A Kind Of Magic

So how has he become the one with the wrong idea?

Somewhere along the way, Dean caught feelings for his fuckbuddy. Friend with benefits. Whatever label you wanted to slap on it, he’d broken the one sacred rule: don’t catch feelings.

You blew into his life like a tornado.

You tore apart his carefully maintained routine and—before he even realized it was happening—made everyone else seem considerably less interesting.

At first, Dean didn’t mind. He’d found a girl who could match his energy, someone who wanted the same uncomplicated physical release he was more than happy to provide.

But then things started changing.

Sometimes, after sex, you stayed.

You’d lie in bed talking about classes, his hockey practices, your bizarre family dilemmas, campus gossip—anything and everything. Neither of you ever intended to fall asleep together, but somehow it kept happening. More than once, you woke up with Dean wrapped around you, his arm draped across your waist as if it belonged there.

Which was honestly very nice.

The problem was that Dean had always been excellent at avoiding things. Yet he’d never felt this way about a girl before.

At least not since high school, and he’d be a senior in a matter of months. The whole thing felt strange. Too serious. Too grown-up. It didn’t fit the effortless, unbothered persona he'd spent years perfecting.

You weren’t much better.

You’d tried to bring up the subject more than once, testing the waters carefully, only to abandon it whenever Dean gave you nothing to work with. Every conversation seemed to end with him brushing things off or changing the subject before it could become real.

Of course you’d caught feelings too.

Because beneath all the flirting, the confidence, and the reputation, Dean was kind. Thoughtful in ways most people never got to see. He was gentle when it mattered, attentive without making a big deal out of it, and he'd never once made you feel disposable.

Not like certain frat boys or other athletes, who only cared about themselves. 

Dean Di Laurentis is boyfriend material.

The problem is that he doesn’t seem to realize it.

Or maybe he does. Maybe he just doesn’t want to admit it.

Which brings you to your current dilemma.

Dean is sprawled across the couch, a girl’s hand resting on his chest as she gazes up at him like he hung the stars himself. And he’s entertaining it.

You’d never explicitly asked for exclusivity, but the two of you had established one rule from the beginning: if either of you wanted out, or wanted to be with someone else, you’d say so.

For the past few weeks, you’d seen each other almost every day. You weren’t seeing anyone else, and you’d gotten the impression he wasn't either. In fact, campus gossip had been practically buzzing about the fact that Dean Di Laurentis hadn’t hooked up with anyone at a party in weeks.

It shouldn’t have made you jealous.

You weren’t together. You weren’t anything.

So why did it feel like you were everything? Why did it feel like he was breaking your heart without even realizing it?

The noise of the party faded into the background as you chugged the drink in your hand and headed for the kitchen in search of something stronger.

You wanted to curse Garrett for hosting this stupid party. For practically forcing you to come, knowing Dean would obviously be here.

Grabbing a bottle of tequila, you started pouring.

Your eyes kept flicking back and forth between Dean’s hand resting on the girl's thigh and the way their faces seemed just a little too close together.

“Whoa, there.”

A voice beside you pulled you from your thoughts.

Beau Maxwell.

Dean’s best friend gently took the bottle from your hands before you could continue.

“Rough night?” He asked, glancing at the alarming amount of tequila you’d managed to fit into one cup

“Yeah,” you said with a tight smile. “You could say that.”

His expression softened. Without a word, he grabbed a random mixer from a nearby shelf and handed it to you.

“Here,” He twisted off the cap and passed it over. “Unless your plan is to drink four tequila shots at once.”

A laugh escaped you despite yourself.

You poured some into the cup and took a sip. Immediately, you coughed.

“That bad?” Beau asked, amused, patting your back lightly as you struggled to swallow.

“It's really strong,” you managed.

“Can I try?”

You looked up at him and held out the cup. “Be my guest.”

Beau took a sip and a second later, he grimaced.

“Damn.” He lowered the cup. “Who hurt you?”

You tried to laugh but the joke landed a little too close to home.

Had Dean talked to Beau about whatever this thing between you was? Did Beau even know you'd been sleeping together?

Your eyes drifted back toward the living room.

Dean now had two girls caressing his face and chest. Logan and Tucker were sitting nearby with girls of their own, laughing about something. Still, the knot in your stomach refused to loosen.

Beau followed your gaze, understanding immediately flashed across his face.

Before you could look away, his hand settled on your waist. He gently turned you around until your back was resting against the kitchen island, blocking your view of Dean entirely.

“He's really dumb sometimes,” Beau said.

You hummed in agreement, taking another small sip.

Then, before you could think better of it, you asked, “Wanna do something maybe even dumber?”

His eyebrows lifted.

“Like what?”

You tilted your head slightly. “Like helping me forget what his name even is.”

For a moment, Beau said nothing, but he didn’t remove his hand from your waist. Instead, his thumb brushed absentmindedly against the fabric of your top, moving back and forth.

His gaze flickered down to your lips.

“He’ll be pissed,” Beau said quietly.

“I doubt he cares.” Your voice came out softer than intended. “Just look at him. Not a care in the world.”

He glanced toward the living room before looking back at you, his jaw tightening. Then he leaned in slightly, close enough that you could feel the warmth of his breath.

“You sure?”

“Yeah.”

The word barely left your mouth before the space between you seemed to disappear. For a moment, neither of you moved, caught in the tension hanging between you. Then Beau closed the distance, his lips meeting yours in a kiss that was soft and careful, nothing like Dean. 

Dean kissed like everything was urgent, like he was always one second away from losing control. Beau, meanwhile, seemed content to take his time.

You found yourself kissing him back anyway, driven by a messy combination of hurt, anger, and the lingering hope that Dean might finally show that he cared. 

The kiss deepened, and for a moment you let yourself get lost in it. It was nice. Beau was nice. A few weeks ago, you might’ve even considered going back to his place, letting the night unfold into something more. But now, no matter how hard you tried to focus on the boy kissing you, your thoughts kept drifting elsewhere. 

Now, all you could think about was a certain blond hockey player.

Despite the warmth spreading through your chest, despite the attention and the distraction, there was no real desire to take things any further.

Still, even if you’d wanted to, you never got the chance.

You’d barely noticed how much time had passed when a loud clearing of a throat cut through the moment. A heavy hand landed on Beau’s shoulder, the interruption sharp enough to make both of you freeze before slowly pulling apart.

