, who makes every day better than the last.
Summary: in which Macklin isnât sure if he belongs in your world and questions if you deserve someone who does (you shut that down really quick)
Series Masterlist
Macklin has faced down six-foot-five defensemen without blinking. Heâs taken hits that would flatten most people. Heâs played in front of eighteen thousand screaming fans and never once felt nervous.
But standing in the lobby of the Fairmont Hotel in a suit, waiting for you to finish talking to your Evidence professor, heâs pretty sure heâs going to be sick.
âYou okay?â You ask, appearing at his elbow. You look stunning in a deep blue dress that makes his brain short-circuit, your hair twisted up in some complicated style he wants to mess up later.
âYeah. Fine. Great.â
You give him a look that says you donât believe him for a second. âMacklin.â
âIâm just-â He tugs at his collar. âThereâs a lot of people here.â
âItâs a dinner party, babe. Thatâs kind of the point.â
âRight. Yeah. Of course.â
You take his hand, squeezing it. âHey. Youâre going to be fine. Theyâre going to love you.â
Heâs not so sure about that, but he follows you into the banquet hall anyway.
The room is full of people in expensive suits and designer dresses, all of them older than him, all of them talking about things like tort reform and constitutional law and summer associate positions at firms Macklinâs never heard of. There are professors he recognizes from you pointing them out on campus, students heâs seen you study with, and everyone seems to know everyone else.
He feels like heâs showed up to the wrong party.
âY/N!â A woman in a sharp pantsuit waves you over. âThere you are!â
âProfessor Weitz!â You light up, pulling Macklin with you. âIâm so glad you could make it.â
âWouldnât miss it.â Professor Weitzâs eyes land on Macklin, curious and assessing. âAnd whoâs this?â
âThis is my boyfriend, Macklin.â You say it with such pride that his chest warms despite his nerves. âMacklin, this is Professor Weitz. She teaches my Constitutional Law seminar.â
âNice to meet you,â Macklin says, shaking her hand.
âMacklin,â she repeats, studying him. âWhy do I know that name?â
âHe plays for the Sharks,â you supply. âHockey.â
âOh! Of course!â Recognition dawns on her face. âMy husband watches your games. Heâll be thrilled I met you.â
âThatâsâyeah, thatâs cool.â Macklin manages a smile.
âY/N tells me youâre having quite the season.â
âIâm trying.â
âHeâs being modest,â you cut in. âHeâs fifth in points across the entire league. Heâs probably going to win the Hart.â
âThe what?â
âMVP award,â Macklin explains.
âThatâs impressive.â Professor Weitz looks genuinely interested now. âAnd youâre how old?â
âNineteen.â
Her eyebrows rise. âNineteen. Wow. So you went pro right out of high school?â
âI did a year at BU first,â he says. âBoston University. But then I got drafted first overall, so-â
âSo you left college for the NHL,â she finishes. âThat must have been quite a decision.â
Thereâs something in her tone â not quite judgment, but not quite approval either. Macklin feels himself shrinking.
âIt was the right choice for him,â you say firmly. âNot everyone needs a traditional path.â
âOf course not,â Professor Weitz agrees, but Macklin can tell sheâs already mentally categorizing him. Jock. Dropout. Not serious.
You talk for a few more minutes before Professor Weitz excuses herself, and Macklin lets out a breath he didnât know he was holding.
âYou okay?â You ask quietly.
âYeah. She seems nice.â
âShe is.â You squeeze his hand. âCome on, letâs get drinks.â
The next hour is a blur of introductions. You bring him around to different groups, always making sure to include him, always finding ways to brag about his accomplishments.
âThis is Macklin, he plays hockey-â
âMy boyfriend Macklin, heâs having an incredible season-â
âHave you met Macklin? Heâs the one who scored that hat trick in overtime I told you about-â
Everyone is polite. Everyone smiles and shakes his hand and says nice things. But Macklin can see the way their eyes glaze over when you mention hockey, the way they quickly steer the conversation back to law school gossip or summer internships or the bar exam.
He meets your study group â three people who apparently spend every Sunday with you at the library. Theyâre in the middle of discussing some case about workplace discrimination when you pull him into the circle.
âMacklin might actually have some insight here,â you say. âThe NHL has a pretty comprehensive anti-discrimination policy now.â
Everyone turns to look at him expectantly.
âOh. Um.â He scrambles to remember what little he knows about it. âYeah, we had some training on it during orientation. Sexual harassment, discrimination, that kind of stuff.â
âInteresting,â one of the guys â Darren, maybe â says. âDid they cover the legal framework? Title VII implications?â
âI, uh, I donât know. They just told us not to be assholes.â
Thereâs a beat of silence. Then Darren laughs, but itâs the kind of laugh that makes Macklin feel like heâs said something stupid.
âWell, thatâs one way to put it,â Darren says.
âMore effective than youâd think,â you say lightly, but Macklin can hear the edge in your voice. âSometimes simple is better.â
The conversation moves on, but Macklin stays quiet. He sips his drink â some kind of fancy cocktail he doesnât really like â and tries to follow along as they discuss cases and statutes and legal theories heâs never heard of.
At one point, someone mentions the Socratic method, and Macklin has to Google it on his phone under the table.
âYouâre quiet,â you murmur during a lull in conversation.
âJust listening.â
âYou can jump in, you know. They donât bite.â
But he doesnât know what to say. These people are talking about Supreme Court decisions and law review articles, and his most intellectual conversation this week was with Will about whether Die Hard is a Christmas movie.
Dinner is served â a fancy chicken dish with vegetables he canât identify â and Macklin finds himself seated between you and a guy named Aaron whoâs apparently going to clerk for a federal judge next year.
âSo Macklin,â Aaron says, clearly trying to be friendly. âWhat are you planning to do after hockey?â
âAfter?â
âYou know, long-term. Hockey careers are pretty short, right? Whatâs your backup plan?â
Macklin blinks. âI-I havenât really thought about it.â
âYou should.â Aaron cuts into his chicken. âYouâre young now, but youâll want to have something lined up. Maybe go back and finish your degree?â
âMaybe,â Macklin says, even though the thought of going back to school makes him want to crawl out of his skin.
âWhat was your major at BU?â
âI didnât declare one. I was only there for a year.â
âRight, right.â Aaron nods like this confirms something. âWell, itâs never too late. Y/N could probably help you figure out a good path.â
Next to Macklin, youâre deep in conversation with Professor Weitz about some case youâre working on at the Sharksâ legal department. Youâre animated, gesturing with your hands, completely in your element.
You look like you belong here.
Macklin looks down at his plate and tries not to feel like heâs drowning.
***
âY/N, we need to steal you for a second!â
Itâs later in the evening, and a group of your classmates are waving you over. You glance at Macklin.
âYou okay for a minute?â
âYeah, go ahead.â
He watches you go, watches you fold seamlessly into their group, laughing at someoneâs joke. You fit here. These are your people â smart, ambitious, articulate people who read case law for fun and have opinions about judicial philosophy.
What the hell is he doing here?
âFirst time at one of these?â
Macklin turns to find an older man beside him â late twenties, maybe, with the kind of expensive watch that screams Big Law money.
âYeah. Iâm with Y/N.â
âAh, Y/N.â The guy smiles. âSheâs great. Brilliant mind. We had Civil Procedure together last year.â
âCool.â
âYouâre the hockey player, right?â
âRight.â
âThat must be interesting, dating someone in law school. Very different worlds.â
âYeah.â Macklin takes a drink. âVery different.â
âSheâs got a bright future ahead of her,â the guy continues. âSheâll probably make partner at a big firm by thirty-five. Maybe go in-house somewhere prestigious after that.â
âShe wants to do sports law,â Macklin says.
âFor now, maybe. But sheâs too talented to limit herself like that.â He says it like itâs obvious. âShe could do anything she wants.â
Including date someone whoâs not a nineteen-year-old dropout, Macklinâs brain supplies unhelpfully.
He excuses himself and heads to the bathroom, just to get away. He stares at himself in the mirror â too young, trying too hard in this suit, completely out of his depth.
What is he even doing here?
***
You find him twenty minutes later, standing alone by the windows overlooking the city.
âThere you are. Iâve been looking for you.â
âSorry. Just needed some air.â
You study him, your lawyer face on â the one that means youâre reading between the lines. âYou okay?â
âFine.â
âMacklin.â
âI said Iâm fine.â
Youâre quiet for a moment. Then you slip your hand into his. âYou want to get out of here?â
He does, desperately, but he doesnât want to ruin your night. âDonât you need to stay?â
âIâve made my rounds. Said hi to everyone I needed to say hi to.â You squeeze his hand. âLetâs go.â
***
The drive back to your apartment is quiet. You try to make conversation â asking about practice, about the upcoming road trip â but Macklinâs responses are short, distracted.
Finally, you sigh. âOkay, whatâs wrong?â
âNothing.â
âDonât lie to me. Youâve been weird since dinner started.â
âIâm just tired.â
âMacklin.â Your voice is firm now. âTalk to me.â
He keeps his eyes on the road. âItâs nothing. Iâm fine.â
âYouâre not fine. Youâve barely said two words since we left.â
âWhat do you want me to say?â
âI want you to tell me whatâs going on in your head.â
Heâs quiet for a long moment. âYou should pull over.â
âWhat?â
âPull over. Please.â
You do, finding a spot on a quiet side street. You put the car in park and turn to face him.
He canât look at you. He stares at his hands instead, trying to find the words.
âYou deserve better than me.â
The silence is deafening.
âWhat?â Your voice is very small.
âYou deserve someone better. Someone like ⌠like Darren, or Aaron, or any of those guys back there. Someone smart. Worldly. Someone with a fucking college degree.â
âMacklin-â
âIâm nineteen,â he continues, the words spilling out now. âI never finished college. I donât know what the Socratic method is or what Title VII means or anything about the shit you talk about with your friends. I donât fit into your world.â
âMy world-â
âYouâre going to be this incredible lawyer, and Iâm justâIâm just some hockey player who got lucky.â
âStop.â Your voice cuts through his spiral. âStop talking.â
He finally looks at you. Youâre staring at him like heâs grown a second head.
âAre you serious right now?â You ask.
âI just think-â
âNo. You donât get to think. Not about this.â You unbuckle your seatbelt, turning to face him fully. âDo you want to break up with me? Is that what this is?â
âWhat? No!â
âThen what the hell are you talking about?â
âIâm talking about you deserving better-â
âI donât want better!â Your voice rises. âI donât want Darren or Aaron or some law school guy who can discuss Supreme Court cases over dinner. I want you!â
âBut-â
âNo buts. Jesus, Macklin.â You run a hand through your hair, messing up the fancy style. âDo you know what I see when I look at you?â
He doesnât answer.
âI see the guy who asked me out seventeen times before I finally said yes. The guy who scored a hat trick just to get a date with me. The guy who shows up to my apartment after games â win or lose â just because he wants to see me.â
âThatâs not-â
âI see someone who listens when I talk about my cases, even though I know you donât understand half of it. Someone who brings me coffee when Iâm studying. Someone who makes me laugh when Iâm stressed about exams.â
Your voice softens. âI see someone whoâs kind and genuine and works harder than anyone Iâve ever met. Someone who made it to the NHL at eighteen because heâs that fucking good at what he does.â
âBut Iâm not smart like you-â
âYou are smart.â You say it fiercely. âYouâre hockey smart. You read plays before they happen. You memorize defensive systems. You adjust your game on the fly. Thatâs intelligence, Macklin.â
âItâs not the same-â
âWhy does it have to be?â You cup his face, making him look at you. âWhy do you have to be a lawyer or have some fancy degree for me to want you?â
âBecause youâre you. And Iâm just-â
âYouâre Macklin fucking Celebrini,â you interrupt. âFirst overall pick. Hart Trophy frontrunner. One of the best players in the NHL. And more importantly, youâre the guy Iâm falling in love with.â
His breath catches. âYouâwhat?â
âIâm falling in love with you,â you repeat, slower this time. âNot with some hypothetical guy with a law degree. Not with Darren or Aaron or anyone else from tonight. With you.â
âBut-â
âDo you know what I was thinking tonight, while you were talking to everyone?â
He shakes his head.
âI was thinking how proud I am to be with you. How youâre polite to everyone even when theyâre clearly boring you. How you asked Professor Weitz about her husbandâs favorite team even though you were clearly uncomfortable. How you tried to contribute to conversations even when you didnât know what we were talking about.â
You brush a strand of hair off his forehead. âI was thinking about how you look at me like Iâm the only person in the room. How you remember little things I tell you. How you make me feel safe and wanted and seen.â
âYou are,â he says quietly. âThe only person in the room. Always.â
âSee? That. Thatâs what I want.â Your voice is fierce now. âNot someone who can discuss constitutional law. Someone who looks at me like that. Someone who cares like you do.â
âI justâI felt so out of place tonight.â
âI know. I could tell.â You lean your forehead against his. âIâm sorry. I should have warned you better about what it would be like.â
âYou were great. You made sure to include me in everything.â
âBut you still felt like you didnât belong.â
âBecause I donât. Not in that world.â
âMaybe not,â you concede. âBut you belong in my world. My actual world, not just the law school part of it.â
Heâs quiet, processing.
âMacklin, look at me.â
He does.
âI donât care that you didnât finish college. I donât care that you canât discuss case law. I care that youâre kind and hardworking and genuine. I care that you make me laugh. I care that youâre falling for me too.â
âI am,â he admits. âSo much it scares me sometimes.â
âGood. Be scared. Iâm scared too.â You smile, soft and a little watery. âBut donât be scared that Iâm going to leave you for some law school guy. Thatâs not happening.â
âHow do you know?â
âBecause none of them score hat tricks for me,â you say simply. âNone of them show up at my apartment at midnight just to make sure Iâm okay. None of them are you.â
He kisses you then, desperate and needy, pouring everything he canât say into it. You kiss him back just as hard, your hands in his hair, anchoring him.
When you finally pull apart, youâre both breathing hard.
âIâm sorry,â he says. âFor freaking out.â
âDonât apologize. Just talk to me next time, okay? Before you spiral into thinking Iâm going to leave you for some guy named Aaron.â
He laughs despite himself. âHe was kind of a dick.â
âHeâs always kind of a dick.â You grin. âDid he do the whole âwhatâs your backup planâ thing?â
âHow did you know?â
âBecause he does it to everyone whoâs not in law school. Itâs his thing.â You roll your eyes. âIgnore him.â
âHe said youâre going to make partner at a big firm.â
âMaybe. Or maybe Iâll do sports law like I actually want to.â You shrug. âI havenât decided yet. But whatever I do, I want you there with me.â
âYeah?â
âYeah.â You kiss him again, softer this time. âYouâre not getting rid of me that easily, Celebrini.â
âGood. Because I donât want to.â
You sit there for a while, just holding each other in the quiet car. Finally, you pull back.
âCan I tell you something?â
âAlways.â
âWhen I first met you, I thought you were just some cocky hockey player who was used to getting whatever he wanted.â
âOuch.â
âLet me finish.â You smile. âBut then you kept asking me out, and you were so earnest about it. So genuine. And I realized you werenât cocky at all. You were just confident. In yourself, in what you wanted.â
âI wanted you.â
âI know. And you didnât give up, even when I kept saying no. Even when I was kind of a bitch about it.â
âYou werenât-â
âI was,â you interrupt. âI was trying to protect myself. Because I knew â even then, I think I knew â that if I said yes, I was going to fall for you. And that scared me.â
âWhy?â
âBecause youâre nineteen. Because everyone told me it was a bad idea. Because I thought youâd get bored of me once you realized Iâm just a stressed-out law student who spends her weekends in the library.â
âI love that youâre a stressed-out law student,â he says. âI love watching you study. I love hearing about your cases. I love that youâre passionate about what you do.â
âEven though you donât understand half of it?â
âEspecially because I donât understand half of it.â He takes your hand. âYouâre so smart, and you work so hard, and youâre going to be an incredible lawyer. And Iâm so proud of you. Even if I canât always follow the conversations.â
You blink rapidly, and he realizes youâre crying.
âHey, no-â
âTheyâre happy tears,â you assure him. âI just â no oneâs ever said that to me before.â
âThat theyâre proud of you?â
âThat they love watching me work. That they donât need to understand everything to be supportive.â You wipe your eyes. âMy ex used to complain that I talked about school too much. That I was boring.â
âHe sounds like an idiot.â
âHe was.â You laugh wetly. âBut youâre not. Youâre perfect for me, Macklin. Exactly as you are.â
âEven though I donât have a college degree?â
âEven though. Especially though.â You squeeze his hand. âYou have something better. You have passion. Drive. Talent. And youâre doing exactly what youâre supposed to be doing.â
âPlaying hockey?â
âBeing yourself.â You smile. âBeing the persistent boy who wouldnât take no for an answer. Being the guy who plays like he has something to prove every single night. Being mine.â
âI like being yours.â
âGood. Because I really like you being mine too.â
He pulls you into another kiss, and this one is slower, sweeter. A promise instead of a plea.
âCan we go home?â He asks when you finally part.
âYour place or mine?â
âYours. I want to stay with you tonight.â
âOkay.â You start the car again. âBut Macklin?â
âYeah?â
âNext time you start spiraling about not being good enough for me, Iâm going to make you watch highlights of yourself on repeat until you remember that youâre kind of amazing.â
He laughs. âThat seems fair.â
âAnd Iâm going to remind you that I chose you. Not because youâre a hockey player, and not despite the fact that youâre nineteen. Just because youâre you.â
âI can live with that.â
âGood.â You reach over, lacing your fingers with his as you drive. âBecause youâre stuck with me now.â
âBest place I could be stuck.â
***
Later, back at your apartment, youâre both getting ready for bed. Macklin watches you take down your hair, transform from the polished law student back into just you â his you.
âHey,â he says from the doorway.
âHmm?â
âThank you. For tonight. For everything you said in the car.â
You turn to face him, and your expression is so soft it makes his chest ache. âYou donât have to thank me for telling you the truth.â
âStill. I needed to hear it.â
âI know.â You cross to him, wrapping your arms around his waist. âAnd Iâll tell you as many times as you need to hear it. Youâre enough, Macklin. More than enough.â
He buries his face in your neck, breathing you in. âI love you.â
Itâs the first time heâs said it out loud, and he feels you freeze.
Then you pull back, cupping his face. âSay that again.â
âI love you.â Itâs easier the second time. âIâm in love with you.â
Your smile is brighter than the sun. âI love you too. So much.â
You kiss him, and itâs different from all the other kisses. Itâs a beginning, a promise, a answer to a question he didnât know he was asking.