And there stood Dean. His jaw was clenched so tightly it looked painful, his entire body rigid with tension. But it was his eyes that made your breath catch, blazing with a fury that left little doubt he’d seen far more than enough.

“Having fun?” He asked through gritted teeth.

“Hey, Dean,” Beau said breathlessly, moving his hand away from your jaw.

You took a deep breath, glancing between the two men.

“Didn’t realize you two knew each other,” Dean said.

“Yeah, we’ve crossed paths a few times,” Beau answered. “We have a business course together too, right?”

“Yeah, right,” you stammered out, suddenly acutely aware of Beau's hand on your waist and Dean’s eyes burning into your profile.

Dean hummed, his jaw still tightly clenched.

“I think one of your teammates was looking for you,” he said to his friend.

“Who?”

“I don’t fucking know. He was just asking around for where you were.”

You knew it was a lie. You could tell by the bored tone of his voice and the way he seemed far more interested in staring at you than looking at Beau. Dean had never been a particularly good liar.

“Okay...” Beau trailed off. “I’ll see you around?”

You looked up at him and nodded, “See you.”

Dean watched him walk away to search for his supposed teammate.

“You won’t be seeing him around,” he all but growled.

Before you could respond, he grabbed your hand and pulled you toward the staircase leading up to his room. You stumbled after him, startled by the sudden movement.

You barely had time to process what was happening before you were standing in his bedroom, the door locked behind you while Dean paced in front of his bed.

“Dean, what the fuck?” You finally asked, breaking the silence as you frowned at the man in front of you.

“Me what the fuck?” He shot back, turning to point at you. “You what the fuck?”

“Huh?”

Your brows knitted together as you stared at him in confusion.

“Why the fuck would you kiss Beau?”

A sharp laugh escaped you, completely devoid of humor.

“You think it’s funny to mess around with my friend? That’s so fucked up.”

“Oh, that’s rich coming from you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means you have no right to act like this or throw accusations around when you’re not any better.”

You let out a deep breath and rubbed at your eyes, trying to gather yourself.

“You don't get to practically entertain a threesome on the couch and then get mad because I kissed someone.”

“It's not just someone. That’s my friend,” he snapped. “And what threesome? I haven’t slept with anyone since we started—”

The words died on his tongue, and you caught it immediately. The hesitation. The way he suddenly seemed unable to finish the sentence. 

Because the truth was, even Dean couldn't figure out what exactly the two of you were. Or, perhaps more accurately, what the two of you weren't.

“You’re gonna act like you didn't have two girls all over you?” You huffed. “Because you looked really comfortable.”

“All over me?” He looked genuinely offended by the accusation, as if it couldn’t have been further from the truth.

“I know we’re not exclusive or anything, but really? You had to do it right in front of me?”

“I don’t know what you think happened, but I didn’t even kiss them.” He shook his head. “I mean, one of them tried, but I just didn’t...”

“Didn’t what?”

For a moment, he stayed silent.

Dean sat down on the edge of his bed, dragging a hand over his face as he searched for the right words. His elbows rested on his knees, his head dipping briefly into his hands before he finally looked back up at you.

The anger had vanished, replaced by something far more vulnerable, something pained enough that it made your chest tighten just looking at him.

“I couldn’t kiss someone else.”

You let out a shaky breath at his words, watching as he waited for your reaction.

“Dean, that doesn’t make any sense.”

“Why?” He asked, genuinely puzzled.

“Because...” Your mind flashed back to all the times you’d carefully tried to bring up whatever this thing between you was. The times he’d thanked you for being so chill about your arrangement. The times he’d said he didn't have time for a girlfriend. How much he enjoyed his freedom.

“Is it so crazy that I could feel something between us?” He asked, a frown creasing his brows.

“You told me you didn’t want a girlfriend,” You replied.

“And you said you wanted a casual relationship.”

“Yeah, because you said you didn’t want to be tied down,” you shot back. “I’m not going to ask for something serious from the same guy who’s with a different girl every night.”

“You should’ve told me that,” he muttered.

Taking a deep breath, he stood and closed the distance between you.

“I've done casual before. It wasn’t an issue for me,” you explained. “But then you started doing things… You remember my friends’ names. You cuddle me. You kiss my forehead when I leave in the mornings...”

His expression softened.

When he gets closer to you, he takes your hands in his, rubbing his thumb across your palm.

“Did you like kissing Beau?”

“What?” You asked, caught off guard by the sudden change in topic when it felt like the two of you had almost finally admitted your feelings.

“Did you like kissing Beau?” He repeated, his gaze darkened now, one hand lifting to cradle your cheek.

“It was nice,” you admitted softly, watching the way he couldn't stop looking at you. “But I couldn’t stop thinking about you.”

“Yeah?”

His face was closer now, his breath brushing against your skin.

“It wasn’t fair to Beau, to just... use him.”

“You feel guilty, then?”

“I think he knew it came from jealousy, but it still wasn’t right.”

Dean slid a finger beneath your chin and tilted your head up until your eyes met.

“Beau can handle himself,” he said quietly. “He knew what he was doing.”

“So you're not mad?” You asked, the gentleness in his voice was making it difficult to think straight.

“I'm furious,” he admitted, a humorless laugh escaped him. “But I’ll deal with him later.”

His thumb brushed across your jaw.

“You, on the other hand, are another story.”

Before you could even react, Dean slid his hand to the side of your neck, pulling you into a deep kiss. The frustration that had been simmering between you all night seemed to collide at once. 

One hand settled at your waist before drifting lower to your ass, drawing you closer as his other arm wrapped around you, hoisting you up and wrapping your thighs around his waist.

He backed you against the door, kissing you like he had a point to prove. When he finally pulled away, it was only to press a trail of kisses along your jaw, his forehead resting briefly against yours as both of you fought to catch your breath. 

His hand moved toward the hem of your skirt, brushing over the fabric of your panties and finding the evidence of just how affected you were. The corner of his mouth twitched as his gaze flickered up to meet yours. 

“This for him or me?” Dean asked, his voice low and rough around the edges. 

“You,” you whispered immediately, your pulse racing as his heated gaze locked onto yours. “Always you.” 

Those three words were all he needed.

Dean pulled away from the door and guided you toward the bed, dropping you on it before leaning over you. His lips found yours again, the kiss softer now, stripped of some of the jealousy and frustration that had fueled it moments before.

Then you suddenly broke away.

“Wait,” you gasped, catching his wrist before things could go any further. “Before we do this, I need to know what we are now.”

For a moment, all you could hear was the sound of both your breathing.

“Whatever you want us to be,” he said finally.

“Seriously? You’d just give up your womanizer ways for me?” You stared at him, a skeptical look on your face.

A grin tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“Baby, if you wanted to get married tomorrow, I’d do it.”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” you laughed, feeling him press a soft kiss to your cheek.

“Too soon to talk about children, then?”

“Take me on a proper date first.”

Dean's smile widened, “That can definitely be arranged.”

he hadn't been playing a game.

you had just seen right through the defense mechanism he had been using his entire life.

the heavy front door thudded open behind him, letting out a brief burst of blaring music before closing again.

two sets of footsteps crunched on the gravel.

"hey, man."

a heavy hand came down on his shoulder.

dean flinched, snapping his head around to see tucker standing there, his face tight with a mixture of pity and disappointment.

right next to him was beau maxwell. his arms crossed over his chest and his usual laid-back energy completely gone, replaced by a rare, dead-serious frown.

"i told you, dean," tucker said quietly, looking down the empty road. "i warned you that she doesn't do the whole half-in, half-out thing."

"i wasn't half-in," dean snapped, his voice suddenly raw, a dangerous edge cracking through his usual easy-going demeanor.

he ripped his shoulder away from tucker's grip, running a frantic hand through his blonde hair. "i was going to tell her tonight. i was waiting for the house to clear out so i could ask her to stay. permanently."

beau let out a low, heavy sigh, shaking his head. "then why didn't you say it in front of everyone? why did you let her watch you flirt with some sophomore if she's the one you wanted? you can't treat a girl like a secret and then expect her to treat you like a priority."

tucker nodded in agreement. "beau's right. you let her think she was just another hookup that half the campus has already been with. you can't blame her for cutting you off."

dean quickly opened his mouth to defend himself.

he wanted to explain that the girl by the keg meant absolutely nothing, that it was just muscle memory.

it just the casual persona he put on so nobody looked too closely at how much he actually cared.

but the words died in his throat.

i know when someone is just trying to win over a crowd.

you had called it.

every single bit of it.

he had been so terrified of admitting, even to himself, that he had finally found the right girl. the one he had been passively waiting for his entire life.

but he had treated her like a secret and in doing so, he had completely destroyed the only real thing he had.

"i fucked up, guys," dean whispered, his voice dropping into a register they had never heard from him before.

it was entirely stripped of pride, heavy with a terrifying, sudden desperation. "i really, really fucked up."

beau looked at tucker, then back at dean, his expression softening into something deeply sympathetic. "yeah. you did. and if i know her? she's not the type to give you a second chance just for the sake of it. you're going to have to actually work for this one."

dean didn't go back inside the party.

he walked straight up the stairs to his room, locked the door, and sat on the edge of his bed in the dark.

the scent of your coconut shampoo still lingered faintly on his pillow.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

the hum of the tires against the asphalt was the only sound inside suni's car for the first three miles.

after the oppressive, vibrating bass from earlier, the silence inside the sedan felt less like an absence of noise and more like a physical weight, settling deep into your bones.

you blankly stared out the passenger window, watching the streetlamps bleed past in long, blurry streaks of amber.

"do you want me to say it?" suni asked quietly, her brown eyes fixed on the dark road ahead.

her hands were gripped tight on the steering wheel, still vibrating with that protective adrenaline.

"say what?" you murmured, your forehead resting against the cool glass.

"that you are an absolute fucking badass," she said, a small, fierce smile tugging at the corner of her lips.

"i mean it. people don't just walk away from dean. girls usually dissolve into a puddle when he looks in their general direction, and you just destroyed him on his own driveway."

you let out a breath that was half-laugh, half-sigh, feeling the tight knot in your chest loosen just a fraction. "i don't feel like a badass. i feel hollow."

"that's just the detox," suni promised gently, reaching over to give your knee a supportive squeeze before putting both hands back on the wheel.

"it's the sugar crash after two months of eating nothing but empty calories. it'll pass."

she was right.

it was a crash.

but as you pulled up to your apartment building, the relief you expected to feel was shadowed by a lingering, dull ache.

you had drawn the line. you had won the argument.

so why did it feel like you were the one recovering from a blow?

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

four days passed in a tense, quiet limbo. you stayed away from the standard student hangouts.

you kept your head down, and entirely avoided the athletic side of campus.

which was much easier said than done.

it was actually hannah wells who broke the radio silence when you bumped into each other at work.

you two weren't particularly close outside of your shifts, but you had always been good coworkers, and she gave you a sympathetic look the second she saw you.

she admitted right off the bat that garrett had practically begged her to feel you out and see if you would be willing to hear dean's side of things.

but hannah made it clear she wasn't actually pushing his agenda.

you let her know, gently but firmly, that you just didn't want to hear him out right now.

she nodded immediately, completely understanding.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

you were halfway through your shift at malone's when the bell over the front door chimed and beau maxwell walked in from the cold.

the dinner rush hadn't started yet, leaving the restaurant washed in a warm, lazy quiet.

soft music drifted through the speakers. behind the bar, hannah was busy polishing glasses, while allie was sitting in one of the booths near the window. she was seemingly looking over her homework but clearly tuned into the room.

you looked up from the hostess stand and immediately narrowed your eyes.

beau rarely came here unless dean dragged him.

and judging by the guilty, deeply uncomfortable look on his face, this definitely wasn't a social visit.

"it's that bad, huh?" you asked dryly before he could even open his mouth to speak.

beau blinked. "what?"

"you drew the short straw." you crossed your arms. "dean sent you to talk to me."

hannah stopped wiping her glass, an amused smirk spreading across her face. the fact that beau's expression instantly gave him away nearly made you laugh.

"oh my god," you said, an incredulous smile finally breaking across your face. "he did."

"to be fair," beau said carefully, raising his hands in surrender, "i volunteered. mostly because i couldn't take another night of him pacing the living room floor like a caged animal."

allie leaned out of her booth slightly. "wait. dean di laurentis is sending representatives now?"

hannah leaned her elbows on the bar, looking entirely entertained. "please tell me he at least prepared a speech."

beau groaned, rubbing a hand over his face. "you people are evil."