âCome to bed,â you murmur against his lips.
âBossy.â
âYou like it.â
âI really do.â
You pull him toward the bedroom, and as he follows you â as he always will â Macklin thinks about the dinner party. About feeling out of place, inadequate, not enough.
But here, in your apartment, with your hand in his and your love freely given, he doesnât feel any of those things.
He feels exactly where he belongs.
***
In the morning, he wakes up to you already dressed, sitting at your desk with a case book open.
âMorning,â he mumbles.
âMorning, superstar.â You donât look up from your notes. âThereâs coffee in the kitchen.â
He pads out to pour himself a cup, then comes back to stand behind your chair. He drapes himself over you, chin on your shoulder.
âWhat are you working on?â
âContracts. I have a final next week.â
âTell me about it.â
You do, launching into an explanation of consideration and promissory estoppel that he definitely doesnât understand. But he listens anyway, asking questions when something sounds interesting, making you laugh when he relates contract law to hockey somehow.
âYouâre distracting me,â you say, but youâre smiling.
âSorry.â
âNo youâre not.â
âNo, Iâm not.â He kisses your neck. âBut I can let you study if you need to.â
âI should.â You turn in your chair to face him. âBut Iâd rather spend time with you.â
âYeah?â
âYeah.â You pull him down for a kiss. âWe can study later. Right now, I just want you.â
And later, when youâre both back in bed even though itâs barely nine in the morning, Macklin thinks about what you said last night.
About choosing him. About loving him exactly as he is.
About belonging.
He may not have a college degree. He may not understand case law or legal theory or any of the things your classmates talk about.
But he has this. He has you. He has mornings in bed and coffee in the kitchen and the way you explain contracts like he might actually care about consideration clauses (he doesnât, but he cares that you care).
He has your love, freely given and fiercely defended.
And really, what more could he possibly need?
âI love you,â he says into the quiet of your bedroom.
âI love you too,â you reply, fingers tracing patterns on his chest. âMy persistent, hockey-playing, absolutely perfect boyfriend.â
âPerfect is a stretch.â
âNot to me.â You prop yourself up to look at him. âTo me, youâre exactly right.â
And lying there, with the morning light streaming through your windows and your hand over his heart, Macklin finally believes it.
Summary: in which Macklin learns how to eat you out
Warnings: 18+ content
Series Masterlist
Itâs been three weeks since the hat trick.
Three weeks of dates that start with dinner and end with kissing on your couch until Macklin has to drag himself away, dizzy and wanting. Three weeks of his teammates chirping him about the hickey you left on his neck (youâd been apologetic, heâd been proud). Three weeks of learning each other â how you take your coffee, how he likes his pregame meals, the way you hum when youâre concentrating, the way he bounces his leg when heâs nervous.
Three weeks, and Macklin is pretty sure heâs going to lose his mind if he doesnât get his hands on you properly soon.
Not that heâs complaining. The waiting is sweet torture, every kiss better than the last, every touch a promise of more. But god, he wants more.
Itâs a Saturday night in January when things finally shift. The Sharks donât have a game until Tuesday, and youâve invited him over for dinner at your apartment. Not takeout, not going out â actual cooking, which youâve mentioned you like to do when you have time.
Macklin shows up with flowers (your favorite, which he remembered from an offhand comment two weeks ago) and wine (which Joe had to help him buy because heâs nineteen and knows nothing about wine).
âYou didnât have to bring anything,â you say, but youâre smiling as you take the bouquet.
âMy mom would kill me if I showed up empty-handed.â
âWell, we canât have that.â You stand on your toes to kiss him, and he wraps his arms around your waist, lifting you slightly. You laugh against his mouth. âDown, boy. Dinner first.â
âCanât we skip to dessert?â
âMacklin.â
âWhat? Iâm just saying-â
You press a finger to his lips. âDinner. First.â
He kisses your finger, grinning when you roll your eyes. âYes, maâam.â
Dinner is pasta with homemade sauce, garlic bread, and a salad that Macklin dutifully eats even though heâd rather be kissing you. You tell him about your week, about the case youâre working on, about your Evidence professor who youâre pretty sure hates you.
âImpossible,â Macklin says. âNobody could hate you.â
âYouâre biased.â
âExtremely.â He reaches across the table, lacing his fingers with yours. âBut also right.â
You shake your head, smiling. âEat your vegetables.â
âIâm eating them!â
âYouâre pushing them around your plate.â
âIâm savoring them.â
âMacklin.â
He sighs dramatically but takes a bite of salad. âHappy?â
âDelirious.â
After dinner, you move to the couch with the wine. Macklin doesnât really like it, but he likes the way you curl into his side, your legs tucked under you, your hand resting on his chest.
âThis is nice,â you murmur.
âYeah.â
âJust quiet. No games, no studying, no obligations.â
âJust us.â
âJust us,â you agree, and then youâre kissing him.
It starts slow, gentle. His hand in your hair, yours on his jaw. But then you shift, straddling his lap, and Macklin groans into your mouth.
âIs this okay?â You ask, pulling back slightly.
âAre you kidding? This is-â He doesnât finish, just pulls you back down.
You kiss for a while, his hands on your hips, yours in his hair. He can feel the heat of you through your clothes, can feel the way youâre starting to move against him, just slightly. His whole body is on fire.
âMacklin,â you breathe against his neck.
âYeah?â
âDo you want to-â You pull back to look at him. âWe donât have to. But if you want-â
âYes.â The word comes out strangled. âGod, yes. Whatever you want.â
You smile, slow and dangerous. âWhatever I want?â
âAnything.â
âDangerous words.â
âI trust you.â
Something soft crosses your face. You cup his cheek, kissing him sweetly. âCome on.â
You lead him to your bedroom, which heâs never seen before. Itâs neat, organized, very you â soft lighting, a big bed with about a thousand pillows, books stacked on the nightstand.
âSecond thoughts?â You ask, watching him take it in.
âNo. Just-â He turns to you. âIâm really here. In your bedroom.â
âYou are.â
âIâve thought about this.â
âHave you?â You step closer, playing with the hem of his shirt. âWhat did you think about?â
His brain short-circuits. âI, uh-â
âItâs okay.â You kiss his jaw. âYou donât have to be smooth right now.â
âGood, because Iâm really not.â
You laugh, and then youâre pulling his shirt over his head. He reaches for yours, but you catch his hands.
âLet me,â you say softly.
So he does. He watches as you undress, reveals skin heâs only imagined, and when youâre standing there in just your underwear, he forgets how to breathe.
âOkay?â You ask.
âYouâre perfect.â
âFlatterer.â
âTruth-teller.â He steps closer, running his hands up your sides. âYouâre so fucking beautiful.â
You shiver under his touch. âYour turn.â
He strips off his jeans, suddenly self-conscious, but the way youâre looking at him â hungry, appreciative â makes him feel like a god.
âCome here,â you say, pulling him toward the bed.
You fall onto it together, a tangle of limbs and kisses. His hands are everywhere, trying to memorize every inch of you. Youâre making these small sounds that are driving him crazy, arching into his touch.
âI want-â He breaks off, kissing down your neck. âCan I-â
âWhat do you want?â Your voice is breathless.
âI want to taste you.â The words come out rough. âWant to make you feel good.â
You pull back, looking at him. âYeah?â
âPlease.â
âOkay.â You lie back, and Macklinâs heart is pounding so hard heâs sure you can hear it. âCome here.â
He kisses down your body â your neck, your collarbone, your breasts (taking his time there until youâre pulling at his hair), your stomach. When he reaches the waistband of your underwear, he looks up at you.
âStill okay?â
âMore than okay.â
He pulls them down slowly, and then youâre bare before him, and he has no idea what heâs doing.
He knows the theory, obviously. Heâs watched porn, heâs heard his teammates talk. But actually being here, faced with the reality of you, he realizes heâs completely out of his depth.
âMacklin?â Your voice is gentle. âYou okay?â
âYeah, I just-â He swallows. âI donâtâIâve never-â
Understanding crosses your face. âOh. Oh, honey. Itâs okay.â
âI want to,â he says quickly. âI really want to. I just donât know-â
âHey.â You sit up slightly, cupping his face. âItâs okay. We donât have to-â
âI want to,â he repeats. âI justâI donât want to be bad at it.â
You smile, soft and affectionate. âYou wonât be. Come here.â
He does, and you pull him up for a kiss. âDo you want me to show you?â
âShow me?â
âHow to do it. What I like.â Your voice is patient, kind. âIf you want to learn, I can teach you.â
Something hot shoots through him at the thought. âYeah. Yes. Please.â
âOkay.â You kiss him again. âFirst rule: communication. Iâll tell you what feels good, and you pay attention to how I respond. Okay?â
âOkay.â
âAnd donât be afraid to ask questions. This isnât a test. Itâs just us.â
He nods, and you lie back down. He settles between your legs again, and you spread them wider.
âStart slow,â you instruct. âJust explore. Use your fingers first.â
He does, running his fingers through your folds experimentally. Youâre wet â so wet â and the knowledge that youâre this turned on by him makes his head spin.
âGood,â you breathe. âThatâs good. See here?â You guide his hand. âThatâs my clit. Thatâs going to be your best friend.â
He circles it gently, watching your face. Your eyes flutter closed.
âLighter,â you say. âItâs really sensitive. Justâyes, like that. Oh, thatâs good.â
Encouraged, he keeps going, varying the pressure, the speed. Youâre making soft sounds, your hips moving slightly.
âOkay,â you say after a moment. âNow you can use your mouth.â
âWhat do I-â
âStart with kisses. Just like youâd kiss my mouth, but slower. Softer.â
He leans in, pressing a soft kiss to your inner thigh. Then another, working his way up. When he finally reaches your center, he presses a gentle kiss there, and you gasp.
âGood,â you whisper. âThatâs so good. Now-â Your breath hitches. âNow use your tongue. Flat and slow.â
He does, dragging his tongue through your folds, and the taste of you is overwhelming in the best way. You moan, and the sound goes straight to his cock.
âLike this?â He asks, doing it again.
âYes. Oh god, yes. Just like that.â
He keeps going, losing himself in it. Youâre so soft, so warm, and every sound you make spurs him on.
âNow the clit,â you say, your voice strained. âRemember, gentle.â
He finds it with his tongue, circling it the way he did with his fingers. You cry out, your hand flying to his hair.
âMacklinâfuckâyes-â
Heâs never heard you swear before, and itâs the hottest thing heâs ever experienced. He does it again, and your grip in his hair tightens.
âPerfect,â you gasp. âYouâre doing so perfect. Donât stop.â
He doesnât. He keeps going, finding a rhythm, paying attention to what makes you moan louder, what makes your thighs tremble.
âSuck on it,â you instruct breathlessly. âGently. Likeâoh fuckâyes, just like that-â
Heâs rock hard, grinding against the bed without meaning to. Making you feel like this is the best thing heâs ever done.
âFingers,â you pant. âAdd your fingers.â
âWhere-â
âInside. One first. Slow.â
He slides one finger inside you, and youâre so tight and wet that he nearly comes right there.
âCurl it,â you say. âUp towardâoh god, yes, there. Right there.â
He finds a spot that makes you practically levitate off the bed, and he focuses on it, sucking on your clit while his finger works inside you.
âAnother,â you gasp. âTwo fingers now.â
He adds a second, and the stretch makes you moan so loud heâs briefly worried about your neighbors. But then youâre rocking against his face, chasing the pleasure, and he doesnât care about anything except making you feel good.
âSo good,â youâre babbling. âSo fucking good, Macklin, oh my god, youâre such a good boy-â
The praise makes him work harder, desperate to hear more. He alternates between circling your clit with his tongue and sucking on it gently, his fingers pumping in and out, curled to hit that spot that makes you shake.
âIâm close,â you warn. âDonât stop, please donât stop-â
He doesnât. He keeps the exact same rhythm, the same pressure, and when you finally come apart, he can feel it â the way you clench around his fingers, the way your whole body goes taut and then liquid. Youâre moaning his name, your hand tight in his hair, and he works you through it until youâre pushing him away, oversensitive.
He pulls back, chin wet, looking up at you in wonder.
Youâre sprawled on the bed, chest heaving, a thin sheen of sweat on your skin. You look thoroughly debauched.
âCome here,â you say, voice wrecked.
He crawls up your body, and you pull him into a kiss, apparently uncaring that he tastes like you. When you finally pull back, youâre smiling.
âSo?â He asks nervously. âWas that-â
âThat was incredible.â You cup his face. âYouâre incredible. For your first time â god, Macklin.â
âYeah?â
âYeah.â You kiss him again. âYouâre a very fast learner.â
âI had a good teacher.â
âAnd you listen so well.â Your hand trails down his chest, his stomach. âSuch a good boy.â
He actually whimpers, and you smile against his mouth.
âYou like that?â You murmur. âWhen I tell you youâre good?â
âYes.â
âWhen I call you a good boy?â
âFuck, yes.â
Your hand reaches his boxer briefs, palming him through the fabric. Heâs so hard it almost hurts.
âWant me to take care of this?â You ask.
âPlease.â
But when you start to move down his body, he catches your hand. âWait.â
âWhatâs wrong?â
âCan I-â He swallows. âCan I do it again? To you?â
You blink. âYou want to-â
âI want to practice.â Heâs already kissing down your body again. âWant to make sure I can do it right every time.â
âMacklin, you already-â
âPlease.â He looks up at you from between your legs. âLet me be good for you.â
Your breath catches. âGod, youâre going to be the death of me.â
âIs that a yes?â
âThatâs a yes.â
This time, heâs more confident. He starts with kisses to your inner thighs, teasing, taking his time. Youâre still sensitive from the first orgasm, and when he finally drags his tongue through your folds, you gasp.
âToo much?â He asks.
âNo. No, keep going.â
He does, but gentler this time, slower. He explores every inch of you, finding what makes you sigh, what makes you moan, what makes you pull his hair.
âYouâre enjoying this,â you observe, breathless.
âLove it,â he admits against you. âLove how you taste. Love the sounds you make.â
âSuch a sweet talker.â
âJust honest.â He circles your clit with his tongue, and your hips jerk. âLove making you feel good.â
âYou do,â you gasp. âYou make me feel so good, Macklin.â
He adds his fingers again, two this time without needing to be told. He remembers the spot, the angle, and when he finds it you cry out.
âGood boy,â you breathe. âSuch a good boy for me.â
He groans against you, working harder. Heâs learning what you like â the combination of his fingers inside you and his mouth on your clit, the way you need him to be gentle but persistent, the way you get wetter when he hums against you (he does it again, just to feel you gush).
âClose,â you warn. âIâm close again, oh god-â
He doesnât let up. He keeps the same rhythm, the same pressure, and when you come this time, he can feel the way your whole body trembles with it. Youâre pulling his hair almost painfully hard, your thighs clamped around his head, and heâs never felt more accomplished in his life.
When you finally go limp, he presses soft kisses to your thighs, your hip bones, your stomach.
âMacklin,â you say weakly. âHoly shit.â
He grins, crawling back up to kiss you. âBetter?â
âIâm going to need a week to recover.â
âWas I good?â
âYou were perfect.â You pull him close. âSo perfect. My perfect good boy.â
He buries his face in your neck, overwhelmed. âI love when you call me that.â
âI can tell.â Your hand slides down to palm him again. Heâs still rock hard, leaking through his briefs. âThis must hurt.â
âItâs okay.â
âMacklin.â You push him onto his back. âLet me.â
âYou donât have to-â
âI want to.â Youâre already pulling down his briefs. âI want to make you feel as good as you made me feel.â
When you take him in your hand, he nearly comes just from that. Heâs so worked up, so turned on from going down on you, that he knows heâs not going to last.
âIâm not-â He gasps as you stroke him. âIâm not going to last long.â
âThatâs okay.â You kiss his jaw. âThatâs more than okay. You earned this.â
âI didnât-â
âYou made me come twice.â You kiss down his neck. âYou learned so fast, listened so well. Such a good student.â
âFuck,â he breathes.
âMy good boy,â you murmur, and thatâs all it takes.
He comes with a broken moan, spilling over your hand, his whole body shaking. You work him through it, whispering praise in his ear-âso good, did so well, so perfect for meâ â until heâs boneless and spent.
When he finally comes back to himself, youâre wiping your hand with a tissue, smiling at him fondly.
âHi,â you say.
âHi.â
âYou okay?â
âI think you broke me.â
You laugh, curling into his side. âIn a good way?â
âIn the best way.â He wraps his arms around you. âThat was-â
âYeah.â
âCan we do it again?â
âNow?â
âNo, I think you actually did break me. But like later? Tomorrow?â
You laugh against his chest. âWeâll see.â
You lie there in comfortable silence, his fingers tracing patterns on your skin. Heâs thinking about how this started â with him begging for a date, with you saying no over and over. How if someone had told him three months ago that heâd be here, in your bed, having just made you come twice, he wouldnât have believed them.
âWhat are you thinking?â You ask quietly.
âThat Iâm really glad I scored that hat trick.â
You prop yourself up on your elbow, looking down at him. âYeah?â
âBest thing I ever did.â
âBetter than being first overall?â
âSo much better.â
You kiss him, slow and sweet. âIâm glad too. Even though you were a persistent little shit.â
âHey.â
âWhat? You were.â
âI prefer determined.â
âPotato, potahto.â
You laugh, and he rolls you over, pinning you to the bed. You look up at him, eyes soft.
âIâm falling for you,â he says. He didnât mean to say it, but itâs true. âLike, really falling.â
âMacklin-â
âYou donât have to say it back. I just wanted you to know.â
You cup his face, pulling him down for a kiss. âIâm falling too,â you whisper against his lips. âHave been for a while.â
His heart soars. âYeah?â
âYeah. You make it really hard not to.â
âIs it the going down on you thing? Because I can do that a lot more-â
You laugh, swatting his chest. âItâs not just that. Itâs-â You pause, searching for words. âItâs everything. The way you listen. The way you care. The way you look at me like Iâm the only person in the room.â
âYou are.â
âSee? That.â You smile. âYouâre sweet and genuine and you make me laugh. And yeah, youâre also apparently a very fast learner in bed, which doesnât hurt.â
âI had good motivation.â
âOh yeah? Whatâs that?â
âMaking you feel good.â He kisses your neck. âHearing you call me a good boy.â
You shiver. âYou really like that, huh?â
âMore than I probably should.â
âThereâs no should.â You tilt his chin up to look at you. âIf it feels good, itâs good. Okay?â
âOkay.â
âAnd you were so good,â you murmur. âSo eager to learn, so focused on my pleasure. Do you know how rare that is?â
âI just wanted-â
âI know what you wanted. And you got it.â You pull him down for another kiss. âYou made me come so hard I forgot my own name.â
He grins against your mouth. âMission accomplished.â
âCocky.â
âCan you blame me?â
âNo,â you admit. âYou earned it.â
You spend the rest of the night like that â talking, kissing, touching. He goes down on you one more time (for practice, he insists, though you suspect he just loves doing it), and you return the favor until heâs a writhing mess beneath you.