"no," you corrected lightly, grabbing a stack of menus from the counter beside you, "he's pure evil."

that earned you a reluctant laugh from beau. he shoved his hands into his pockets, looking both amused and slightly helpless.

"okay," he admitted. "maybe this does look a little pathetic."

"a little?" allie echoed from her booth, shaking her head. "beau, i don't know why you're doing this for him."

hannah pointed a bar towel at you. "his approval ratings are in the toilet."

you pressed your lips together, fighting another smile.

it was ridiculous.

dean was apparently moping around because you stopped answering his texts.

a month ago, the idea would've satisfied you.

now it mostly just felt surreal.

beau's expression softened as your smile faded slightly. "i've known dean a long time," he said quietly. "and i've honestly never seen him like this before."

you focused on straightening the menus in your hands even though they were already perfectly aligned. "beau—"

"no, seriously." he leaned against the hostess stand, dropping his voice. "the guy is a disaster. garrett says he's playing like crap at practice because he's distracted all the time. coach yelled at him so hard yesterday his face literally turned purple.”

“and logan threatened to throw dean's phone into a lake because he keeps checking if you texted him back every thirty seconds. he doesn't sleep. he just... he stares at his phone."

a reluctant laugh slipped out before you could stop it, but it died quickly.

"this is insane," you muttered, covering your face briefly with your hand. "he's literally running a pr campaign."

"that's actually exactly what tucker called it," beau admitted.

the amusement faded entirely after a second, though, something heavier settling back into your chest. because underneath all the ridiculousness... there was still hurt.

a deep, aching bruise left by a boy who thought everything in life came easy.

you slowly lowered your hand. "did he send you because he thinks if enough people tell me he's miserable, i'll magically forget why i left?"

the teasing atmosphere immediately evaporated. beau straightened slightly, his voice turning serious.

"no." he shook his head.

"i came because he knows he hurt you. and because for once in his life, he's too scared to make it worse. he's terrified that if he pushes you, you'll completely erase him."

that caught you off guard.

even hannah went quiet behind the bar, returning to her glasses. you looked down at the menus in your hands, tracing your thumb absentmindedly along the edges.

beau hesitated before continuing. "he's not trying to charm his way out of this anymore," he said carefully. "honestly? i think that's freaking him out the most. he doesn't know how to exist without his armor."

before you could respond, the front door opened again and a group of customers entered, breaking the moment apart. hannah immediately pushed off the bar, professional mode clicking back in. "right, back to it before della catches us."

allie slid back into her booth to give the customers room. beau stepped away from the hostess stand, giving you one last careful look. "i'm not saying you should forgive him," he said gently. "that's your call. but i do think losing you finally forced him to become a person instead of just a personality."

and annoyingly enough, that line stayed with you long after he left.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

by the end of the week, the hurt had hardened into a reckless, heavy spike of anger.

suni practically forced you out the door to the pre-game mixer at the phi kappa house. "you need to show up, look stunning which isn't hard for you, and prove you aren't hiding in your room crying over a some hockey player," she insisted.

the house was a sensory overload—a wall of thumping bass, sticky floors, and sweat-fogged windows.

it took exactly five minutes for the room to feel subtly dialed into your arrival. across the crowded living room, the hockey team was gathered near the back patio.

and right in the center was dean.

he looked exhausted, his gaze drifting aimlessly until logan nudged him, pointing in your direction. the moment dean's blue eyes locked onto yours, his entire posture changed.

his chest rose sharply, and he took an instinctive step forward, completely abandoning his conversation.

his eyes flared with a sudden, desperate hope.

you felt the invisible weight of the room watching, waiting for the classic fallout. a dark, defiant spark ignited in your chest.

dean had spent months keeping your relationship a secret, acting like a casual observer while he entertained a crowd.

two can play that game.

you deliberately tore your eyes away from him, turning your gaze toward liam. liam was a handsome football player who had been hovering in your orbit since the start of the academic year.

he was tall, built, and more than happy to have your sudden, undivided attention.

out of the corner of your eye, you saw dean freeze. the hope on his face shattered.

you leaned in close to liam, letting your laughter trail off into something softer, low and intimate.

you stepped directly into his space, your hand sliding deliberately up his arm to rest against his shoulder, your fingers brushing the nape of his neck.

liam's eyes darkened instantly with surprise and heat. his hand came up, wrapping firmly around your waist and pulling you flush against him.

across the room, dean looked like he had been physically struck.

you could see his jaw clenching so hard a muscle jumped in his cheek, his knuckles turning stark white as his grip tightened around his red cup.

garrett muttered something in his ear, placing a grounding hand on his shoulder, but dean brushed him off as his eyes burned into you with a raw, bleeding agony.

you didn't look back at him. instead, you leaned up on your toes, your eyes dropping to liam's lips.

"you're incredibly beautiful tonight," liam murmured, his voice thick, his thumb sliding beneath the edge of your top, tracing the bare skin of your hip.

"thank you," you breathed out, tilting your head up slightly. "liam?"

"mhm?"

"kiss me."

he didn't hesitate. liam leaned down, slanting his mouth over yours.

he didn't hold back at all. his lips were warm and demanding, his hand pressing firmly into the small of your back to hold you tight against his chest.

you let your eyes close and leaned into the weight of him, wrapping your arms around his neck, deepening the kiss into something slow, deliberate, and deeply sensual.

you made sure it lingered, playing your part perfectly for the crowd.

and for the specific boy breaking apart by the doors.

a low ripple of whispers washed through the immediate room. the kiss was thick with heat, but it didn't ignite that familiar, electric ache you only ever felt with a certain stupid idiot.

when you finally pulled back, liam was breathing heavily, a dazed, smug smile tugging at his lips.

you offered him a quiet, heavy-lidded smile before finally looking past his shoulder.

the satisfaction immediately turned to ash in your throat.

dean looked physically ill. the fierce, possessive anger had completely drained out of him, leaving behind a hollow, entirely defeated devastation.

his face was completely pale, his eyes wide as he stared at you. it was like he was looking at the end of his life.

watching you give someone else that kind of intimacy had entirely undone him.

dean's fingers slacked. his cup slipped from his hand, clattering against the floor and splashing beer across his shoes, but he didn't even notice.

he turned on his heel and blindly pushed through the crowd, fleeing out the back doors into the freezing night air.

beau shot you a heavy, disappointed look before turning to follow him out.

you stood frozen beside liam, the adrenaline completely evaporating, leaving behind a bitter, hollow ache in your chest. you had hurt dean exactly the way he hurt you.

so why did you feel like throwing up?

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

dean didn't find you until two weeks later. it took him two full weeks after that party to gather the courage to approach you again. when he finally did, it wasn't at a party, or in his bedroom, or under dim lights where he could press his mouth against yours and make you forget.

it was the middle of the afternoon in the campus library.

you were sitting cross-legged in one of the armchairs near the back windows, a stack of annotated articles spread across the table beside you.

for a long minute, he just stood at the end of the aisle.

god, he looked awful. the sharp jawline you used to trace was covered in a rough, uneven stubble. his signature silver-tongued confidence was entirely absent.

you sensed him before he even spoke. your eyes lifted slowly from your laptop. no warmth or softening. just... nothing.

dean flinched. "hey," he said, his voice raw and stripped of its usual smooth cadence.

you looked back down at your laptop screen, your voice flat. "dean."

he swallowed hard, stepping closer, his hands shoved deep into his pockets as if to keep himself from reaching out. "can we talk for maybe a second? please. just... two minutes. i'll leave right after, i swear."

"i'm really busy right now, dean."

"i know. i know you are." his voice cracked. he hesitated, his eyes flashing with a sudden, sharp spike of residual pain from the party. he swallowed hard, trying to keep his composure, but his voice shook. "are you... are you seeing him? liam?"

you didn't even look up from your screen. "that's really none of your business."

"none of my—" dean let out a bitter, breathy laugh, his eyes swimming. he leaned slightly over the table, his voice dropping to a harsh, desperate whisper. "that was low, you know. even for you. putting on a show like that in front of everyone just to rub my face in it?"

you finally shut your laptop softly, leaning back in your chair and crossing your arms.

you scoffed at him, a cold, mocking sound that cut right through his defense.

"low?" you repeated, your voice slicing through him. "you should worry less about who i'm kissing, dean, and worry a lot more about yourself. you don't get to lecture me about public displays when you practically pioneered them."

the reality of your words hit him like a physical punch to his ribs. he actually took a half-step back, his chest heaving as the hypocrisy collapsed on him.

he was desperate to know if you were talking to liam. he was paralyzed by the thought that you had moved on, but he knew he had no right to ask.

"i'm sorry," he whispered, the defensive edge completely evaporating, leaving him entirely exposed. "you're right. i have no right. i just... i think i genuinely don't know how to handle this."

"i think you genuinely don't understand why you hurt me in the first place," you countered calmly, the honesty of it cutting deeper than your anger ever could.

"you understand that i left. you understand that your bed is empty and your ego is bruised. but i don't think you actually understood what it felt like to stand next to you and constantly feel temporary. to feel like a placeholder until someone better, or flashier, caught your eye."

dean went completely still.

"i liked you so much, dean," you admitted quietly. it made you almost sick to say it. the words tasted bitter and heavy as they left your tongue, but unfortunately it was true.

"it was enough to make excuses for things i normally wouldn't tolerate. i let myself believe you actually cared, and you made me feel stupid for it. you treated my feelings like they were disposable. i'm not doing it anymore. i'm done."

"please," he whispered, his voice dropping to a raw, desperate plea. "don't say it's over. just give me something to fix. tell me what to do."

"there's nothing to do," you said, your heart aching behind the wall you had built, but you forced your voice to remain steady. "i just need you to leave."

he stood there for a long, agonizing beat, looking at you like a man watching his life sentence being handed down.

finally, he closed his eyes, took a shaky, ragged breath, and nodded.

"okay," he sighed, his shoulders hunched in complete defeat. "okay. i'm sorry."

he turned around and walked away, his heavy footsteps fading down the library aisle, leaving you alone with a crushing, heavy silence.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

two more weeks passed. then three.

if dean's initial reaction to the "breakup" was a loud, messy public moping tour, his reaction to the library confrontation was a total blackout.

the campus gossip machine slowed down because dean stopped giving them material.

he wasn't partying.

he wasn't hovering at the edges of your vision.

but he hadn't given up instead he had just changed his tactics.

the loud gestures were replaced by quiet, undeniable consistency.

every tuesday and thursday morning—the days you had an 10.00 am seminar on the opposite side of campus—there was a large vanilla latte waiting for you at the barista counter, already paid for.

no note.

just your exact, complicated order.

when you tried to refuse it, the barista just shrugged. "he said if you don't take it, i have to throw it out. every day."

you left it on the counter the first three times.

by the fourth time, the cold winter air bit too hard, and you took it.

it tasted like an apology.

then came the hockey games. suni dragged you to the friday night game against yale.

you sat twelve rows up, determined to look indifferent.

but the moment the team skated onto the ice, it was clear dean wasn't playing for the scouts or the crowd anymore.

he played with a brutal, self-punishing intensity. and when he scored the game-winning goal in the third period, the stadium erupted.

normally, dean would skate a lap, flashing his devastating smile to the student section, soaking in the god-like adoration.

instead, he skated straight to the center line, stopped, and looked directly up into the stands. right at you.

he didn't smile. he just held your gaze for three agonizing seconds, chest heaving, before skating back to the bench.

"okay," suni muttered beside you, watching him go. "that was... actually kind of miserable. he didn't even wink at the girls."

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

the next afternoon, you were heading out of the science building when a shadow fell over you.

you braced yourself, expecting to see blue eyes and a desperate expression, but when you looked up, it was tucker.

he stepped right into your pace, unceremoniously slinging his heavy arm over your shoulders, pulling you briefly into his side to shield you from a sudden blast of freezing wind.

"hey," tucker said quietly, giving your shoulder a firm, reassuring squeeze before letting his arm drop back to his side. "you got a minute? i'm not here on his orders, i swear. he doesn't even know i'm talking to you."

you didn't walk away, but you still kept your guard up. "tucker, if this is about dean—"

"it is," he interrupted gently. he gestured toward a quiet bench under a bare oak tree.

once you both sat down, he leaned his elbows on his knees, looking at you with complete sincerity.