When you finally fall asleep, tangled together in your bed, Macklin thinks that this might be the happiest heâs ever been.
***
He wakes up to sunlight streaming through your curtains and you curled against his chest. For a moment, he just watches you sleep, still not quite believing this is real.
Your eyes flutter open, and you smile sleepily at him. âHi.â
âHi.â
âSleep okay?â
âBest sleep of my life.â
âFlatterer.â
âTruth-teller,â he corrects, kissing your forehead.
You stretch, and he notices the marks on your neck, your collarbone. Oops.
âWhat?â You ask, catching his expression.
âI might have left some marks.â
You get up to check in the mirror, and he watches you count them. âMacklin. I have work tomorrow.â
âSorry?â
âNo youâre not.â
âNo, Iâm not.â He grins. âYou look good like that.â
âLike what?â
âMine.â
You roll your eyes, but youâre smiling as you crawl back into bed. âPossessive.â
âIs that a problem?â
âNo,â you admit, curling back into his arms. âI kind of like it.â
âYeah?â
âYeah.â You kiss his chest. âI like being yours.â
He tightens his arms around you, feeling like his heart might burst. âGood. Because Iâm not going anywhere.â
âEven when I make you crazy?â
âEspecially then.â
You laugh, and he thinks he could listen to that sound for the rest of his life.
âHey,â he says after a while.
âYeah?â
âThank you. For last night. For being patient with me.â
âMacklin, you donât have to thank me-â
âI want to.â He tilts your chin up. âYou could have made fun of me, or made me feel bad for not knowing what to do. But you didnât. You justâyou taught me. Made it safe.â
âOf course I did.â You look almost offended at the idea of doing anything else. âThatâs what you do when you care about someone.â
âI care about you too. So much.â
âI know.â You kiss him softly. âI know you do.â
âAnd Iâm going to keep getting better,â he promises. âAt that. Going to practice until Iâm perfect at it.â
You laugh. âYou know most guys hate doing that.â
âThen most guys are idiots.â Heâs already kissing down your body again. âBecause that was the hottest thing Iâve ever done.â
âMacklin, you donât have to-â
âI want to.â He looks up at you from between your legs. âPlease? Let me practice?â
You laugh, breathless. âYouâre insatiable.â
âOnly for you.â
âSuch a line.â
âSuch the truth.â He presses a kiss to your inner thigh. âPlease?â
You thread your fingers through his hair, smiling down at him with such affection it makes his chest ache. âOkay. But only because you ask so nicely.â
âI can be very nice.â
âYou can be very good,â you correct. âMy very good boy.â
And as he sets to work, listening to your breathing quicken, feeling you arch into his mouth, Macklin thinks that yeah, he could definitely get used to this.
Being yours. Being good for you.
Being the person who gets to make you feel like this.
Itâs better than any hat trick, any goal, any win.
This is everything.
And heâs never been more grateful for his own persistence, for that stupid bet, for every single rejection that led him here.
To you. To this.
To finally being exactly where heâs supposed to be.
Summary: in which Macklin asks you out seventeen times, makes a bet, and scores a hat trick (in that order)
Series Masterlist
The first time Macklin sees you, heâs pretty sure his heart actually stops.
Itâs a Monday morning in early October, and heâs walking through the administrative hallway at SAP Center with Will Smith, both of them still in their workout gear, when you round the corner with an armful of file folders and a coffee cup balanced precariously on top.
âWhoa, careful-â Macklin starts, reaching out instinctively.
You sidestep him smoothly, not spilling a drop. âIâve got it, thanks.â
And then youâre past him, heels clicking efficiently down the hallway, and Macklin is standing there like an idiot, watching you go.
âDude,â Will says. âYou good?â
âWho was that?â
Will glances back. âOh, thatâs the new legal intern. Started last week, I think? Why?â
âNo reason,â Macklin lies, but heâs already calculating how quickly he can manufacture a reason to visit the legal department.
***
He finds out your name is Y/N Y/L/N. Youâre twenty-three, which makes you four years older than him â a fact that Will points out is ânot that much, broâ when Macklin mentions it, which Macklin definitely wasnât asking about. You went to Stanford for undergrad, youâre doing your law degree at Santa Clara, and youâre apparently the most organized person the Sharksâ legal team has ever seen.
Macklin thinks youâre the most beautiful person heâs ever seen, but he keeps that part to himself.
For about three days.
âSo,â he says, catching up to you in the hallway on Thursday afternoon. âY/N, right?â
You donât slow down. âRight.â
âIâm Macklin. Macklin Celebrini.â
âI know who you are.â You shift the folders in your arms. âYouâre kind of hard to miss.â
His heart does a stupid little flip. âYeah? I meanâcool. Thatâs cool. So, I was thinking-â
âIâm not interested.â
He blinks. âI didnât even-â
âYou were going to ask me out.â You finally stop walking, turning to face him with a look thatâs equal parts amused and exasperated. âThe answer is no, but I appreciate the interest.â
âHow did you-â
âYouâve been staring at me for three days straight, Macklin. Youâre not exactly subtle.â But youâre smiling a little, and it gives him hope.
âOkay, fair,â he admits. âBut hear me out-â
âNo.â
âJust coffee-â
âNo.â
âLunch?â
âNo.â
âBreakfast?â
âStill no.â
He grins, undeterred. âWhat about second breakfast?â
You actually laugh at that, short and surprised. âDid you just make a Lord of the Rings reference?â
âIs it working?â
âNo.â But youâre still smiling as you walk away, and Macklin counts it as a win.
***
Will thinks heâs lost his mind.
âSheâs said no, like, fifteen times,â he points out a week later, watching Macklin check his hair in his phone camera before heading to a ârandomâ stop by the legal department.
âShe laughs at my jokes, dude. Thatâs a good sign.â
âOr she thinks youâre funny-looking.â
Macklin flips him off and heads out.
He finds you in the break room, heating up leftovers in the microwave. You see him coming and immediately shake your head.
âNo.â
âI didnât say anything!â
âYou were thinking it.â The microwave beeps, and you pull out your container. âThe answer is still no, Macklin.â
He leans against the counter, watching you stir your pasta. âYou donât even know what I was going to ask.â
âLet me guess.â You cap your container, turning to face him. âCoffee, lunch, dinner, or some creative variation thereof. Am I close?â
âI was actually going to ask if you wanted to come to the game on Saturday,â he says. âWeâre playing Vegas. Should be a good one.â
âI have season tickets,â you say. âSection 107.â
âOh.â He brightens. âSo youâll be there anyway?â
âWith my dad, yes.â
âCool, cool. So after the game-â
âNo.â
âCome on.â Heâs smiling because he canât help it, because youâre standing there in your perfect blazer and your hair is coming loose from its bun and youâve got a tiny bit of sauce on your chin. âOne date. Thatâs all Iâm asking.â
You grab a napkin, wiping your chin like you can read his mind. âMacklin, youâre nineteen.â
âSo?â
âSo Iâm twenty-three. Thatâs-â
âFour years. Which is nothing.â
âItâs not nothing when youâre nineteen.â But your voice is gentler now. âYouâre a baby.â
âIâm not a baby,â he protests. âIâm in the NHL. I have a 401k.â
That gets another laugh out of you. âOh, well, a 401k. That changes everything.â
âDoesnât it?â
âNo.â You pick up your lunch, heading toward the door. âYouâre very sweet, Macklin. But the answer is no.â
âFor now,â he calls after you.
You donât disagree, and he takes that as progress.
***
By mid-November, the rejections have become routine. He asks, you say no, you both smile about it, and life goes on. Itâs become a thing, he realizes. Your thing.
âThis is sad,â William Eklund tells him after watching Macklinâs latest attempt get shot down in the parking lot. âLike, genuinely sad.â
âSheâs going to say yes eventually,â Macklin insists.
âBased on what evidence?â
âShe hasnât told me to stop asking.â
âMaybe sheâs just being polite.â
Macklin shakes his head. âYou donât know her like I do.â
âYou donât know her at all, dude. Youâve had, what, maybe five actual conversations?â
âFourteen,â Macklin corrects. âAnd a half.â
âWhatâs half a conversation?â
âShe said good morning to me once.â
Ekky stares at him. âYou need help.â
But the thing is, Macklin does know you. He knows you take your coffee black with exactly one sugar. He knows youâre always exactly seven minutes early to everything. He knows you chew on your pen cap when youâre thinking and that you organize your folders by color and date. He knows youâre funny and sharp and kind, and that you always stop to talk to the arena staff, asking about their kids and remembering their names.
He knows that when you smile â really smile, not the polite professional one â your whole face lights up.
And he knows that youâre not entirely unaffected by him, even if you pretend to be. He catches you watching him sometimes, quickly looking away when he notices. You always know his stats from the previous game. You laugh at his jokes even when theyâre terrible.
Thereâs something there. Heâs sure of it.
***
The breakthrough comes in early December, before a game against Utah.
Youâre walking past the locker room â which you normally avoid like the plague â when Macklin spots you and jogs over, still in his suit.
âY/N, hey.â
You sigh, but youâre smiling. âMacklin.â
âBig game tonight.â
âIâm aware.â
âYou coming?â
âSection 107, same as always.â
He takes a breath. This is it. His last shot. âWhat if I made you a deal?â
You raise an eyebrow. âIâm listening.â
âIf I score a hat trick tonight-â
âYouâre playing Utah,â you interrupt. âNo offense to them, but come on.â
âOkay, fair point.â He thinks for a second. âIf I score a hat trick, and we win, you go out with me. One date.â
You cross your arms, considering. âAnd if you donât?â
âThen Iâll stop asking.â The words hurt coming out, but he means them. âCompletely. Youâll never have to say no again.â
You study him for a long moment. He can see you weighing it, calculating the odds. Three goals plus a win is a tall order against any team.
âYouâll really stop?â You ask quietly.
âIf thatâs what you want, yeah.â
Something flickers across your face, too quick to read. âOkay,â you say finally. âDeal.â
His heart jumps. âYeah?â
âBut Macklin?â You step closer, and he can smell your perfume. âIâm not saying yes because I think youâll do it. Iâm saying yes because I think you wonât, and maybe this way youâll finally move on.â
It should sting, but heâs too busy grinning. âWeâll see.â
âYes,â you say, already walking away. âWe will.â
***
In the locker room, Macklin is vibrating with energy.
âYou good?â Tyler Toffoli asks, watching him bounce on his toes.
âI need a hat trick.â
âOkay âŚâ
âTonight. I need a hat trick tonight.â
Ryan Reaves looks up from taping his stick. âWhy?â
âBecause if I get one, Y/N finally has to go out with me.â
The room goes quiet. Then everyone starts talking at once.
âWait, the legal intern?â
âYou bet a date on a hat trick?â
âDude, thatâs actually kind of smooth.â
âHeâs been chasing her for months-â
âTwo months,â Macklin corrects. âAnd one week.â
Will throws a tape roll at him. âYouâre insane.â
âI prefer determined.â
âWhat happens if you donât get it?â Will asks.
Macklin swallows. âI have to stop asking her out. Forever.â
The room goes quiet again.
âWell,â Ryan says finally, âbetter make it count then.â
***
The game starts badly.
Utah scores first, a garbage goal that somehow squeaks past the goalie. Then they score again midway through the first period, and Macklin can feel the opportunity slipping away.
He can see you in Section 107, sitting with an older man who must be your dad. Youâre wearing a Sharks jersey â his number, he notices with a jolt â and youâre watching the ice intently.
Focus, he tells himself. Focus.
He gets his first goal with three minutes left in the first period. A quick wrist shot from the slot that goes top shelf. He doesnât celebrate much, just taps his gloves and gets back to the bench.
âOne down,â Will says, bumping his shoulder.
âTwo to go.â
The second period is a grind. Utahâs defense tightens up, and Macklin canât find any space. He takes a penalty for holding, spends two minutes in the box hating himself, and comes out determined to make up for it.
With six minutes left in the second, he gets his chance. A beautiful feed from Dmitry Orlov, and Macklin one-times it past the goalie.
2-2.
And more importantly: two goals.
The arena erupts, and Macklin lets himself look up at Section 107. Youâre on your feet, clapping, and even from here he can see that youâre smiling.
One more, he thinks. Just one more.
***
The third period is agony.
Utah scores again, making it 3-2. Then Will ties it up with eight minutes left, and the game becomes a desperate scramble. Both teams are exhausted, sloppy. The ice is choppy.
Macklin gets chance after chance, but nothing falls. He hits the post twice. Once, he has an open net and somehow puts it wide.
âItâs okay,â Ekky tells him during a TV timeout. âWeâre going to OT. Youâll get another chance.â
âWhat if I donât?â
âThen you donât. But youâre not giving up now.â
Regulation ends 3-3. Overtime.
***
Three-on-three hockey is chaos at the best of times. Tonight, itâs absolute mayhem.
Utah nearly ends it thirty seconds in. Then the Sharks almost score. Back and forth, both goalies standing on their heads.
Macklin is exhausted. His legs are burning, his lungs are screaming, and all he can think about is you in Section 107, watching.
Two minutes left in OT.
Macklin gets the puck at center ice. He sees Ekky streaking down the right side, Tyler driving the middle. The Utah defenseman commits to Will, leaving a gap.
Macklin takes it.
Heâs never skated faster in his life. The Utah goalie is sliding across, trying to cover the angle. Macklin fakes the pass to Tyler, pulling the goalie even further-
And then he shoots.
Time slows down. He can see the puck spinning, can see the goalie reaching, can see the tiny space between the glove and the post-
The puck goes in.
The horn sounds.
The arena explodes.
Macklinâs teammates mob him, screaming and laughing, but all he can think about is looking up at Section 107. Youâre standing, hands over your mouth, and even from the ice he can see that youâre shaking your head.
But youâre smiling.
***
After the game, after the media and the showers and the endless chirping from his teammates, Macklin finds you waiting outside the locker room.
âHi,â he says, suddenly nervous.
âHi.â Youâre still in his jersey, and it does something to his heart. âThat was-â
âA hat trick?â
âShow-off.â
He grins. âA dealâs a deal.â
You sigh, but thereâs no heat in it. âI canât believe you actually did it.â
âDid you watch the whole game?â
âOf course I did.â You say it like itâs obvious. âI had to see if I was going to owe you a date.â
âAnd?â
âAnd apparently I do.â Youâre trying to sound annoyed, but youâre failing. âWhen?â
âNow?â
You laugh. âYou just played almost seventy minutes of hockey. Youâre exhausted.â
âIâm not tired at all,â he lies. Heâs pretty sure he could fall asleep standing up.
âMacklin.â You step closer, and his breath catches. âI know youâre not tired. But I am. And Iâd rather our first date not be at eleven PM when weâre both dead on our feet.â
âOur first date,â he repeats, grinning like an idiot. âSo thereâs going to be a second one?â
âLetâs see how the first one goes.â
âWhen?â
You consider. âFriday? After work?â
âDone. Yes. Perfect.â
âThereâs a Thai place near my apartment-â
âIâll eat anything,â he says quickly. âWhatever you want.â
You smile that real smile, the one that lights up your whole face. âOkay. Friday.â
âFriday,â he agrees.
You turn to leave, then pause. âMacklin?â
âYeah?â
âThat was a really good game.â Your voice is soft. âReally good.â
âI had motivation.â
âApparently.â You shake your head, still smiling. âGet some rest. Iâll see you Friday.â
âWait-â He catches your hand without thinking, then immediately lets go, embarrassed. âCan I ask you something?â
âSure.â
âDid you actually think I couldnât do it? Or were you hoping I would?â
Youâre quiet for a moment, and when you speak, your voice is honest. âI donât know,â you admit. âMaybe both? I told myself you wouldnât do it, that it was impossible. But then you kept getting chances, and I kept thinking-â You break off, laughing a little. âI donât know what I was thinking.â
âWere you cheering for me?â
âI was cheering for the Sharks.â
âThatâs not what I asked.â
You bite your lip, and heâs never wanted to kiss someone more in his life. âMaybe a little,â you confess. âWhen you scored the third goal, I-â You shake your head. âNever mind.â
âTell me.â
âI thought, âOh no.ââ Youâre smiling now, embarrassed. âBecause I realized that some part of me wanted you to do it. Wanted an excuse to say yes.â
His heart is going to explode. âYou could have just said yes.â
âI know.â You meet his eyes. âBut whereâs the fun in that?â
âYou made me work for it.â
âYou needed to work for it.â Your voice is gentle. âYouâre nineteen, Macklin. Youâve had everything come easy to you your whole life. Hockey, school, girls probably-â
âNot this girl.â
âNo,â you agree. âNot this girl. And maybe thatâs good. Maybe you needed to want something you couldnât just have.â
âAnd now?â
âNow you can have it.â You reach out, squeezing his hand quickly. âOne date. Friday. Donât be late.â
âIâll be early.â
âI know you will.â Youâre already walking away. âGoodnight, Macklin.â
âNight, Y/N.â
He watches you go, and this time when you reach the end of the hallway, you look back. You catch him staring and shake your head, but youâre smiling.
Heâs smiling too.
***
Friday takes forever to arrive.
Macklin changes his outfit four times, shows up twenty minutes early, and has to walk around the block three times to avoid looking desperate. When he finally knocks on your apartment door at exactly 6:30, his palms are sweating.
You answer in jeans and a soft sweater, your hair down for the first time heâs ever seen, and he forgets how to speak.
âHi,â you say, amused.
âHi. You look-â He clears his throat. âReally pretty.â
âThanks.â You grab your jacket. âYou clean up nice yourself.â
The Thai restaurant is small and warm, tucked into a strip mall. You clearly come here often â the owner greets you by name and gives Macklin an appraising look that makes him sit up straighter.
âSo,â you say once youâve ordered. âTell me about yourself.â
âYou know about me.â
âI know youâre a hockey player. I donât know you.â
So he tells you. About growing up in Vancouver, about his family, about the pressure of being first overall and the weight of expectations. He tells you about his teammates, about learning to do his own laundry for the first time, about how sometimes he still feels like a kid playing dress-up in an adultâs life.