"i'm not here to tell you he's miserable, because you already know that, and honestly, he deserves to be. but he's always been the guy who keeps one foot out the door because he thinks if he doesn't fully commit, nothing can actually hurt him."

you let out a bitter, breathy sigh, looking down at your boots. "so i'm just supposed to wait around while he plays psychologist with himself?"

"no," tucker said firmly, catching your eye.

"absolutely not. you did the right thing by walking away. you forced him to look in a mirror, and he hated what he saw. but what i'm trying to tell you, as your friend he's not trying to trick you back. he's genuinely terrified because he realized his own cowardice cost him the only real thing he's ever wanted."

tucker leaned back slightly against the bench. "i've never seen dean look at a girl the way he looks at you. he's not trying to smooth things over anymore, he's just trying to figure out how to be a man you could actually trust. i'm not asking you to take him back. i'm just asking you not to completely write him off before you let him speak."

you sat in silence for a long moment, the weight of tucker's words sinking deep into your chest.

tucker wasn't an enabler. he was your friend, and he was the moral compass of that friend group.

if he was defending the sincerity of dean's change, it had to mean something.

"thank you, tuck," you murmured softly.

he gave you a brief, supportive nod, standing up from the bench. "just think about it, okay? see you around."

you watched him walk away, your mind a chaotic blur.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

a few days later, you were sitting on the couch in your apartment, staring blankly at a textbook, when suni dropped a mug of tea onto the coffee table in front of you.

"you're thinking about him," she said flatly, crossing her arms as she leaned against the back of the chair.

you let out a long sigh, rubbing your temples. "i don't want to be. but it's been a month, suni. he's not stopping. every time i turn around, there's a coffee, or he's clearing out of a room the second i walk into it so i don't feel uncomfortable. and his friends are trying to reason with me. it's infuriating."

"why is it infuriating?"

"because it's working," you admitted, your voice cracking. "it's making me remember why i fell for him before he started acting like a coward. but i'm terrified. if i let him back in, what happens when he gets bored of making amends? what happens when the crowd calls his name again?"

suni searched your face, seeing the deep, defensive armor you had built. she slid onto the couch next to you, pulling your hand into hers.

"then you make him earn the right to even ask that question," suni said softly, squeezing your fingers.

"you don't fold just because he's acting like a human being now. that's the baseline expectation, not a reward. if you want to talk to him, talk to him. but don't let him off the hook until you are 100% sure he knows he's lucky to breathe the same air as you."

just promise me you walk away if he slips back into his old habits." she sighed holding onto your hands.

"i promise," you whispered, a sudden wave of clarity washing over you.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

you didn't go to the rink to find him.

it was close to midnight when you found yourself walking toward the athletic center to drop off a borrowed, heavily annotated textbook for hannah.

but as you stepped into the corridor, the muffled, echoing thwack of a puck against boards drew you toward the main arena doors.

armed with suni and tucker's advice echoing in your head and a tug in your chest you couldn't ignore anymore, you pulled open the heavy side doors of the rink.

the stadium was dark, except for the bright, stark floodlights illuminating the pristine white sheet of ice.

dean was alone.

he was stripped down to his practice jersey and skates. there was no crowd to impress, no scouts watching, no teammates to joke with.

it was just him, a puck, and a net.

he was doing suicide drills—skating full sprint to the blue line, stopping hard enough to spray a cascade of ice shavings, skating back, and doing it again.

he was panting, his blonde hair soaked with sweat, his movements driven by a furious, desperate energy.

he was trying to skate away from his own head.

you stood by the player's bench, your arms crossed, watching him coolly.

"you're slacking on your defense di laurentis," you called out. your voice echoed sharply in the cavernous, empty arena.

dean froze.

his skates dug into the ice with a harsh screech, breaking the silence.

he snapped his head around, his chest heaving as he stared at you.

for a second, he looked entirely paralyzed, as if he thought he was hallucinating.

"you're here," he breathed, slowly skating toward the boards. he stopped a few feet away, looking up from the ice.

"i'm here," you said softly, your tone steady, giving him absolutely nothing to work with. no smile or softness. you unlatched the heavy wooden door of the player's bench. "i think you've done enough pacing around campus, dean. come here."

before he could answer, you took a tentative step out onto the ice. you were wearing regular winter boots, completely unequipped for a freshly zambonied sheet of ice.

"wait, wait, hold on—" dean warned, his eyes widening in alarm.

naturally, you didn't listen. your heel hit a patch of smooth ice, and your balance instantly vanished. your arms flailed as you slipped backward, a short gasp escaping your throat.

but you didn't hit the ice.

dean moved with the terrifying speed of a professional athlete. in a fraction of a second, he closed the distance, his strong gloved hands catching you right around the waist. he hauled you against his chest, his skates digging hard into the ice to anchor both of your weights.

you gasped, your hands automatically flying up to grip his broad shoulders. you were pressed flush against him, the cool scent of the ice and his familiar cologne enveloping you completely.

"gotcha," dean whispered, his breath puffing white in the cold air.

he didn't let go.

his hands stayed firmly clamped around your waist, pulling you so close that you could feel the rapid, thumping beat of his heart against your chest.

he was looking down at you like you were the only thing left in the entire world, his eyes intense, wide, and bright with unshed tears.

no armor. just dean.

but even wrapped in his arms, you kept your gaze sharp.

you didn't melt….. just yet.

"you're a fucking idiot," you murmured, your voice level and direct. "you really messed up, dean."

"i know," he whispered, his voice cracking as a tear finally slipped down his cheek, cutting through the sweat on his face. he didn't even try to brush it away.

"i'm the biggest idiot. i ruined everything. the night you left... i sat in my room and i realized i've spent my whole life making sure nobody could ever reject me by making sure i never fully committed to anything.” he continued.

“and then i met you. and i was so terrified of how much power you had over me that i tried to make you small so i could feel big."

he took a shaky breath, his grip tightening around your waist as if you might vanish if he let go.

"seeing you with liam? it nearly killed me. but the worst part wasn't jealousy. the worst part was realizing i was the one who drove you into his arms. i am so sorry. i am so, so sorry for making you feel like a secret. i swear to god, i love you. i don't want anyone else. i just want you."

you stood steady in his hold, letting the weight of his words hang in the freezing air.

your heart was pounding, but you kept your hands firm against his shoulders, maintaining your boundary.

"words are easy for you, dean," you said quietly.

"you've always been good with a crowd. you've always known exactly what to say to smooth things over. i don't want a public spectacle. i care about what this is."