You listen like everything he says matters, asking questions, laughing in the right places. And when he asks about you, you tell him about law school, about wanting to work in sports law, about your dad who brought you to Sharks games since you were six.
âHe was pretty excited about the hat trick,â you admit. âHe might be more invested in you asking me out than you were.â
âImpossible.â
You laugh. âHe said any guy who works that hard for a date probably deserves one.â
âSmart man.â
âHe has his moments.â
The food comes, and you steal bites off his plate without asking. He pretends to be annoyed but immediately offers you more. You argue about the best Sharks players of all time, about whether the 2000s or 2010s had better rom-coms, about whether pineapple belongs on pizza.
âIt absolutely does not,â you insist.
âItâs fruit! Itâs healthy!â
âItâs an abomination.â
âYouâre an abomination.â
You throw a napkin at him, and he catches it, grinning.
Somewhere between the pad thai and the mango sticky rice, he realizes heâs never been this happy. Not after winning games, not after scoring goals. Just sitting here, watching you laugh at his stupid jokes, arguing about pizza toppings.
This. This is what he wanted.
***
After dinner, you walk slowly back toward your apartment. Itâs cold, and you huddle into your jacket. Without thinking, Macklin puts his arm around you.
You donât pull away.
âSo,â you say as you reach your building. âVerdict?â
âBest date of my life.â
âYouâre nineteen. How many dates have you been on?â
âEnough to know this was the best one.â
You smile, looking down. âIt was pretty good.â
âJust pretty good?â
âOkay, really good.â You look up at him. âYouâre not what I expected, Macklin Celebrini.â
âBetter or worse?â
âBetter,â you admit. âA lot better. Youâre-â You pause, searching for words. âYouâre genuine. And funny. And you actually listen when people talk. Thatâs rare.â
âEspecially for a nineteen-year-old?â
âEspecially for anyone.â You lean against your door. âIâm sorry I made you wait so long.â
âIâm not.â He steps closer. âYou were right. I needed to work for it. And now-â He doesnât finish the sentence.
âNow?â
âNow I appreciate it more.â Heâs looking at your lips. âCan I kiss you?â
You pretend to think about it. âI donât know. Maybe you should score a hat trick for that too.â
âIf I need to, I will.â
You laugh, and then youâre kissing him, and itâs better than scoring any goal, better than anything heâs ever felt. You taste like mango and youâre smiling against his mouth and his hands are in your hair and-
You pull back, breathless. âWow.â
âYeah.â
âSo,â you say, still in his arms. âAbout that second date âŚâ
He grins. âI thought we had to see how the first one went?â
âIt went pretty well.â
âJust pretty well?â
You kiss him again, slower this time. âReally, really well.â
âTomorrow?â
âYou have a game tomorrow.â
âSunday, then.â
âPushy.â
âDetermined,â he corrects.
You laugh against his neck. âSunday. But only if you promise to actually focus on the game, not just stand around thinking about kissing me.â
âI can multitask.â
âMacklin.â
âFine, fine. Hockey first, kissing second.â
âGood boy.â
He groans. âDonât say that.â
âWhy not?â
âBecause it does things to me.â
You pull back, grinning wickedly. âGood boy?â
âYouâre evil.â
âAnd youâre nineteen and adorable and way too into me.â
âGuilty on all counts.â He kisses your forehead. âBut you like it.â
âUnfortunately,â you say, but youâre smiling. âI really do.â
***
Later, after heâs left (and texted you goodnight, and good morning, and a meme he thought youâd like), Macklin lies in bed staring at his ceiling.
Joe Thornton pokes his head in. âSo? Howâd it go?â
âShe kissed me.â
âI gathered, from the stupid grin you havenât stopped doing.â
âIâm going to marry her.â
âJesus Christ.â
âIâm serious.â
âYouâve been on one date.â
âBest date of my life,â Macklin says dreamily.
Joe heaves a heavy sigh. âYouâre hopeless.â
âHopelessly in love.â
âOh my god, Iâm leaving.â
But Macklin doesnât care. Heâs already planning Sundayâs date, already thinking about how to make you laugh, already counting down the hours until he sees you again.
He thinks about you saying he worked for this, that he needed to. And maybe you were right. Maybe thatâs why it feels so good now â because he earned it. Because you made him prove that he wasnât just some kid with a crush, but someone who could be patient and persistent and worth your time.
His phone buzzes. A text from you: Stop smiling at your ceiling and go to sleep. You have practice tomorrow.
He laughs out loud. How did you know?
Because Iâm doing the same thing.
His heart soars. He types back: Goodnight, Y/N. Thanks for saying yes.
Thanks for scoring a hat trick.
Thanks for wearing my jersey.
Goodnight, Macklin.
He falls asleep smiling, dreaming of Thai food and arguments about pizza and the way you look when you laugh.
Tomorrow, heâll go to practice. Heâll take the chirping from his teammates about being whipped. Heâll count down the hours until Sunday.
But tonight, heâs just a nineteen-year-old kid who worked his ass off for one date with the most amazing girl heâs ever met.
And it was worth every single rejection, every single no, every single moment of doubt.
Because in the end, he got his hat trick.
And he got the girl.
***
On Sunday, you wear his jersey again. And when he scores (just one goal this time, but itâs enough), he points up at Section 107.
Youâre already smiling.
After the game, he takes you for ice cream even though itâs December and not nearly warm enough. You get chocolate, he gets vanilla, and you share like youâve been doing this forever.
âSo,â you say, stealing his cone. âThree dates in one week. Thatâs pretty serious.â
âIs it?â
âFor a nineteen-year-old and a sophisticated twenty-three-year-old? Absolutely.â
He steals your cone back. âWhat about for just two people who really like each other?â
You soften. âThen I guess itâs just right.â
âYeah?â
âYeah.â You lean into him, and he wraps his arm around you, and it feels like the most natural thing in the world. âYou know whatâs funny?â
âWhat?â
âI knew you were going to get that hat trick.â You look up at him. âThe whole game, I kept thinking, âHeâs going to do it. Heâs actually going to do it.ââ
âAnd?â
âAnd I was terrified.â You laugh. âBecause I knew that if you did, Iâd have to admit I wanted you to. That Iâd been wanting to say yes for weeks. That maybe you werenât just some kid with a crush, but-â You break off.
âBut what?â
âBut someone I could actually fall for.â Your voice is quiet. âIf I let myself.â
He stops walking, turning to face you. âSo let yourself.â
âItâs not that simple.â
âWhy not?â
âBecause youâre nineteen, and Iâm twenty-three, and youâre an NHL player, and Iâm just-â
âYouâre not just anything.â He cups your face in his hands. âYouâre brilliant and beautiful and funny and kind. And yeah, Iâm nineteen. But I know what I want. And I want this. I want you.â
Your eyes are shining. âMacklin-â
âYou donât have to say it back. Not yet. Just-â He swallows. âJust donât count me out because of a number, okay? Give me a chance to prove Iâm not just some kid.â
Youâre quiet for a long moment. Then you smile, slow and sweet. âYou already have.â
And when you kiss him this time, right there on the sidewalk with ice cream melting in your hands and the December wind biting at your faces, he knows.
This is it. This is everything.
Four years, four months, four decades â it doesnât matter. When you know, you know.
And Macklin has never been more sure of anything in his life.
CHRIS WOKE UP WITH A BONER AFTER HAVING A WET DREAM ABOUT YOU...
warnings; smut, masturbation, handjob, getting caught, chris getting off next to reader?? idk
a/n; i woke up today with this exact scenario in my head so... i had to write it
chris had a wet dream. an intense one.
and usually, there would be no problem with this, but today he wasn't alone in his bed.
the two of you decided to have a sleepover like usual, nothing surprising, you were bestfriends. but for some reason he had a dream about you, and it made him toss and turn in his sleep, bucking his hips against the blanket, trying to find some kind of release. his hand was unconsciously stroking his erection through his pajama pants that he wasn't wearing anything under - he liked to let it hang loose. but in his dream it was your hand.
his dick was so painfully hard that it woke him up, the room hot and quiet, the only sound being his soft, ragged breaths as he squeezed his hardness through the thin fabric. he was clearly overwhelmed with sleepy lust, his eyes were closed tightly as he keeps replaying the dream in his mind, the way your tits bounced as you rode him, or how your hand was jerking him off, making him feel so good.
chris lets out a quiet groan, pulling his pajamas down, freeing his hard length, the tip glistening with pre-cum. his breathing hitched slightly as his hand wraps around his cock, moving slowly, his sleepiness making him whiny and needy.
until he feels something shift beside him.
his eyes flutter open, a frown appears between his eyebrows and that's when he sees you. asleep next to him. you were laying on your stomach, cheek pressed against the pillow, your face turned away from him, hair tousled spilling across the pillow in a tangled mess. then chris's eyes move down, your tank top rolling up, letting him see a bit of the skin on your back, but something else caught his attention.
the blanket was drawn up to your knees so almost all of your body was exposed. your hips slightly raised, one leg thrown over the blanket, the shorts you were wearing leaving little to the imagination.
chris almost drooled all over himself. his hand freezes mid stroke, realizing that his best friend was just right next to him. thank god you were sleeping. he would be so embarrassed if you saw or heard him.
and he was about to stop, wanting to go to the bathroom just like any person would. but he couldn't take his eyes away from your ass.
how perfect it looked, how it was slightly up in those tiny shorts, making him lose all sense of boundaries. his gaze intensified as he stared at your lower half. he slowly shifts his hips, trying desperately to find a more comfortable position without disturbing you. inside, he's wrestling with his own confusion and guilt over his inappropriate attraction, but he was so sleepy and so fucking needy.
biting down on his bottom lip, his hand starts moving under the covers again, the faint sound of his skin sliding against his own growing louder as he picks up the pace.
if he's quick then you'll never know.
despite knowing it was wrong, he couldn't stop himself, his arousal and tiredness made him careless.
another whimper leaves him as he tries to stifle it in the pillow, his cheeks growing hotter, finding this situation strange but also incredibly hot. the sight of your ass makes him think back to his dream where he would pound into you from behind, grabbing your butt or slapping it, leaving red marks on your skin.
chris's movements immediately became more urgent, his breaths coming in short gasps. his hips lifting off the bed as he starts thrusting into his hand, imagining that it was you who he was fucking right now. the wet sounds echoing in the silent room, another muffled groan leaving chris as his teeth sink into his lip to keep the sound quiet. he was so close he could feel it, his legs spreading, giving his hand more room. he just needed to finish and wanted to go back to sleep, it was too early to be up.
but then he hears your voice.
"chris, what the fuck?"
his whole body tenses, his hand freezes as he moves his eyes up to see your confused face. you were clearly awake, propping yourself up on your elbows, a frown between your eyebrows. you've been awake for a while, him constantly shifting woke you up, and while you tried to sleep again, you didn't have the chance because of his quiet whimpers, and the obvious movements under the covers. so you were... listening. until you couldn't take it anymore.
his heart almost leaping out of his chest, his face turning a deep shade of red as he realized he's been caught.
"fuck-" chris's wide eyes full of guilt and embarrassment, he quickly tries to compose himself, pulling his hand out from under the covers as nonchalantly as possible, but he could feel the evidence of what he was doing still wet on his fingers. "i wasn't.... i...i was just... just adjusting..."he stumbles over his lie, seeing by the look on your face that there was no point in denying what you clearly saw and heard him doing.
he shifts uncomfortably, still painfully hard, his cock brushing against the covers almost making him moan. "shit, m'so fuckin' sorry, i just.... i wasn't thinkin' straight, i had a dream- i mean, i thought you were asleep and..."
but he's immediately silenced by your voice, the tiredness clearly making you more bold as well. "i wasnt sleeping," you admit, looking down at his covered by the blanket lap, and then back up. "did you, uh... finish?"
chris almost choked on his own saliva.
his heart raced, mind reeling as he stares at you with wide eyes, completely surprised that you asked him that. he expected you to be grossed out, or think that he's a perv, not asking him if he came. the curiosity was written all over your sleepy expression, his dick twitching after your question.
he shakes his head, not daring to use his voice, too scared that it will betray how much more you just turned him on.
chris can see the wheels turning in your head as you shift onto your side, still propping yourself up on your elbow. your tits perfectly squeezed together now, catching his attention, and he almost comes right there and then when he notices your hard nipples through the thin tank top you were wearing.
your voice completely unsure, but still managing to put a lot of dirty thoughts into chris's mind as you ask, "do you.... wanna?"
his breath caught in his throat, eyes widening at your question once again. you were asking... or maybe even offering something to him...?
seeing you so vulnerable and sleepy made him bolder than usual. he swallowed hard, his composure fraying, "yeah."
his eyes were locked on your face, seeing its just as red as his, the way you were nervously chewing on your bottom lip makes him wonder what is going on in that pretty head of yours.
neither of you could logically think now, both too worked up to do so. he watched your hand twitch, almost wanting to touch him but hesitating. he thought that maybe you were too shy to do it, when really, you were too scared to make the first move, knowing it's your bestfriend.
but chris was so hard, his mind whirling. he knew you were touchy-feely when you were sleepy, usually seeking any physical contact when you were staying over but never like this. and you gave him that lookâ your doe eyes making his cock throb. and he just had to take the decision out of your hands. he couldn't handle the unspoken request and his own need anymore. so he grabbed your hand and guided it down under the covers, wrapping your fingers around his erection. "like this," he murmured sleepily.
both of you breathing heavily as you squeezed him, his hips jerking involuntarily. you keep biting your bottom lip, pulling the covers off him so you could see him and holy shit.
"you're so big-" it slips out of your mouth before you can think, your cheeks immediately growing hotter as you keep your eyes locked on his cock, brushing your thumb against his tip and spreading his precum over his length.
a low groan escaped him after hearing your words, sleep and lust making his body super sensitive to your touch. "yeah?" a small smirk appeared on his face, seeing the way you look at him and start to grow more confident in your movements.
it was like his wet dream coming true.
his body tensing up while you're moving your hand on his cock, the slow strokes making him crazy. his hand gripping the sheets as he lets out another low, needy groan, the sight of your hand wrapped around him was almost too much.
"what did you dream about?" he almost misses your question, too lost in the pleasure you're giving him already.
"uh..." his hips began to move in sync with your strokes, unable to stay still. "...you-" he admits, sucking in a sharp breath, the precum beading at his tip as your thumb keep brushing against it.
"me?"
your eyes met his, the intensity of your gaze makes his dick twitch in your hand. he nods, reaching down to cover your hand with his own, guiding you to squeeze him tighter and move faster. "yeah, you... i, uh...dreamed 'bout you doin' this and then-" he cuts himself off when you immediately pick up your pace just like he wanted, changing your angle a bit as well, your other hand playing with his balls. "fucking shit-" he groaned, head falling back against the pillow.
"is this good?"
he wanted to laugh at your question, 'cause it was pretty clear to see. "yeah," he managed to choke out, his voice rough with desire. "so fuckin' good..."
his hair sticking to his forehead, brows knitted together as you keep jerking him off, him also fucking your hand which makes his balls tighten with each stroke, the pleasure starting to be overwhelming. he could feel your eyes being locked on his face more than his cock, and it somehow felt even more intimate. "holy shit, keep goin'-"
"what else were you dreaming about?" you ask, and chris wants nothing else than to show you.
"you were on top of me...ridin' me-" his chest was falling and rising rapidly. "and then i wasâ fuccckkâ takin' you from behindâ"
as he fucked into your hand and talked about his dream, seeing you listening and squeezing your thighs together, chris felt his release approaching fast. his breathing was ragged as he tried to hold back, but the way you reacted to his movements, the way your body tensed, was too much. "fuck, gonna come-"
you don't even have the chance to respond as he moans, finally letting go. his hot sticky cum spills out of his tip onto your hand and his shirtless stomach as he continues thrusting into your palm. his entire body shook with the force of his orgasm, his head thrown back and eyes closed, but he's totally aware of your gaze on him, and it makes all of this even more intense.
but you don't stop. he came, but your hand was still moving. your gaze falls on your painted with his release hand, and you have an urge to taste it.
so you do.
quickly enough you end up gripping his sheets for dear life, and moaning his name while he's deep inside you, turning his wet dream into reality.
Pairing: Eddie Munson x reader x Steve Harrington Wc: 10.3k
Description: Eddie accidentally walks in on Steve fucking you in a WSQK storage closet. He thinks heâs doomed to a life of fantasizing over you with the only company of his right hand, untilâŚSteve himself offers him a golden ticket straight to your bed: a threesome.
Inspired on the song âI think he knowsâ by Taylor Swift <3
Warnings/tags: threesome smut, all are adults, fem!reader, established relationship with S5!Steve, no spoilers, Eddie survives S4 bc I say so, mentions of his scars, voyeurism, eddie fantasizes a lot, he jerks off a lot more, porn with plot, dry humping, oral male rec, fingering, piv sex, reverse cowgirl, both men are whipped for you.
Note: Surprise, new boy in the harem⨠No I donât know how this happened, or how it ended up being so long but all I can say is merry early christmas my dears, enjoy the filth!! đŤŚ
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heâs so obsessed with me and boy I understand
Eddie Munson had never hated the sun before.
Not until he saw it in your smile.
You were standing in front of him at the crawl meeting, giggling at something Robin had said, soft and golden in the way that only you could be, wearing Steveâs stupid jacket that by this point was pretty much your own.Â
Because he was.Â
Steve Harrington, Mr. Perfect Hair himself, asshole turned part time hero, was the guy who got to hold your hand in public. Eddie didnât hate him. Not really. He wanted to, wanted it bad sometimes, when the jealousy itched too deep to scratch.Â
Heâd hated him at some point, when Dustin wouldn't shut up about how incredible his friend was. But alas, after everything theyâd been through last year and Steve being the one who got him out of that hellhole, he really couldnât hate him anymore.Â
So, he hated the sun. Because he couldn't have it.
Eddie also hated himself for not speaking up sooner. For watching you fall in love with someone else while he sat in the background. And maybe that was his punishment. Maybe that was the price for every time he chickened out, every time he saw you in the hallway in that little cherry red jacket and panicked, ducking behind his locker like a coward.
Maybe if he hadnât been, you would be wearing his jacket now.Â
âDude, wipe your face. Youâre one drool away from filling the bucket,â came a voice from beside him, and undoubtedly by the toneâit had to be Hendersonâs.Â
Eddie snapped out of his trance by the sharp nudge of Dustinâs elbow. Shit. He hadnât even realized he was watching.Â
âIâm not,â he lied, even as he tilted his head just enough to catch another glimpse of you, this time laughing as Steve tried to sneak a kiss and Robin dramatically fake gagged next to you.
Jesus, Eddie was about to gag for real.Â
âYouâre staring again,â Dustin chuckled, walking away after patting him condescendingly on the back.Â
Eddie shot him a glare but didnât argue back. Because what was the point?Â
All he could do was fantasize when it came to you. You would never look at him the same way you look at Steve.Â
You just looked at him like he was funny. Your metalhead friend. And Eddie? Eddie looked at you like you hung the goddamn stars.
Things were finally looking up for Eddie. For once.Â
Aside from his not so little crush situation, everything else seemed to be getting better.Â
After almost dying being devoured by supernatural creaturesâwhich, in his opinion wouldâve been a very metal deathâhis uncleâs trailer had gotten split in half, and heâd gotten piles and piles of medical bills from his long recovery. Which led to him having to find a part time job as a mechanic besides his little dealing business.Â
Oh! And how could he forget? The police department was still investigating him about the murders from last year.Â
Between that, his job, the incessant crawls every week, and his therapyâboth physical and psychologicalâhe had absolutely no time to host hellfire anymore. Dustin had tried to keep it alive, but bless his soul, no one compares to Eddie Munson when it comes to being DM.Â
But last week, by some miracle, heâd finally, finally been cleared as âinnocentâ due to lack of evidence and was able to start living a normal life again. His therapy sessions had been reduced to once every two weeks, and heâd also repaired a few fancy cars that earned him a pretty juicy commission.Â
So yeah. Things were finally looking up for him after whatever the hell â86 was.Â
So, with a pep in his step, he walked through the doors of the WSQK headquarters holding a cardboard box with all his stuff for that dayâs campaign. Robin had told him they had a spare room on the back, and Steve said he could go earlier to set everything up. He even whistled as he strolled through the empty hallways of the radio station.
He saw two doors at the end, figuring heâd open both and find out which one he was supposed to settle in.Â
But as all Munsons tend to run out of luck at some point, it seems like the curse finally hit him again when he opened the wrong one and changed the course of his entire fucking life.Â
Because what he didnât expect, what absolutely no one warned him about, was that you and Steve liked to use the storage closet to fuck like bunnies before anyone arrived at the station.Â
He froze at the door, the box in his hand hanging on for dear life as he took in the scene in front of him.Â
There you were.Â
Propped up on a stack of cardboard boxes with Steve between your legs, your skirt was bunched around your hips, and your knees high on his waist. Your face was flushed, hair a mess and you were letting out choked little gasps because you couldnât form words anymore.
Eddieâs heart stopped. He mightâve as well died for real this time.Â
You let out a startled sound, grabbing Steveâs shoulders to hide yourself the second you saw Eddie standing there. Steve just glanced back over his shoulder, not even bothering to stop.Â
âDude. Do you mind?âÂ
Eddie slammed the door shut.
He walked out of WSQK like heâd seen a ghost. Didnât even say a word to Dustin, who was just pulling up on his bike.Â
He just got in his van, and drove straight into the woods far enough to be alone. And for the next ten minutes, the only sound in that van was the furious pumping of his hard cock into his hand and his broken, desperate moans repeating something.
Your name. Again. And again.
And again.
Then, after going back and giving a poor excuse to his boys as to why he couldnât host that day and had to leave immediately (one that actually meant sorry guys! Gotta jerk off like 10 more times!) He went to repeat the same routine back at the small place Wayne managed to rent after the âearthquakesâ had destroyed his trailer.Â
He turned off the lights of the room he called his now. Lit a blunt just for something to do with his free hand. Threw on a loud tape to drown out the grunts and the pathetic moaning, and his fist went to townâagainâto the memory of you.
The way you looked in that closet.
The arch of your back against the boxes. The sound of your voice breaking as you moaned his nameânot Eddieâs, no, the one you belonged to. Steve. The way your fingers dug into his shoulders, pulling him closer, as if he wasnât deep enough. And your faceâŚ
God. Your fucking face.
Blissed out and flushed, swollen lips parted, eyes half-lidded and completely lost in it. No cheap porn film heâd ever watched compared to that. Noâyou were the most obscene thing Eddie had ever seen in his life and it was burned into him now. Engraved into the insides of his lids. No amount of blinking could unsee it.Â
No amount of jerking off could erase it.Â
(He tried. Many times.)
People had sex all the time. This shouldnât be on his head 24/7. ButâŚEddie couldnât believe that was you.Â
Heâd always seen you as soft. As the sweet girl giggling at Steveâs dumb jokes while playing with his stupid perfect hair. As the one who would mediate when a crawl meeting got too heated when someone didnât agree with the plan. As the one who always listened to everyoneâŚeven him.Â
You even called him Eds once, so softly, that heâd walked around with chest pain for a full day like a goddamn lovesick teenager.Â
But now?
Now he couldnât stop imagining how your voice sounded when it wasn't innocent. Couldnât stop remembering how your legs looked parted open, how your thighs shook as Steve thrusted harshly into you.Â
He shouldâve known better though, that was on him. He shouldâve known that someone who once held the title of âKing Steveâ would be the one to corrupt a girl like you.Â
Who wouldnât want to?Â
He couldnât stop wondering what itâd feel like to be the one between your legs. To have you whimpering like that. To see you fall apart and know he did that. That he got you that high, that far goneâŚthat wrecked.
He was fucking haunted by the fantasy. And it wasnât lust, it was worse than that. It was curiosity, obsession, need.
The need to be the one who fucks the sweetness out of you.Â
But now you were probably curled up in Steveâs bed, fast asleep on his hairy chest, wearing one of his shirts and dreaming about getting fucked by him, while Eddie dreamt of you after he didnât have anything left to milk out.
He dreamt of your hand in his curls. Your thighs around his waist. Your voice in his ear breaking with his name over and over andâŚover.Â
Eddie tried to be normal after that. God, he tried.Â
At least you seemed to be normal. You walked into Thursday movie night at Nancyâs like nothing had happened, dropping onto the couch next to Steve with a bag of popcorn, listening to whatever Robin said, still sweet and smiley and wearing one of Steveâs jackets.Â
He told himself not to stare. Repeated it like a goddamn mantra.
Donât look, Munson. Donât fucking look. Youâll just embarrass yourself. Youâll make it weird.Â
But then your eyes met, and you smiled at him, andâŚEddie forgot his own name.
His mouth opened, but no words came out. Just a squeak that couldâve been the start of a sentence, or a heart attack. He pretended to cough into his fist and buried himself deeper into the armchair.Â
And Steve? Oh he noticed.Â
Not just Eddieâs reaction, but all of it. The way Eddieâs eyes had locked onto you from the moment you walked in. The way they dropped lower every time you shifted. The way his fingers gripped the armrest.Â
And the weird part? Steve didnât get mad. He just smirked, knowingly, even amused by the whole thing.Â
The next time something altered Eddieâs brain chemistry, was at the diner.Â
Heâd arrived late, mainly because he wasnât even sure if he wanted to go in the first place, but the thought of seeing your smile was enough to convince him to walk through that door, and soon it was just him, Robin, and the perfect couple.Â
Eddie looked at you from across the booth, wearing an outfit that he was sure would ruin his life later when he was alone back in his room. You were sipping from your milkshake, the pink straw pressed between your lips, as you let out a hum of contempt at the sweet taste. All Eddie could think was that could be something else.
Thank God for Robinâs need to ramble about everything that happened on her date with Vicky that weekend, that you and Steve were focused on her and not on Eddieâs anxious leg bouncing under the table.Â
Or at least thatâs what he thought.Â
âEds, take some fries,â you offered sweetly when Robin ran out of air, pushing the plate youâd been eating from with Steve toward him.Â
Eddie hadnât ordered anything, he wasnât hungryâat least not for actual foodâand of course youâd noticed and offered him some of your own.Â
âYeah man, go ahead,â Steve chimed in with a smile that was enough to freak him out. âI donât mind sharing,â he added with a shrug, placing an arm around your shoulders, hazel eyes piercing into Eddieâs with a devilish glint.Â
The implication left Eddie frozen in place, hand hovering over the fries as you began talking with Robin again, unaware of the way your boyfriendâs comment had left Eddie stunned.Â
Steve didnât say anything else. Just kept looking at him, head tilted, like he knew something. Like he felt it now.Â
The shift.Â
Eddie almost got up and left, but then he caught Steveâs eyes, and the bastard just winked.
Jesus Christ.Â
Youâre still breathless when Steve flips you onto your back again, mind stuck somewhere between heaven and passing out as your sore body still feels every inch of him buried deep inside you.Â
He drapes you across his chest knowing you canât hold yourself up anymore, bare skin sticky with sweat, your cheek pressed over his heartbeat. Steve's hand goes to your thigh, fingers brushing softly where heâd held you down minutes ago.Â
You donât want to move. You never want to after heâs done with you. So you just cling tightly to him, letting out a dreamy sigh and nuzzling closer, planting a soft kiss over his racing heart.
Steve smiles, shifting just enough to see your blissed out face. âYou okay over there?â
âMmhm,â you hum. âCanât feel my soul. Congratulations, Harrington.â
That makes him chuckle. He kisses the top of your head. âAnytime, baby.âÂ
As his room settles into silence and you begin drifting off in his arms before he can drag you into taking a shower, Steveâs chest vibrates against your skin when he speaks again.Â
âHey,â he whispers, absentmindedly playing with your hair which doesnât help your heavy eyelids closing.Â
âHmm?âÂ
âDo you ever notice the way Eddie looks at you?â
Your eyes blink open immediately.Â
You donât say anything at first. Just start tracing lazy little circles on a particular scar on his ribs, pretending to think about it, but you already know the answer.Â
âYeah,â you smile, âIâve noticed.â
Steve hums, hand still resting on your thigh.
âItâs probably just a silly little crush,â you add, as if you didnât know how Eddieâs voice breaks every time you spare a glance at him. Or the way his hands shake when you ask him to hand you a drink on movie night. âHeâs just⌠traumatized from the time he caught us back at the station,â you chuckle.Â
âOh, baby. You shouldâve seen his face in that closet.â Steve snorts. âYou were extra loud that day, you really put on a show for himâthe lucky bastard.âÂ
âWhat?â You ask, straightening up on his chest. âYou knew he was going to get there earlier?â
âI was hoping he got there earlier."
You smack his arm with your mouth wide open, but a smile tugs at your lips. He grins like the bastard he is, shifting to ease you again into his embrace.Â
âDonât worry baby, I might have a way to fix him right back up,â he says smugly, those impossible hazel eyes glinting with mischief. ââŚRemember that talk we had a while back? Couple months ago. About maybeâŚbringing in a third?â
Your heart thumps so fast against your chest that youâre sure Steve can feel it on his.Â
ââŚYeah,â you say. âI remember.â
âWhat ifâŚit was him?â He shrugs, like heâs discussing what movie to watch. âIâm just saying, weâve both noticed. And maybeâŚâ His hand drifts lower down your thigh, finding that place where youâre still sensitive. âMaybe itâs fun to imagine what heâd do if we invited him.â
His fingers press against your wet folds, easily sliding in and drawing a gasp out of you. His eyebrows shoot up, like heâd managed exactly what he wanted.Â
âSee? Don't you want to show him again how pretty you sound?â
Maybe itâs the overstimulation of Steve fingers pumping in and out of your pussy like he hadnât absolutely wrecked it minutes prior, that the word comes out of your mouth before you can stop it.Â
âYes,â you exhale in a shaky moan.Â
The thought alone thrills you. Because the truth is, youâve been feeling it as much as Steve has. You've been wanting it as much as Steve has.Â
The forbidden.Â
Because it is fun to imagine. You guiding Eddieâs hand. Steve watching and telling you what to do. You crying out between the two of them.
God.Â
âSoâŚEddie?â You pant, unsure if youâre asking or you're moaning out his name just to try it out on your lips.Â
Steve just smirks.Â
âYeah,â he says, pumping faster. âEddie.â
The moment that sealed Eddieâs fate was a random Thursday.Â
He shouldâve known better.Â
The second you said movie night was at your place, he shouldâve backed out. Shouldâve faked a headache or a gig or even a freak accident involving his uncle.
Anything.
Butâlike the fucking idiot he wasâheâd walked right through your front door that night.Â
Youâd picked a shitty movie on purpose. Something slow without any action scenes, full of long silences and artistic shots that made Robin snore into the couch cushion, with Nancy and Jonathan falling right behind.Â
Steve sat beside you the whole time, like always, hand on your thigh, like always. Looking casual, almost innocent.
Eddie was on the floor, sitting too close to the TV just so he wouldnât look at you.Â
Heâd been too busy picking at the skin of his thumb and lost into the mazes of his head, that he didnât notice youâd disappeared with Steve until he glanced over to the couches and only found the girls and Jonathan dead to the world.Â
He sat there for a few more minutes pretending to care about the stupid movie, but thenâlike a fucking idiot, againâhe decided to get up, quietly leaving the room like he was going to the kitchen.
He took a hard left to the stairs instead.Â
Eddie knew where your bedroom was. Heâd been there before when youâd asked him to bring more blankets on movie night a few months ago. He still remembers the cute little nightlight plugged into the wall.Â
As he tiptoed to the top of the stairs like a freak, the hall was dark, but a sliver of light came out of your room through the slightly open door.Â
Eddie dragged his feet on the carpet, guided by shushing voices and a noise of what he was sure was the creak of a bed. Once he reached, he braced himself for the scene he was about to encounter as he peeked through the door, but no amount of breathing techniques could have ever prepared him for the image before his eyes.Â
Oh, fuck.
You were on your stomach, face pressed into the mattress, Steve standing behind you with both hands gripping your hips. Your assâgod, your assâlifted high to meet every thrust.Â
Your skirt was bunched around your waist, panties pushed to the side, but nothing really hid you from the pervert on the door. Not even Steveâs body blocked the view of him disappearing into your dripping pussy, filling you so deep Eddie could see it, see the way your walls opened for him.Â
The nightlight glowed behind you, casting just enough light to make it worse.Â
Pink and soft and obscene.
Eddieâs eyes went over the curve of your spine. The shake of your thighs. Your fingers twisting in the floral sheets, holding on for dear life as your body kept being pushed forward.Â
And the sounds. Jesus Christ, the sounds.
âSteve,â you gasped, âpleaseâmoreâdonât stop.â
âShhh baby, I know,â Steve cooed behind you, doing the exact opposite of what you asked and stopped. âBut you gotta keep it down, donât want to wake up your guests do you?âÂ
The fucking hypocrite then slammed back into you so hard the headboard bumped the wall. You moanedâno, cried out, trying to muffle it against the sheets as Eddie bit down his fist just to keep himself from making a sound.Â
âOh baby, you wanna be loud?â Steve chuckled, as he kept thrusting hard. âGo on then, I want to hear you.âÂ
âIâfuckâI love your cock, Steveâ you choked the words out. ââSâsâ so deep.â
Eddie froze at the crack of the door, heart pounding out of his chest as he watched you getting fucked within an inch of your life.Â
The sweet girl. The sun. The angel he thought he knew. Gripping her sheets like a sinner. Moaning filth like she wanted the guests to hear.
Maybe you wanted him to hear.Â
Eddieâs hand slipped inside his jeans, he couldn't stop himself. Not after that. He stroked himself fast and hard and desperate, watching your body take it, and your mouth beg for it.Â
It didnât take long for Eddie to come harder than heâd ever had in his life. He made a mess in his hand, his pants, and he was sure some of his cum dripped onto the carpet below, but he was too high and too far gone to care.Â
He nearly collapsed against the stairs wall as he rushed back down, panting, already half hard again within seconds.Â
The movie was still rolling, the guys were still fast asleep, but he had been changed foreverâonce again.Â
Seriously, who the hell leaves the door open? Or unlocked? For two people who seemed to fuck like bunnies none of it made sense.Â
UnlessâŚyouâd wanted him to watch.Â
Eddie was in the middle of jerking off when someone started pounding on his front door.Â
Of course.
Heâd found his rhythm, music blasting, hips grinding into his palm, eyes squeezed shut and in his head, his filthy, freaky little head, you kept running your dirty mouth over and over.Â
Heâd been at it for twenty minutes. Maybe more. His dick was red and raw but he didnât care because the only thing worse than jerking off to the memory of you was not jerking off to it.
Bang, bang, bang.
âJesusâfuck,â he curses, pulling up his briefs with a groan, finding a pair of jeans from the floor as the knocking continues.
âEDDIE!!â A familiar voice calls over the music.Â
Oh no.Â
Eddie walks out of his room shirtless, crosses the hall in dragged strides, and opens the door wide enough to peek out, and yeah, there he is.
Steve fucking Harrington.
The absolute last person on earth he wanted to catch him red handed with his dick in his hand fantasizing about his girlfriend.
âHey, man,â Eddie manages, clearing his throat when his voice cracks a little. âUhâŚwhatâs up?âÂ
âHey!â Steve beams, that preppy boy smile spreading wide on his face. âMind if I come in?â
Eddie hesitates only for a second, then opens the door wider and steps back. Steve walks in, glances around, his gaze landing on Eddieâs bedroom. More specifically, on the bottle of lotion on his nightstand and the constellation of crumpled paper tissues on the floor next to his bed.Â
Steve chuckles. âSorry man, didnât mean to interrupt.âÂ
âWhâwhat?â
âYou know. That thing you were doing.â Steve smirks, nodding his head toward the room. âThinking about my girl?â
Eddieâs whole face goes red. âDude, what the fuckââ
âYou like her,â Steve says plainly, not as a question, not mad, not teasing. Just a matter of fact. âI know youâve always liked her. But now youâve seen her like I have. And now you canât stop thinking about her.â
Eddie stands frozen in the middle of the living room, unsure of what heâs supposed to say to save his case. Although, given the evidence, there isnât much to hope for.Â
âIs this the part where you punch me?â Eddie asks, almost bracing for the impact.Â
But Steve just laughs in his face.Â
âNo, man. No punches.â He shakes his head, amused. âYou knowâŚshe likes it when you stare.â
You like it when he stares? You know he stares?Â
âAlright Harrington, if you wanna hit me, just do it. Donât fuck with me.â Eddie chuckles bitterly, already wishing he could just go back to his little twisted fantasies instead of hearing this bullshit.Â
âDonât you get what Iâm saying Eddie?â
Eddie narrows his eyes. âNoâŚ?â
Steve sighs, then steps closer to him, placing a hand on his shoulder. âIâm sayingâŚshe wants you to fuck her.â
Thereâs a moment of deafening silence where Eddie questions if he actually speaks the English language, because thereâs no fucking way in the world he heard that right.Â
â...What??âÂ
âShe does,â Steve repeats, then chuckles again, âHell, even I want you to fuck her.â
âYouâre not being serious,â Eddie accuses, backing off from Steveâs grasp to pace in circles with his hands on his hips.Â
âFucking hell man,â Steve groans. âLookâIâve seen the way you look at her. And I get it, okay? Sheâs a dream, I know.â He laughs, but Eddie keeps pacing like a madman, shaking his head. âDudeâyou ever wonder what she tastes like when sheâs already come twice?â
That makes him stop right in his tracks. He turns to Steve in disbelief, but once again he doesnât see anger, or teasing. Heâs genuinely asking him if he fantasizes about his girlfriend.Â
âMan, I wonder about everything,â Eddie finally blurts out, exhaling like he just lifted a weight off his chest thatâs been dragging him down for weeks.Â
Steve grins.Â
âI wouldnât offer you this if I didnât trust you with her.âÂ
He walks closer to Eddieâagainâbut this time he doesnât place his hand on his shoulder, just looks at him dead in the eye as his grin turns darker.Â
âYouâd be gentle with her, wouldnât you, Eddie?â He asks, pupils taking over the hazel of his eyes. âYou wouldnât fuck her too hard the first time, right? Sheâs too sensitive afterâand trust me, youâre gonna want her to keep going.â
Eddie is speechless for the 124378th time in that month. Which should be an achievement, considering he likes to talk as much as Robin does.Â
âIâm not gonna say it twice, Munson.â Steve lifts a hand to clap him on the shoulder. âBut she really wants it. So are you in?â
Eddie doesnât even think anymore. He just nods frantically.Â
Oh, heâs so in.