"this isn't a performance," he choked out, his shoulders hunching in complete defeat, entirely exposed to you. "tell me what to do. anything. i don't care how long it takes."

you looked at him for a long moment, watching the genuine, stripped-back desperation in his eyes. only then did you let a very small, guarded smile touch your lips. it wasn't a total surrender, but it was a crack in the ice.

"i'm not ready to give you a second chance," you told him firmly, your voice unwavering.

"and i'm definitely not ready to forget how you treated me. but i am willing to stop running so if you want to try and earn my trust back, you can start by taking me on a real date. next friday. and if you slip back into your old habits even once? i'm gone. do you understand me?"

a breathless, stunned laugh escaped dean's lips. it wasn't his usual confident chuckle.

it was a sound of pure, unadulterated relief, heavy with the realization of just how close he had come to losing you.

"yes," he whispered fiercely, his eyes shining as he looked down at you. "yes, absolutely. whatever you want. however long it takes. i'll be exactly who you need me to be."

you let your eyes drop to his lips, then back to his eyes, finally allowing yourself to relax against his chest. "show me."

dean didn't hesitate.

he leaned down and captured your lips in a deep, desperate, passionate kiss.

it wasn't the smooth, practiced kiss of a guy trying to charm his way into a girl's room.

it was heavy with weeks of longing, raw with the terror of almost losing you, and overflowing with a profound, aching relief.

he poured everything he couldn't put into words into the press of his mouth against yours, his fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of your neck, holding you to him as if he could bind your paths together right then and there.

when he finally pulled back, just an inch, his forehead rested against yours. both of you were breathing heavily, the white puffs of your breath mingling together in the cold air.

dean let out a soft, shaky laugh, a brilliant, breathtaking smile finally spreading across his handsome face—the first real smile he had had in weeks.

"so," dean murmured, his thumb gently tracing your jawline, though his eyes still held that cautious, vulnerable edge. "does this mean my approval ratings are finally going up?"

you let out a genuine laugh, but you didn't let him entirely off the hook. "don't push your luck, di laurentis. you are still on probation."

"i'll take it," he whispered, before leaning right back down to kiss you again, your laughter echoing beautifully in the empty arena.

instead, you leaned against the wall near the hallway, a lukewarm red solo cup dangling from your fingers, watching the kitchen.

next to you, your best friend suni nudged your shoulder with her elbow, taking a sip of her own drink.

"don't look now," she murmured, her eyes darting toward the island, "but your resident heartbreaker is putting on a clinic."

you didn't need to look because you already knew.

dean di laurentis was in peak form tonight. his hair was perfectly messy, the sleeves of his cardigan pushed up to his elbows to show off his toned forearms.

that ridiculously charming, dimpled smile was plastered on his face as he laughed with a group of sophomores.

he looked effortless.

he always looked effortless.

but tonight, it didn't make your stomach flutter. it just made it twist into a tight, painful knot.

because you knew exactly what happened would happen after the party ended.

for two months, you had lived in the quiet, intoxicating orbit of his bedroom.

you knew the exact weight of his body pressing you down into the mattress. the heat of his skin radiating against yours, and the heavy, breathless way he murmured your name into the hollow of your throat when the rest of the world faded away.

he possessed a devastating, patient kind of touch.

his hands that knew exactly how to trace your spine until you were helpless under him, lips that memorized yours like a language only the two of you spoke.

it was addictive, beautiful, and utterly consuming.

but it always happened behind closed doors, in the dark. it left you with the growing, heavy realization that while he was consuming your entire mind, you were just a recurring chapter in his very long, very public book.

your major required you to analyse empty rhetoric and spotting when someone was using smooth talking to hide a lack of substance.

you were literally being graded on your ability to see through an operator.

yet, every weekend, you walked right into this house and let dean do exactly that to you.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

just past dean's shoulder, you caught sight of john tucker standing by the fridge, a bottle of water in his hand.

tucker had become one of your closest friends since your freshman year despite the two you being complete opposites.

the second he noticed you looking, his face softened into an expression of quiet, heavy sympathy.

tucker had warned you. the moment he had noticed dean eyeing you at a different party a few months ago, he had pulled you aside in the hallway of this very house.

"he's a really good guy, i swear," tucker had told you gently, rubbing the back of his neck, his voice laced with a protective streak.

"but he's a rolling stone, alright? he doesn't stay in one place, and he's got half the campus on speed dial. just... watch your heart."

you had smiled, thanked him, and then gone ahead and fallen entirely under dean's spell anyway.

because when dean di laurentis turned his focus on you, it felt like the sun only shone in your direction.

until tonight.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

ten minutes ago, you had watched him flash that exact same dimpled smile at a blonde girl by the keg, his hand lingering just a second too long on her hip as he poured her a drink.

you were done.

entirely, completely done with his bullshit.

"i think i'm gonna head out," you told suni, setting your cup down on a nearby table.

suni followed your gaze to the kitchen, her expression instantly shifting from party-mode to fiercely protective. "do you want me to come with you? we can leave right now. we don't even have to say goodbye."

before you could answer, dean's eyes scanned the room, cutting through the haze of the party until they locked right onto yours.

his smile shifted.

it went from his public, generic "party host" grin to something sharper. simmering.

he excused himself from the group with a smooth nod and made a direct beeline through the crowded kitchen for you.

"go ahead," suni muttered, giving your hand a supportive squeeze.

"put him in his place. i'll be by the front door when you're ready." she gave dean a pointed, icy look as he approached, then melted into the crowd toward the foyer.

dean didn't just walk. he glided, carrying the casual confidence of a guy who assumed he was going to get exactly what he wanted by the end of the night.

across the room, tucker watched him go, letting out a small, worried sigh but staying back, letting you handle it.

"you're hiding in the corner," dean said, leaning his hand on the wall right above your head, effectively trapping you in his space.

the familiar, addictive scent of mint and woodsmoke washed over you, and it took everything in you not to lean into it.

"i don't like when my favorite person hides."

"i'm not hiding, di laurentis," you replied, your voice flat, refusing to let him see how much he was getting to you.