Oh, heâs so having a full blown existential crisis.Â
He hadnât slept the night before. Who could sleep after that conversation? Steve, poster boy for everything Eddie is not, just casually walked into his place, dropping that line like it was no big deal:Â
She wants you to fuck her.
Which is how he ended up now, standing outside your goddamn house, sweating through his jacket and wondering if heâd actually never woken up from the demobats attack and this was all a coma dream.Â
Because now you apparently wanted him.
In your house. In your bed.
On those stupidly adorable floral sheets he couldnât stop thinking about. Thatâs what he came thinking about. Thatâs what he dreamed about every night.Â
Steveâd said to just âroll by tonight.â Well, tonight is here, and Eddie stands outside the door contemplating his options.Â
Does he knock? Does he just open it and walk into a fucking orgy?
Jesus.Â
He adjusts his jacket, runs a hand through his curly hair, and tells himself itâs going to be fine. Heâs already been through things someone his age should never have to in their entire lifetime. Strange things. He can handle a little threesome.
Right?
He rings the doorbell before he chickens out like heâs done his whole life.Â
Eddie hears footsteps approaching the front door. He expects you, for some reason, but instead itâs Steve who opens it, shirtless, barefoot, only wearing some sweatpants, and smiling bright as if heâd just invited Eddie over to watch some sports game.
âHey, dude! Glad you made it,â he beams, stepping aside.
Eddie walks through the threshold, and stops in the middle of the entrance hall pressing his lips tight.Â
âYou want water or something?â Steve offers casually, noticing Eddieâs looking around nervously. âSheâs upstairs. All ready.â
âSheâs what?â
âAll ready,â Steve repeats with a grin. âYou know, for you.â
Steve laughs at Eddieâs loss for words, claps him reassuringly on the back, and gestures toward the stairs.
 âCome on, man. Donât leave her waiting.â
He walks up the stairs with Steve trailing behind. Eddieâs already hard under his ripped jeans, stopping right outside your door thinking what on earth does ready for me mean?
Are you naked? Are you touching yourself? Do you know how hard he is? Can you feel him on the other side of the door?
He can even see the damn nightlight is on behind it. His hand hovers over the doorknob, but for one second, the doubt comes crawling back in.
What if this is a joke? What if he opens the door and all your friends are inside pointing at him and laughing like âLook who actually believed it! Youâre a pervert, Eddie!â
Wouldnât be the first time someone pulls a cruel prank on himâor calls him that. Wouldnât even be the worst. Butâ
âYou gonna open it, Eddie? Or are you too scared of my girl?â Steveâs teasing voice cuts off his spiraling thoughts.Â
Eddie takes a deep breath, finally twists the knob, and he swears time slows down when he sees you there.Â
Youâre sittingâno, half kneeling on the bed in the center of the room. Those floral sheets are bunched under your knees. And youâre wearing a little dainty lace set. The fabric is barely there, but the little bows on the straps make it sweet enough for Eddieâs mouth to go dry. Your exposed skin looks soft under the warm pink glow the nightlight casts against the walls.Â
Youâre all ready for him.Â
Eddie nearly fucking dies. Again.Â
You smile when you see him. Itâs soft and warm and welcoming, like always. Exceptânearly naked. Not like he hadnât seen your guts getting rearranged about two times too much these past weeks anyways.Â
âHi, Eds,â you say, waving your hand as if you arenât currently rewiring his entire nervous system.
He stands frozen in the doorway as Steve brushes past him, casual as hell. He walks straight up to you, bends down just enough to pet your chin with two fingers, making you laugh softly.Â
âHi again, baby,â Steve whispers sweetly. âLetâs give him a warm welcome, hm?â
You hum in agreement, watching Steve walk away and drop onto the puff in the corner of the room, manspreading like a king waiting for his entertainment to start.Â
But EddieâŚEddieâs still standing by the door like đ§đť
âSo uhâŚwhatâwhat are the rules?â He stammers. âOr, like boundaries? Orâfuck, I donât know, a safe word?â
He means it for him, of course.Â
You cover your mouth to stifle a laugh. âOh my god. Eddie, you're adorable.â
Steve is not as delicate as you, âDude,â he snorts. âYou canât be serious. Relax. No one's handing out instructions.âÂ
Eddie shifts anxiously on his feet. âIâthere should be instructions.â
When the hell has ever cared about those?Â
âYouâre here to make her feel good, thatâs it.â Steve says quite harshly, crossing his arms over his chest, then looks at you and everything in him softens. âYou decide how far he goes, baby.âÂ
You melt. Right there on the bed. Blow him a kiss and then turn your full attention to the very shy boy at your doorstep.Â
âItâs okay, Eddie. Can you come closer?â You ask, extending your arm and gesturing toward the bed.Â
Eddie gives one step, thatâs all he manages.
You smile wider, just enough to coax him. âCloser, Eddie. Please.â
Fuck.
He takes another step, then another, until heâs right by the edge of the bed, so close he can see the pattern of the fine lace of your lingerie, the way your chest rises when you breathe, the way youâre giving him the most deadly case of bedroom eyes heâs ever seen in his entire life.Â
You donât look shy, or unsure, you lookâŚeager.Â
Before he can overthink it, you slide off the bed to round him, and gently push his chest to sit down. Eddie falls easily, his body already knowing itâs not in charge anymore. The mattress dips under his weight, bouncing softly along with the curls in his head.Â
âKick those shoes off,â you say.Â
He obeys. Ohâhe obeys. A little clumsily, but theyâre off in less than three seconds.
Only then you climb onto his lap. Eddieâs breath comes out in a shaky exhale when your ass lands on his thighs. His hands hover uselessly at his sides. He doesnât touch you, doesnât really dare yet. He doesnât even know where to look. His eyes dart from your shoulder to the wall to Steve, who has now thrown his arms behind his head like heâs watching his favorite movie.
âWell, donât mind me,â he says. âJust enjoying the show.â
You cradle Eddieâs face to get his attention back to you. All he can think is your hands are warm, and too soft for his own good. Your thumbs brush his cheeks in such a normal, easy way, that still feels deeply intimate.Â
âPretty boy,â you whisper, smiling at him. âSuch pretty eyes.â
Eddieâs heart does an entire somersault routine. He can feel the little feet of the people inside his head running around to process the compliment.Â
Weâre starting already???
He doesnât even finish that line of thought when you lean in and kiss him. The kiss is slow and unrushed, but so so passionate. Your soft lips move against his, showing him you know exactly what youâre doing. Eddie melts into it instantly. He kisses you back desperately, starving, because heâd been feeling withdrawal for something he never had, and nowâholy shit now heâs finally getting his fix.
Still, he doesnât touch. Not until you take his wrists and guide them yourself, first on your waist, but then trailing down, lower, to where the lace sits and barely covers anything. His hands pinch your skin when he realizes what heâs touching.Â
You.
âOh,â he breathes in to the kiss, and had you known Eddie let out those pretty little sounds, you'd have brought him in sooner.Â
You smile against his mouth and roll your hips, just a little, just to get more out. Grabbing him by the collar of his jacket, you grind down on him. Slow at first, just gentle little moves that made Eddieâs head tip back, and a symphony of broken sounds left his throat. Every grind of your body made his cock throb harder against his jeans. His eyes went between your chest, your mouth and the way your lashes fluttered when you finally found the spot.Â
âJesusâfuck yes, use me angel.âÂ
He didnât even realize heâd said it out loud until you let out a little whimper at the pet name, and picked up the pace.Â
You are used to terms of endearment from Steve, heâs the sweetest with you, but never in the years of your relationship has he ever called you something so divine as angel. Â
Alas, your boyfriend still knows you better than anyone. You keep moving on top of Eddie, and even though his hard cock under the jeans is already making you see stars, thereâs somethingâŚmissing. By this point Steveâs fingers would already be deep inside you without even having to ask.Â
Across the room, he watches your frantic moves and hears your moans getting needier. Eddie doesn't notice at first, but he does.
âHey man,â he calls casually. âPlay with her.â
Eddie, too lost in the way you keep rolling your hips, blinks like he misheard. ââWhat?â
Steve chuckles, âSheâs used to it. Go on, donât make her wait.â
Eddie turns back to you, but you donât say anything, just look at him, chest rising faster, lips parted, a thin sheen of sweat starting to gather at your temples. And when his eyes search yours for permission, you nod.
Thatâs all it takes. Eddieâs hand slides down your stomach, dipping lower and lower, until he finds the paradise between your legs.
Oh fuck.Â
âBabyâyouâre soaking through my jeans,â he groans, trailing the wet patch seeping through your panties.Â
You giggle, but the second his fingers go past the lace and brush over your clit, you let out the most beautiful sound heâd ever heard. A little gasp of surprise, hips bucking slightly since you've been waiting for him to touch you right there all night.
Eddie almost comes in his pants. âJesusâyouâre perfect.â
He doesn't slide his fingers in yet, he doesn't need to, your slick is already dripping onto his jeans, smearing over his rings. You just grind into his hand, chasing your high. Every sound you make goes straight to his dick, every breath, every flutter of your lashes, every soft whimper of his name. Heâs about to put a finger in whenâ
âStop.â
Eddie freezes at your firm voice, his hand stills as panic takes over his chest. âDid Iâdid I do something wrong?â
Steveâs already standing from the couch, ready to lift you off Eddieâs lap if you need him to. But you just let out a sweet little laugh and shake your head.Â
âNo, youâre perfect. I want you to take your shirt off first,â you shrug, as if you hadn't caused both men a near heart attack.Â
Steve exhales, muttering something about âalways testing himâ as he plops back onto the puff. You smile at him apologetically, he just shakes his head pretending to be annoyed but you see the smile tugging at his lips.Â
âOh,â Eddie says, blinking a few times before actually breathing again. âYeah. Yeah, I can do that, sweetheart.â
He fumbles a little, taking off his vest first, then his jacket, thenâhe hesitates for a second. Itâs not that heâs insecure about his chest, but his tattoos now have fresh new roommates in the shape of multiple scars scattered across his skin from where heâd been attacked. And he doesnât know how youâll react to them.
You notice the doubt flashing across his eyes as his hands stop reaching for the shirt. âAre you okay, Eddie?â You ask, and now youâre the one wondering if you did something wrong.
âYeah,â he chuckles, trying to not sound too pathetic. âItâs justâmyâŚmy scars,â he says, avoiding your gaze.Â
You hum softly, âSteve has them too.â
Eddieâs head perks up at that, and his eyes go to the shirtless man on the couch.Â
âYeah man,â Steve breathes, straightening up, pointing at the lovely little bite marks the bats had left on his skin.Â
Eddie squints and sees them washed in the glow of the nightlamp. Heâd been so busy freaking the hell out when he arrived that he hadnât even noticed that Steveâs chest indeed had marks. But not as many as him, and at least the hair around it makes up for it, heâs not sure his pale chestâ
âEddieâŚâ You cup his face to gently guide it towards you. âYou can keep your shirt on if you feel more comfortable that way, but know that I donât care about whatâs under there. I just want to feel your skin closer,â you reassure.
Eddie almost proposes right there and then.Â
Okayâmaybe heâs getting ahead of himself. But shit. He decides itâs wiser to just nod, and peels off his shirt in one rough pull. You look him in the eyes before looking down, and he nods again. Your eyes go down his bare chest, pale as you expected, not as filled out as Steveâs, and not nearly as hairyâbut the tattoos and the scars make him the most badass rockstar youâd ever seen.
Eddieâs breath stills as you look at him like you like what you see. Like heâs the prettiest thing in the room. And then you make sure he hears it.Â
âYouâre so pretty, Eddie,â you smile, pulling him in for another kiss. Your hands smooth over his skin, fingers tracing the tattoos on his chest, the scars down his sides, the happy trail leading to a happier place. âSo hot.â
You whine into the kiss, hips rolling again making him forget about the fact that heâs shirtless in front of you and instead he remembersâright. His fingers.
Eddie reaches for you, pulling your panties to the side again. He slides two fingers between your folds, slow enough to drink every second of the way your jaw drops when you feel his rings deep inside you, the way your eyes flutter shut, how you let out a desperate little sound that goes straight to his cock.
âEdsâŚâ you moan, walls clenching around fingers and metal.
âYou feelâfuck, baby, you feel so goodâŚso tightâŚâÂ
He finds his rhythm easily, all insecurities set aside by how fast youâre falling apart on his fingers. Â
Eddie knows what heâs doing. Those handsâthose guitarist fingers donât play. They move with instinct, with intention. His fingers curl, dragging quickly through your walls before pressing back in. The rings are a plus, cold metal against heat, and you gasp when one of them hits the spot.Â
âOhâEddieââ
âThatâs it angel, keep dripping all over me,â he coos, pumping harder. âCan feel you clenching when I talk like this. You like being a good girl for me?â
You nod, itâs all you can do. Steve just watches. Watches the way your body moves. The way your face twists with pleasure. The way your mouth drops open with every stroke.Â
But he catches something else. He always does.Â
Your head tips forward, forehead pressing into Eddieâs shoulder, breaths coming out in little broken sounds against Eddieâs skin as he works every inch of you. You keep grinding your hips, chasing more even as it starts to overwhelm you. A sudden wave makes your moan turn into a whimper, and your nails dig on his shoulder instinctively pushing him away.Â
You cry out, thatâs when Steve speaks.
âHeyâeasy, Munson,â he calls out, not angry, but still firm enough that it makes Eddie slow down. âRemember what I said about going easy the first time? You go too rough too soon and sheâs gonna be shaking for the rest of the night.â
âSorryââ Eddie says immediately, but you cut him off.Â
âItâs okay, Eds. Weâre still learning each other,â you reassure, still giving him that dazed, happy look. He exhales in relief. âJustâŚa little slower, thatâs all. Iâm not really used to the rings.â You say it so sweetly, that he just nods like a little puppy eager to please.Â
âYouâll get used to them soon, sweetheart. Promise.â
He pulls his fingers back in slower, watching your face the whole time, memorizing every reaction. It doesn't take long before youâre grinding his hand again and letting out soft moans of pleasure as you find a more comfortable rhythm.Â
âThere you go,,â Steve chuckles, approving. âSheâs squeezing you, isnât she?â
Eddie chuckles back, because he can feel how close you are. Your forehead presses into his shoulder again, mouth brushing his skin as you let out a sound thatâs half gasp, half moan.Â
âHmm, that sound,â Steve hums, leaning further into the puff, stroking over his crotch. âShe sounds like that when sheâs about to come.â
âYeah?â Eddie asks, curling his fingers just right. âAre you close, angel?â
You whimper, hiding your face knowing exactly what they are talking about, but it only makes it hotter for both men to see you like that.Â
âDonât you wanna tell him, baby?â Steve asks from his spot, but all that comes out of your mouth is another moan against Eddieâs shoulder. âHeyâeyes on me.â
You obey, turning to meet those wide, hazel eyes. Youâre barely holding it together, already breathless. A literal mess on Eddieâs fingers.
But Steve just smiles, wide and bright when you look at him. âNow tell him what you need, sweetheart.â
Your eyes keep locked on your boyfriend as you whisper, âIâI wanna come, EdsâŚplease.â
âThen come, baby. Drench my fucking rings,â he groans in your ear. His raw voice and another curl of his fingers is what gets you there.Â
Your whole body tenses when the orgasm hits. You let out a broken moan that vibrates in Eddieâs chest and your walls clench around his fingers so tight he thinks you might break them. Your wetness coats his rings, soaks into your panties, his jeans, everywhere.Â
You collapse, arms flailing to hold on to him, but before Eddie can catch you, youâre already falling back.
âWhoa, heyââ Eddieâs arms scramble to hold you, but Steve is faster.
Heâs behind you instantly, steadying you with one hand on your back, the other cupping the back of your head easing you back into Eddieâs lap.Â
âShe goes all soft after,â Steve says, with that fondness he always uses when referring to you. âYou gotta hold her up for a second.â
Eddieâs arms wrap around you immediately, as you curl into him still trying to catch your breath. Steve leans to see you, brushing your hair back. He presses a soft kiss to your forehead that makes you smile.Â
âHey,â he whispers, eyes scanning your flushed face. âYou okay?â
You nod against Eddieâs chest.
âYou wanna keep going?âÂ
You nod again.
âWords, baby,â Steve coaxes, and you let out a little breathless giggle when he pinches your side.
âI do,â you whisper, loud enough for both to hear. Then you turn to him. âThank you.â
For catching me. For checking on me. For letting another man fuck me while you watch.
You donât even have to say it out loud for Steve to know what youâre thinking. He just brushes your cheek, with an amused smile on his face. âAnytime, baby.â
You shift on Eddieâs lap, turning back to him, lips brushing his cheek before placing your hands on his chest to look at those pretty brown eyes. âThank you too, Eds. You made me feel so good.â
âY-Yeah?â
You hum, patting the spider tattoo on his left peck. Once you feel like you regained your strength back again, you slide off his lap and drop to your knees in front of him.
âThatâs my girl.â Steve praises. So pretty on her knees.âÂ
He rounds the bed to grab a small pillow, then drops it to the floor next to your knees, nudging it with his foot until you shift just enough to be on top of it. You lean to kiss the back of his hand as a silent thank you.Â
Eddie is too busy remembering how to breathe for the 100th time to say anything.Â
You settle between Eddieâs legs, hands resting on his thighs, your lashes fluttering as you look up with all your attention back on him. âI wanna thank you properly.â
Eddie laughs nervously, then whistles low. âShitâthen go ahead, sweetheart.â
Your fingers go to his beltâbecause of course he wore a fucking beltâand Steve chuckles from your side, one judging eyebrow raised. âWhy did you even wear a belt, dude?â
âI thought I was coming over to watch, not to get fucking blessed,â Eddie shakes his head in disbelief, pushing himself up to help you lower his pants.Â
His ass barely touches the mattress when your hands are already tugging his briefs. He laughs, out of sheer nerves and excitement, lifting again to take off the last piece covering him.Â
He springs out.
And just as you thought. Just as you dreamed, heâs big. Eddie fucking Munson is packing a thick, flushed pink, already leaking cock just inches away from your face.Â
Pretty boy with pretty eyes and an even prettier dick.Â
You let out a sweet, pleased little dreamy sigh, when you feel his heaviness in your hand. âSo pretty,â you praise, then lean in and press a soft kiss to the tip of his cock.
You reach out, eager, hand wrapping around him to guide him toward your mouth like a lollipop. Eddie makes a noise no one in that room knew he was capable of.
Eddie sees heaven. Sees the clouds, hears all the symphonies and shit.Â
âJesus fuckââ
Steve steps behind you again, crouching down. He runs his fingers over your spine, drawing delicate circles that donât match the words that come out of his mouth.Â
âYou think you can take another, baby?â He asks, kissing the back of your neck. âGetting bored of just watchingâŚâ
You glance back at him, hand still wrapped around Eddieâs cock, and look down to see the fabric of his pants barely containing his.Â
âLet me take care of you too, babe,â you chuckle, lifting your free hand to reach sideways, tugging Steveâs sweats and briefs down in one pull. He steps forward, letting you take him in your hand like youâve done a hundred times.Â
Now you have two, very hard, very beautiful, very yours, dicks in your hands.Â
You give Steve one long, wet stroke with your tongue that makes him drop his head back and groan. Then, with a little giggle, you turn and give Eddie the same treatment.Â
âFucking hell, Harrington,â he gasps.
Steve smiles, watching you go from one the other, teasing both. âOh, I know.â He cups the back of your head, stroking your hair. âShow him, baby. Show him how good you are.â
You hum with Eddie in your mouth, the sound vibrating just enough to make him curse under his breath.
You begin taking turns. Your lips are glossy and warm and full, as you switch between them.Â
Steve. Then back to Eddie. Then back to Steve again.
Your hand stroking one while your lips wrap around the other. Back and forth. Eddieâs thighs start shaking with the effort of not coming in the first thirty seconds of this glorious torture.Â
Heâd never seen anything like it.Â
He has both hands fisted in the floral sheets, barely keeping himself together as you take him halfway down and then pull away with a soft, wet pop that makes his vision go white, only to switch to the one whoâs supposed to be your man.Â
And if it wasnât enough, Steve hands reach behind your back when you put him in your mouth, bending over you with his cock so going deep it makes you gag, to unclasp your bra, freeing your titties for both of them.Â
Heâs fighting for his soul at this point.Â
You split apart from Steve, taking a deep breath to recover from his dick touching the back of your throat, and wipe your mouth before looking up at Eddie with a smile.Â
âHey Steve?â You call, eyes fixed on Eddieâs to catch his reaction. âWhy donât you get the camera?â
TheâŚcamera???
âWaitâwhat?â
âDonât you want a little souvenir?â You tease, titling your head.Â
âWhat the fuckâwhatâdo I want aâ?â
âSteve likes it,â you shrug.Â
âOh yeah,â Steve chuckles, already crossing to the bookshelf in the corner of your room. âI like itâbut she loves it, man,â he adds smugly,Â
âYou have photosâŚdoing it?â
âWhooole collection.â Steve drawls, finding what he was looking for. âYouâd go crazy.âÂ
He is going crazy.Â
Steve walks back over holding a black Polaroid camera, and hands it directly to Eddie, whoâs still gripping onto the sheets for dear life.Â
âIââ He stammers, looking at you.Â
You shrug. âMy hands are busy,â you smile apologetically, too damn sweet for the situation.Â
Eddie finally takes the camera after a deep exhale, and leans back to lift it. He frames your pretty face between his thighs, lips parted open, spit shining on his cock. Then your mouth wraps around his tip again, and Eddie moans, loud and shaky, nearly dropping the camera.
He captures the grip of your lips, the way your tongue flicks over his slit, the stretch of your mouth when you sink deeper. Then you pull away and take Steve into your mouth instead, and Eddie moves the camera closer, watching your throat move, your hand still stroking him at the base.
Itâs a miracle you are alternating, because if it had been just him, he wouldâve busted in your mouth in under a minute.
You feel flash after flash after flash. Picture falling one after another, scattering on Eddieâs thighs.Â
âHoly shit,â Eddie chuckles. âThis is filthy. God, you look so fucking good like that.âÂ
Another flash. Another picture falling next to his balls.Â
You pop off of him with a messy sound and a smile at the compliment, licking your lips as you turn to Steve.
âYour turn, baby,â you whisper.
Steve steps closer, and you feel the way he starts twitching in your mouth. It doesnât take long before he grabs your hair, and starts thrusting to get himself off.
Eddieâs eyes widen, pulling the camera aside to enjoy the view. The way Steve holds you there. The way he fucks into your mouth, chasing his release, his fist tangled in your hair, his chest rising hard and fast as you take all of him.Â
Steve finally comes in a few strangled moans, making sure he stays inside until you swallow every drop of his cum. He strokes your cheek with one hand, pulling out, reaching down to wipe the corner of your mouth. âThere you go, baby,â he praises, still breathless. âSo good for us.â
You donât take more than a few seconds when you turn to Eddie, chest heaving, but before you can lean down again his hand comes up, stopping you.Â
âWait!â He says, coming off a little louder than he means to.
Your brows furrow. âAre youâare you not enjoying it?âÂ
âNo no, Jesusâno,â he rushes, âYouâreâyouâre perfect. Youâre actually heaven. I swear. Itâs justâŚif you keep going like thatâŚI wonât last.â
Steve huffs out a laugh, immediately understanding where heâs coming from.Â
Eddie wants to save his cum for when he gets lucky to actually fuck you.Â
Steve steps forward, helping you get to your feet. âWell,â he says, amused, âyouâre a lucky bastard, Munson. Iâm a man of my word, so Iâm gonna let you fuck her properly now.â Â
Eddie gulps. Your eyes light up.Â
âThatâll get you going just fine.â Steve adds.Â
He takes the camera from Eddieâs side, then walks back to settle onto the puff in the corner again, naked, angling the Polaroid camera like a professional.Â
You take a moment to get rid of your panties, before pushing Eddie back onto the bed, making him crawl back until heâs in the center on the mattress, his curly hair draping over your multiple pillows. You climb over the pictures and his body until youâre hovering over him.Â
Eddie doesnât expect you to turn around, but there you are, moving away to straddle him in reverse, giving him a perfect view of your ass. His heart is racing so hard he can hear it in his ears, yet a devilish chuckle still comes out before he can stop it.Â
âYou want Steve to see your face while you bounce on my cock, sweetheart?âÂ
You nod, biting your lip even if he canât see youâbecause Steve sure canâlifting yourself up with your hands on his thighs. âGod, yes.â
You reach to line him up beneath you, teasing the tip only for a second because you canât wait any longer than that to feel him inside.Â
You sink down without giving him any warning.Â
âHolyâfuck,â Eddie groans, throwing his head back onto the pillows. âJesus fucking Christ, youâre so tightââ
He only shuts up when he hears the moans you let out as he stretches your walls so painfully good. He feels as huge as he looks, he fills you as well as you thought he would. Heâs balls deep inside you. Your knees are on either side of his hips, ass to his stomach, fingers digging into his thighs as you begin to fuck yourself on him.Â
From the corner, Steve lets out a low hum of approval as you bounce harder on Eddieâs cock, chasing your second orgasm. He strokes himself with one hand, the other snapping shots of the way your tits bounce, the way your face twists every time you sink down, the way you never stop looking at him.
Flash. Flash. Flash. Tug. Tug. Tug.Â
âFuck yes, babyâlook at you. You look like a fucking porn star.â
You smile at him, then turn over your shoulder, just a little to see how your other boy is doing.Â
Eddieâs falling apart.Â
His eyes are glued to where your bodies meet. To his cock disappearing inside your folds. And if the sounds were obscene beforeâtheyâre so much worse now. Between Eddieâs grunts, your moans as you ride him, and the clicking sound of Steveâs camera, this was a full blown production.Â
A priceless one.Â
And then you make that sound again.Â
The same sound you made the second time Eddie saw you fall apart on Steveâs cock. The sound you made with his fingers deep inside you. The sound that haunted his fucking dreams.
âYouâre getting her there, man,â Steve says, stroking himself faster to the next series of whimpers you let out. âMake her feel good, then cum inside her. She loves that shit.â
Eddie nods. âThat okay, angel? Want me to fill you up?âÂ
You can't even speak. You just nod frantically, gasping as your rhythm begins to falter, and your thighs start shaking.
âYou gotta come again first, sweetheart,â Eddie says through gritted teeth, grabbing your hips to push himself up into you. He can feel you pulsing around him.Â
âSteveâfuckâIâm gonnaââ
âThen do it, baby,â he growls. âCome on his cock.â
You come harder than the first time. Your mouth drops open in a choked moan as your orgasm tears through you. Eddie nearly comes from how tight you clench around him.
But no. He still wants more from you. Needs it like he needs oxygen.Â
This time he does catch you when you slump forward, sitting up still buried inside you, placing a kiss on your shoulder as you both catch your breath. But the quiet doesnât last long. Heâs still hard inside you, and the devil on his shoulder tells him to finish what he started.Â
He earns a sudden yelp from you when he flips you, pushing you onto your stomach, pulling your hips back, and lining himself up again from behindâŚjust like heâd seen you that day. Face in the sheets. Ass up. Wet pussy glowing under the nightlight. Floral sheets wrinkled under your body.Â
Deja vu.
But this time, itâs not Steveâno, heâs just watching. Eddie is the one pushing his cock deep inside you with a harsh thrust that makes your whole body rock forward.Â
Heâs not that gentle anymore. Not in a mean way. Never in a mean way, but in a I-need-to-come-inside-you-now way. His hands are gripping your skin, knuckles going pale, holding you down as you become a mess under him.Â
He looks up to the couch, and he expects to see at least an ounce of the jealousy heâd felt the day he saw you with him, but all he sees is Steveâs fist going up and down furiously on his cock. The camera had been dropped as soon as your cheek had hit the mattress.
He wanted to see it. See you fall apart.Â
ââŚHoly shit, dude, go for it,â Steve whistles low in approval, chuckling when he hears your strangled gasps every time Eddie slammed into you. âLet him, baby,â he coos. âBe a good girl and take all of it.â
He really gives you all of it.Â
Eddieâs sure he only survived â86 just to see the way your tight little asshole contracts with every thrust he drills into your swollen pussy.Â
âEdsâEddieââ
âI know I know. Almost there, angel. Gonna fill you up real good,â he coaxes over your small whines, âwanna see you dripping with my cum.â
Eddie slams into you once more, then groans so loud it echoes across the wallpaper walls, and finally spills inside you with a cry.Â
Steve comes in his own hand as Eddie pulls out of you, slapping your ass a few times with his cock before you collapse onto the bedsheets. Eddie falls right behind you, blinking up at the ceiling, coming down from his high.
In the middle of all the panting, your chests rising up and down, he doesnât really know what heâs supposed to do next. Part of him expects to be handed his clothes and a polite âthanks for coming.â But instead, you instinctively roll over to him, wrapping your arms around his body and burying your face against his chest.Â
Steve just chuckles, finding his briefs on the floor and throwing them on, then finally walking over to where youâre cuddling Eddie, running his hand through your hair with a little smile.
âShe gets kinda clingy after.â
You donât even lift your head. âDonât be rude.â
Steve grins wider. âSorry, baby. Cute is the word. She gets cute after.â
You hum again, approving this time. Then, you let out a sigh of exhaustion, voice muffled in Eddieâs chest, âyou guys are fucking crazy.â
Steve snorts. âWe are crazy?â
âI didnât exactly suggest a threesome, sweetheart,â Eddie chuckles, hugging you tighter.Â
âWhatever,â you giggle. âJustâŚdonât let me fall asleep like this.â
Steve kneels beside the bed and rubs your back gently. âWant a shower, baby?â
You shake your head. âBath.â
âBath it is.â
He places a kiss on your shoulder, then stands and walks to your bathroom. A few moments later, Eddie hears the water running.
He couldâve stayed like that forever, really. With you curled into his arms, naked with his seed still inside you, surrounded by the filthy pictures heâd taken of you. His hand comes up hesitantly, brushing your hair back with the same tenderness he always sees Steve do it.Â
Where does this leave him though? Is this a one time thing? A hit and run? How can he go back to his normal life after this?Â
Heâd already been losing his mind over you for weeks. Heâs never getting over this.
âAre you okay?â You ask, snapping him out of his thoughts.Â
âMe?âÂ
âYeah, your heart is beating really fast,â you say, hand resting lightly on his chest, right over it.
Eddie laughs under his breath. âUh. Yeah. Iâm justâŚkinda expecting for someone to tell me to get up and leave?â
You hum softly, nuzzling closer to him. âI donât want you to leave, EdsâŚâÂ
He doesnât get to say anything before Steve returns, a pink towel slung over his bare shoulder as he stands on the bathroom door.Â
âWell, dude,â he says. âYou bringing her or what?â
Eddie looks down at you, all cozied up in his arms. You donât say anything, but you smile, soft and sweet and welcoming as always.Â
The sun in his arms.Â
He's not sure what the hell is next for him now. But at least for tonight, heâs staying.Â
And I ain't gotta tell him, I think he knows
Thank you so much for reading! hope you enjoyed đđ¤
summary: steve harrington is a visual genius, but his actors have zero chemistry. frustrated and losing light, he pulls you âhis script supervisorâ under the artificial rain to demonstrate exactly how the filmâs rain confession should feel. but as the crew goes silent and the cameras roll, it becomes clear that steve isnât just directing a scene anymore; heâs finally making his move.
themes: WHOLE LOTTA FLUFF, awkward steve, moviemaker x script supervisor, workplace romance, established friendship, method acting, mutual pining, kissing in front of the whole crew
âcut, for the love of god, cut,â steve shoved his headset down around his neck, his signature hair already beginning to deflate in the humidity. across the set, the two main actors stood awkwardly in the center of the artificial downpour, looking more like they were waiting for a bus than confessing their undying love.
âitâs a heartbreak, not the grocery list,â steve shouted, pacing the length of the muddy track. heâs already stressed, and heâs making the whole team anxious; if they didnât trust his judgment, they wouldâve think this movie is a complete failure. âyouâve waited ten years to say this, dude. i need soul, i needâ i needâŚâ
he spun around, his eyes landing on you. you were tucked safely behind the monitors, a clipboard lying in your lap and a red pen tucked behind your ear. you were the only person on the set who didnât look like they were panicking. ây/n,â he snapped, waving you over.
âharrington, weâre losing light,â you cautioned, checking your light. the sky was a beautiful bruised purple. âwe have twelve minutes before the union calls it,â you warned him.
âi donât give a shit about the light, i care about the truth, for fuckâs sake,â he said, his voice dropping into that low, frantic register he got when a vision was slipping through his fingers. he reached out, grabbing your wrist and pulling you toward the center of the street.
"steve, what are you doing? iâm script supervisor, not an understudyâ" you demanded as you pulled back, clearly undecided about being in the spotlight for even a minute. without a doubt, and with that characteristic temperament of his, steve threw you into the pouring rain.
"just stand there," he commanded, his hands landing on your shoulders. he ignored the gasps from the crew. he ignored the way your heart jumped against your ribs. he turned his head to the lead actor. "watch her close. it should be like this.â
steve stepped into the spray of the water, his jacket instantly soaked. he didn't look at the actors anymore. he looked only at you. his eyes were dark, searching, and suddenly stripped of all the director energy.
"iâve spent every night since the day i left wondering if youâd ever forgive me," steve whispered, his voice cracking perfectly. he stepped closer, invading your space until you could feel the heat radiating off him despite the cold water.
he reached up, his thumb brushing your cheekbone to clear a stray drop of rain. his hand stayed there, cupping your face with a tenderness that wasn't in the notes youâd written. "and then," steve breathed, his gaze dropping to your lips, "you stop talking. because words are useless now."
you didn't have time to remind him that sixty people were watching. you didn't have time to tell him the actors were supposed to be the ones moving. steve leaned in, closing the distance until the only thing you could feel was the press of his mouth against yours: desperate, rain-slicked, and entirely unscripted.
it wasn't a movie kiss. it was heavy and real, tasting like cold water and the secret heâd been keeping for three months of filming. his fingers tangled in your wet hair, pulling you closer as if heâd forgotten he was supposed to be teaching a lesson.
the silence on set was deafening. the only sound was the hiss of the rain machines and the pounding of your own heart. when he finally pulled back, his forehead lingered against yours, both of you breathing hard.
steve cleared his throat, his eyes still locked on yours, hazy and vulnerable. then, without looking away, he raised a hand and gestured vaguely toward the stunned lead actor.
"do it like that," he rasped, his voice thick. "weâre going again. everyone back to ones." he let go of you, but his hand lingered on your arm for a second too long before he turned and walked back to the monitors, leaving you standing alone in the rain, shaking and wondering if you still had a job, or if you finally had him.
cw: MDNI!! dubcon (bc there's an aphrodisiac involved), oral (f!receiving), fingering, lots of dirty talk, unprotected p in v, mating press, creampie, multiple orgasms, friends to lovers!!, HUNGRY peter
masterlist, taglist, and kinktober 2025 masterlist!
you weren't sure when it became a habit to sneak into the chemistry building after hours with peter to help him work on his web fluid; all you knew was it was your turn to pay for the pizza.
it was nearing midnight as your full belly laughs echoed through the empty lab, crusts long forgotten on the table behind you, as you lost yourself in a story. peter's smile was visible through prickling tears.
he knew it was a bad idea to invite you from the start â there was no shot in hell he'd get any work done as long as you were around him. peter had figured that out by the senior year of high school: he just couldn't seem to focus on anything other than you. he began to lie and say he was finished with his homework whenever you would hang out, covering his lack of progress in your presence.
peter had been distracted by you for the last few years, yet he could never seem to resist your company anyway. he beamed as you laughed at your own joke, relishing in the alone time he got to spend with the one person who made him feel like himself.
you let out a snort, and peter was done for, tears in his own eyes as he joined you in hearty laughter. he reached down and grabbed a vial through blurry vision, adding the final touch to his web fluid 3.0.
except that, instead of a sticky web-like substance, peter was met with a bright flash of hot pink from the liquid in the beaker before a cloud of magenta powder exploded from the glass, dusting the room, and in turn, you and peter.
he was on you instantly, shielding you from the flying shards of glass before the beaker even burst, though the aerosol impact was inevitable. the reaction was quick to hit your lungs, dragging out hoarse coughs, rough and heavy in your chest as you fought to regain a sense of your surroundings.
the headache was almost immediate as peter leaned down to say something, and you winced as you looked up at him.
"what?"
"are you okay? did you get cut at all?" peter frantically examined for any tears in your sweatshirt, checking your hands for any possible nicks.
"i'm okay, reaâwoah," peter placed a hand on your jaw to inspect your face, and the touch activated something deep inside of you.
suddenly, you felt the hottest you'd ever been, and the headrush made you weak in the knees. your vision began to cloud, senses on overdrive as you felt an aching pain rising in your chest. meeting peter's gaze with panicked eyes, you began to really take in the state of the situation.
"peter, what did you just mix?"
"i-i don't know, i must've grabbed the wrong thing..." he trailed off as he turned to search through the drawers, but the movement stopped him dead in his tracks.
peter was instantly met with a rush of vertigo, the room spinning violently around him as he braced himself on the countertop. he felt like he did when he was first bitten: hypersensitive and overwhelmed. fuck, what did he mix?
amidst the rest of the world in his ears, peter picked up on the sound of your heartbeat and immediately knew something was wrong. really wrong. he took a moment to analyze you, everything moving in slow motion as he fought to figure out what the hell he mixed together, and where these symptoms were headed.
your current state didn't give him much comfort; peter quickly noticed how you were starting to sweat, your chest heaving as you struggled to catch your breath, despite not having left your chair. your full-body flush made him wonder if he looked just as disheveled.
"are you feeling okay?" peter asked, heavy with concern and guilt.
you shook your head at him, words fighting to escape your trembling lips. "i-i don't know. i feel... warm. i don't know."
and then peter felt it. his cock twitched, and he realized for the first time how painfully hard he was. he looked down in horror, hoping you hadn't yet noticed in your own haze. peter quickly sat down again to cover the evidence, praying to any god who was listening that this wasn't happening.
while successful in his concealment, the slight friction in the movement of his pants was enough to elicit a groan from his throat; he hoped you didn't hear.
but you did. because each little noise he made, conscious or not, egged on every dirty fucking thought you were having right now. and about peter. in front of peter.
"maybe we should get some... some fresh air, or something," peter says weakly.
as you nodded in response and moved to get up, it became horribly apparent to peter that he had to stand up with you, and not only would you also know just how hard he was, but the friction alone might be enough to kill him.
and then he had a thought:
are you feeling this way too?
no, don't think like that. that's your best friend, and whatever's happening, clearly neither of you was in your right mind.
but peter had always felt this way about you. this time, it was just so physically painful for some reason. what the fuck was in that beaker?
he didn't have any more time for his mind to race, as you stood from your stool and he watched your knees buckle underneath you. peter rushed to stabilize you, grabbing your shoulders and keeping you steady. it was pointless, though. somehow, the feeling of peter's hand against you knocked your breath out, far worse than falling ever would've.
you had no idea what was going on, but it was getting harder and harder to think about anything other than peter (as if that wasn't the norm anyway, bffr). but this was heightened. this was all of your wildest desires pulled to the forefront of your mind in the middle of your ochem 403 lab at 11pm on a tuesday night.
what the fuck was going on with you?
you tried to shake off the way peter's touch relieved some of the haze clouding your brain, and tried to shake off the feeling that maybe he was also feeling this way. your thighs clenched at the thought â that peter was also thinking of every possible way to take you on this counter right now.
but this was your best friend, and you needed to get your shit together long enough to handle whatever this feeling was on your own.
"woah, are y'okay?" peter slurred, your body heat under his palms radiating down to the rest of his body and nearly sending him down as well.
"i... i don't know, i think..." you stuttered out, not trusting anything coming from your mouth right now. "i-i think i have to go, i'm, i'm not feeling well."
you turned to make a run for it, hoping to get out of peter's sight before you either passed out or pounced on him. he stopped you, though, grabbing your hand with a pleading "wait!" falling from his lips.
before you could stop it, a whimper escaped from your lips at his touch, and you went bright red in seconds, hand flying up to cover the unexpected noise.
peter didn't help as he stared at you with his mouth agape, pupils blown to shit. he looked fucked out beyond belief and you'd barely even touched.
you cleared your throat, hoping to get out as coherent and PG a sentence as you could. "peter i-i feel really weird. a-and, i think i'm freaking the fuck out."
knowing you were hurting as much as he was broke his heart, and peter struggled to put all his energy into focusing on you. "i know, it's okay, bug. just take some deep breaths, a-and let's try to make it outside, yeah?"
he tried to pull you, but your legs forgot how to work, and you were frozen where you were, breath quick as everything grew downright painful.
peter's breathing picked up as he heard you hyperventilating, panicking himself as he watched you crumble in front of you. he needed to find out what was in that vile, and fast.
but all he could fucking think about was being on his knees in between your thighs.
fuck.
"p-peter, please. please, i-i, i need your help. you have to make this stop."
"fuckâ it'll be okay, i promise. i'll do whatever i need to get you better. i-i just..." he clamped his eyes shut, desperately trying to come up with a way to make an antidote of some kind without dying or ruining your friendship along the way.
"peter... iâ"
"what?" he cut you off, concern heavy in his tone.
despite his ever-growing problem, peter reached out to cup your cheek, and though not an unnatural thing to do, it was one definitely influenced by a gravity drawing him towards the feeling of your skin on his.
you stared at his lust-blown eyes, wondering if yours looked the same. wondering if he felt the same.
peter spoke your name softly, his thumb grazing your cheek softly and lingering far too closely to your lips to not mean anything.
fuck it.
you grabbed his shirt and pulled him forward, nearly headbutting him in the process as you locked onto his lips, surprised when you felt him immediately reciprocate and tangle his hands in your hair. everything about the kiss was desperate, and the feeling of peter all over you was fucking radiant.
peter was nothing but a moaning mess against you, sloppy and wet against your lips as he pleaded your name as though each time he said it, it took away the pain in his chest. truthfully, it did.
peter pulled away to take a breath, and the lack of contact brought the sharp pain immediately back, earning a whine to fall from his lips. he shook it off, grabbing the sides of your face and doing his best to refocus.
"f-fuck, should we talk about this?" peter asked relectantly.
"i-i don't know. i don't know what's happening right now, pete. all i know is that i need you to touch me. anything, please. i'm sorry. just, please make it go away."
yeah, you could talk about it later.
"nonono, hey. im so sorry, baby, this is all my fault. i'll do whatever you need, i mean it. i'll make it better, i promise."
peter pulled you back into a hungry kiss, rough hands roaming your body in a way he'd never touched you before. the feeling of your curves under his palms was only something he'd dreamed of, and peter was insufferably hard as he pulled you into him further.
there was a nag in the back of his mind, something telling him to stop before you did something you'd regret. because there was no possible way he had you, his best friend, tangled in his arms and lips heavy on his own. and yeah, peter had been smitten with you since the day you met, but he was never going to do anything about it. you didn't feel that way about him, of course. right?
cause right now, you kinda did.
no! fuck! just the chemicals! this was a one-time thing, friends helping friends.
yeah, friends helping friends.
but the pretty little moans that came out of your mouth as peter trailed his way down your neck? those sounded awfully more than just friendly. and the way you whined as he moved his hands up your waist, palming your tits through your shirt as he growled for permission in your ear? peter was never going to be able to look you in the eyes after tonight.
but right now, he was entranced as you bunched his shirt fabric in your hands and begged for it off, pulling the material over his head and immediately attacking his firm chest with a series of hickeys. you shifted your hands down towards his waistband, tugging him by his belt loops as you left a wet, hot trail of kisses down his abs. peter couldn't help but cant his hips forward into you, absolutely fucking losing his mind.
his own hands made their way around your frame, trailing down to your ass and grabbing hard. you gasped at the feeling, then lost your breath fully as peter nipped at your ear and told you to jump. he caught your thighs, shifting to set you on the lab counter and wedging his body between your legs.
everything was hot and heavy, and the effects were evolving and worsening. it was growing stronger with each touch, and though feeling each other was helping ease the pain, the need for more was growing too strong to ignore.
you pulled away from him, tears threatening to spill from your doe eyes as you stared up at peter, who didn't look much better.
"what? what is it, what do you need, baby?"
"i-i... i need you to touch me, pete."
peter went pale at your confession. it was asked so quietly, but it held so much weight. weight he'd think about after he got to find out what you tasted like.
with a deep rumble in his chest and another sloppy kiss to your neck, peter began to fumble his way around your waistband, asking you a thousand extra times if this was okay.
yeah, i fucking think so.
peter's index fingers hooked the hips of your pants; feeling his hands on your bare skin for the first time covered you in goosebumps. it was numbing the pain in your chest and igniting something in it all the same. you were so caught up in the moment, gobsmacked over peter parker, your best friend of six years, tugging your pants down, that you almost didn't notice that he'd pulled them back up.
your cheeks instantly bloomed in mortification. "fuck, i-im sorry, i-i don't know what's come over meâ"
"no! stop apologizing, please. i just..." peter took a dramatic pause, and the only thing that could be heard was the two of you heavily panting, taking in the scene unfolding before you as the pain hammered in each of your chests.
"i need to tell you something before anything else happens."
you gave him a worried look, and peter returned it with a heavy sigh.
"i don't know what the fuck is happening right now, and why i feel like im fucking going to die if you don't touch me right now, and this is all my fault and i'm so fucking sorryâ"
"peter. what's wrong?"
well, we're already in this deep.
"i don't know what fuck-ass aphrodiasic i just created, but i need you to know that the real me means this too. i can't let anything happen without you knowing that i love you, and this still means something to me. even if i'm not myself right now. a-and i'll do whatever you need me to do, and we can never talk about this again, but you don't deserve me keeping that from you."
you sat on the counter, stunned, as peter anxiously bit his lip, worried he'd just fucked up one of the best relationships that had ever happened to him. and he was still so fucking hard.
the only response you gave him was hopping off the counter and taking your bottoms off for him.
and peter was immediately on you again.
he had a hand rough in your hair as he kissed you, his other firm on your bare ass as he kneaded the soft flesh with a hunger. through his moans and downright whines, he almost missed it:
"i love you too, peter. so fucking much."
something inside of him snapped, and this time he didn't even ask you to jump, wrapping his hands around your waist and lifting you to the counter like you weighed nothing. you wrapped your legs around his hips and pulled him close, the make-out nothing short of a frenzy.
the entire time, peter was in your ear, moaning things into your mouth you only ever dreamed you'd hear:
"this. this isn't how this was supposed to happen."
"you deserve better than this, fuck. deserve better than an empty fucking chem lab, christ's sake."
he was quick to get his hands back on you, traces of mischief left behind as he massaged your thighs and stared at your lace thong with a look you'd never seen from him before. peter had been so caught up in it all, he'd almost forgotten the effects of the reaction. his actions were genuine and intentional. but as he pulled back to get a proper look at you, the pain in his chest settled back in, and his senses reheightened to a million
"fuck, i need to touch you. please, can i touch you?" peter whined.
you were breathless in response, "please peter, do whatever the fuck you want to me. just please, do something. anything."
he groaned and ran his hands up your thighs till he reached the delicate lace, teasingly tracing the hemline. "don't fucking say that. i-i don't think i can control myself right now."
"pete, i don't want you to control yourself," a shudder ran down his spine.
"please. fuck me."
peter didn't have the energy left in him to delay this any longer.
he ripped the underwear clean from your body, pulling you to the edge of the counter and dropping to his knees in front of you. he wasted no time running his tongue through your glossy folds, latching his lips over your clit.
peter was so hungry, and the mixture of the fading pain in your chest and the pleasure blooming inside of you was an insane feeling. he added a finger? oh my god. you were fucking incoherent. he added another? you were pretty sure this rivaled the time you tried molly.
you pulled at his hair, begging him (to stop or to go harder, you didn't know). it was all so overwhelming, and every time you looked down to see the source of your pleasure and remembered it was your peter parker? you were close to the edge the quickest you'd ever been.
"pete, i-i..."
"what is it, baby?" he breathed, quickly returning to your dripping cunt.
baby. jesus fucking christ. that almost did you in right then and there.
"i wanna touch you too."
peter groaned deep inside you in response, and the vibration was enough to send you over the edge. you felt your body fly over the moon as you came, peter not letting down for a second as he fucked you with his tongue so you could ride out the high, lapping up every drop you gave him.
he stood up, breathless, glistening, and a little cocky if you knew peter the way you thought you did. "how are you feeling? did that help, d-does it still hurt?"
you were panting as you came down from your high, taking a second to be aware of your body and headspace again. you couldn't help but feel emotional as you noticed the effects starting to creep back in. you shed a tear and nodded as you felt the headache thundering in the distance.
peter pulled you into a hug, and it was almost enough to sober you up again, because something about this one felt different. more weighted.
"im sorry, baby, fuck. i-i'm sorry, what can i do? how can i help?" fuck, this was all his fault.
you sniffled in his ear, but the movement of your hips against his contradicted your melancholy demeanor. "it's better when you're touching me. please, just don't stop."
between your words and you snaking your hand down to palm him softly, peter parker was a wreck, and wrapped around your finger.
he was quick to envelop you in a kiss and drink you in, and you moved to claw his shirt off of him. you pulled back to look at him, and it wasn't like you hadn't seen peter shirtless over the years, but you'd never seen him this close, in this context. it made your chest hurt in a different way.
"fuck, you're so hot," you groaned, almost as though an inside thought had slipped out.
he snickered. "me? are you kidding me right now?"
peter roughly kissed you before tugging your shirt off, absolutely elated at the discovery you'd forgone a bra under your crewneck. he stared at you like a deer in headlights, starstruck as he saw you for the first time.
"jesus christ, you're a fucking dream."
his hands were on your tits before you could even register it, but the feeling only made you crave him more. you messed with his pants, and he took over amidst your frustration. boxers and all, he sprang free in front of you, and Holy Shit Peter Parker. that's fucking obscene.
"this is your last chance to change your mind. because once i start, i dont think i'll be able to stop," he warned.
"please fuck me, peter."
he attacked your chest with his lips, hands firm on your hips as he shifted you again to the edge of the counter. you wrapped your soft fingers around his leaking cock, and he was almost done for before you'd even started.
peter moaned loudly and moved to put his large hand over yours to line himself up. you were still soaked from peter's previous meal, making it easy for him to slide his head through your slit. you were a begging mess in his ear, nails scraping down his back in anticipation.
peter nudged your entrance and pushed in easily (whether from the pollen or his ample prep, no one knows). the two of you moaned in filthy harmony, the feeling a definition beyond indescribable.
his legs were shaking immediately, and despite his inhuman strength, it became apparent that he couldn't do this standing for much longer if you felt this good.
"fuck, sweetheart," peter grabbed you roughly and pulled you towards him, pushing to the hilt and pressing hip to hip with you. he picked you up, spun you around, and laid you on the cool tile
"this isn't what you deserve, fucking you on the ground like this. fuck, baby."
and then peter was relentless.
he pounded into you with such a force, his mouth still focused on your tits and how they bounced for him. both of you could breathe again, the pain lifting and now replaced with a newly discovered pleasure that made you emotional again. you looked completely fucked out, tears streaming down your cheeks as peter lifted your thighs higher to get as deep in you as possible.
"fuck, please don't cry," he begged, though he kept drilling into you, knees now meeting your own chest. "i'm sorry, i'm so sorry."
you pulled him down, his chest pressing against the back of your thighs, and your foreheads connected as you breathed him in, exhaling a rough "i love you so much, peter".
he stuttered for a moment, eyes as wide as they were the first time he heard you say it. not for long, though, as he stayed pressed against you and picked up the pace like never before.
"oh my god, i fucking love you."
peter had you seeing stars, and you didn't know how long you'd even been in the lab. five minutes could have passed, maybe three hours. all you knew was that you didn't care, and you were close. peter knew it too.
"babe-baby, you're close. i-i can feel it, you're so fucking tight around my cock." you couldn't help but clench him in response.
"fuck, yeah-y-yes. god, squeezing me so good. god, i knew you were made for me."
it was the sentimentality of everything that sent you over this time. hearing the way he talked about you, you came around his cock, and it felt so fucking magical. but peter didn't slow down, determined to ride out your orgasm. he was quickly losing his composure, though, at the feeling of you fluttering around his cock.
"sweetheart, w-whereâ"
"inside, please."
peter didn't even have time to question the outcomes to his actions because the second he heard you, his best fucking friend, moaning for him to cum inside of her? oh fucking hell.
he let out such a guttural moan as he came, hot and thick, deep inside of you. you felt so warm and full, so much so that it triggered a third orgasm, sobbing peter's name as he just kept going. mixed arousal spilled down your thighs as he continued to fuck you, and through your fucked out haze, you could feel his cum drip down and pool around your ass.
you were barely conscious at this point, but peter kept going as he muttered "i'm sorry" over and over again.
luckily, he'd released the goddamn mating press and released your legs, allowing you to stretch out. peter was able to cover more of your body with his, lying chest to chest with you as his hips rutted into yours. the new position was so much more intimate as he leaned in to capture your lips in a kiss again.
"please. please, just one more. one more and i'll stop."
peter said that three more times that evening before he was done, and he felt like himself again.
he looked down at you in awe, though concern slipped through his fucked out eyes. "you okay, bug?"
"i can't believe you really just gassed us with an aphrodisiac."
peter laughed, a blush creeping on his cheeks at the memory of his fatal mistake. "yeah, that was, uh... that was my bad."