"and i'm pretty sure i'm not your favorite person. i think that title belongs to whatever woman stands closest to you."

dean let out a low, delighted laugh, his chest brushing slightly against your shoulder. he thought you were just playing hard to get.

he thought this was part of the game. "ouch. cold. and here i was, about to tell you that that color looks absolutely devastating on you." his voice dropped an octave, smooth as silk, his head tilting down so his lips were dangerously close to your ear, cutting out the blaring music.

"seriously. i've been waiting all night for everyone to leave so i can get you upstairs."

you didn't blush and you most definitely didn't smile.

you just raised an eyebrow.

it was textbook dean.

meaningless, sweet, and addictive words that he handed out like candy to you, to the girl by the keg, and to half the women on campus.

"wow. that was really good," you deadpanned, pushing your palm against his chest to create some distance between you. "did you practice that in the mirror, or do you just keep the same script for all of us?"

dean blinked, a flicker of genuine confusion crossing his features before he recovered, his grin turning playful. "what's that supposed to mean?"

"it means it's all sweet, dean," you said, your voice dropping, sharp and laced with all the frustration you'd been bottling up for weeks.

"it tastes good in the moment, but there's nothing actually there. i spend forty hours a week studying empty campaigns, dean. i know when someone is just trying to win over a crowd. you have a lovely way with words, but i'm officially full. i'm not buying what you're selling anymore."

the playful, cocky smirk finally faltered on his face.

the casual warmth in those vivid blue eyes tightened into something tense and alert as he realized you weren't joking.

he grabbed your wrist, not tightly, but firmly, his thumb brushing over your pulse point.

"hey," he murmured, stepping closer, trying to shut out the rest of the noisy, crowded house. "where is this coming from? come upstairs with me. let's just talk."

"no, dean. that's the fucking problem," you said, pulling your wrist out of his grip.

"we don't talk. you just say exactly what you think i want to hear so you can keep me in your rotation. and i'm not doing it anymore. find someone else to fill your bed tonight."

turning on your heel, you started walking toward the front door where suni was waiting.

"wait—hold on" dean called after you, but you didn't stop. you pushed past the heavy front door, suni right at your flank, stepping out into the crisp, cool night air.

the relative quiet of the gravel driveway was a sharp shock to the system compared to the roaring house.

"suni, let's just get to the car," you muttered, picking up your pace.

before you could even reach the edge of the lawn, the heavy front door thudded open behind you.

"hey" dean's voice cut through the darkness, completely stripped of its usual smooth, unflappable charm.

you stopped, closing your eyes for a brief second to gather your strength, before turning around.

he jogged down the porch steps, the golden light from the house framing his silhouette. he stopped a few feet away, chest heaving slightly, his messy blonde hair tossed by the breeze.

for the first time since you'd known him, dean di laurentis looked entirely unsettled, his striking blue eyes wide and fiercely locked onto yours in the dim light of the driveway.

"what are you doing?" dean asked, his voice raw, gesturing back toward the house. "you're just going to walk out? because i smiled at someone at a party? it was nothing. you know how i am."

"yeah, dean. i do know how you are," you said, your voice terrifyingly calm, the cool wind whipping your hair across your face. "that's exactly why i'm leaving."

"come on," he stepped closer, reaching a hand out, his tone shifting back into that desperate, persuasive rhythm he used so well. "you know it's different with you. when it's just us... you know it means something."

you looked at his extended hand, then looked him dead in the eyes.

the spell was completely broken.

"no, it doesn't," you said, your voice steady, cutting through the night. "if it meant something, you wouldn't make me feel invisible the second the sun comes up. i know exactly what a bad deal looks like, dean. and i am officially withdrawing my terms."

dean froze, his hand dropping back to his side. the utter finality in your posture seemed to hit him like a physical blow.

he opened his mouth to speak—to throw out one last charming line, one last sweet promise—but for the first time in his life, the campus's greatest talker couldn't find a single word.

you didn't wait for him to try.

you just gave him a small, sad nod of closure, turned around, and climbed into the passenger seat of suni's honda civic.

as suni backed down the driveway and pulled onto the main road, you looked at your side mirror. dean hadn't moved an inch.

he was still standing under the dim glow of the driveway lights, looking smaller than he ever had, watching the tail lights of suni’s car disappear into the dark.

for two months, he had been the one calling the shots.

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

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

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

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

You accepted the blunt with a quiet sigh.

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

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

“Dean,” you finally interrupted, tone firm.

He stopped talking immediately.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His brows furrowed.

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

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

He passed the blunt over again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“But you told me–”

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

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

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

Dean watched you carefully. “Was it?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then your lips twitched. “Celibacy.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

You grinned. “He’s six-one.”

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

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

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

A laugh escaped you softly.

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

“You should become a priest,” you interrupted.

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

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

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

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

“How solidary of you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Use me,” he blurted out.

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

“What do you mean?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’ll close the park?”

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

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

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

“I was fifteen.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You swallowed.

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

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

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

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

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

You slept absurdly well afterward.

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

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

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

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

The doors behind you opened quietly midway through class.

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

You recognized the cologne immediately.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“We need to talk.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Stuff you might regret,” you clarified.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dean remembered everything you said…unfortunately.

You sighed heavily. “We need rules.”

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

You almost reconsidered your next words. Almost.

“No kissing.”

Dean’s shoulders visibly dropped. “Why?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dean stared at you for another second before exhaling dramatically. 

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

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

Dean’s brows lifted.

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

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

“You know what I mean.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your gaze dropped away first.

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

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

“Can I add rules too?” he asked.

You sighed dramatically. “Sure.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your mouth parted slightly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You snorted softly.

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

The rest of the week passed almost painfully normal.

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

Nothing changed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Let’s see,” you murmured.

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

Dean noticed and his throat cleared quietly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You still read it.”

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

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

“Not in math,” he said quietly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tucker.

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

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

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

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

The front door opened and you froze.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your mouth pressed into a painfully tight smile.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fresh air hit your lungs sharply, cool and tensionless.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I won’t change my mind.”

“You say that now...”

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

Silence settled across the apartment immediately afterward.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why aren’t you at the party?”

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

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

“Because I’m here with you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I have my sources.”

You grimaced again. “That sounds vaguely threatening.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Lingerie?” you asked, genuinely confused.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Besides the obvious?”

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

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

Your fingers tightened slightly around the lace.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Yeah. Definitely one of my favorites.’

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

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

Even he sounded unsure of the answer.

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

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

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

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

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

It was becoming genuinely embarrassing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dean looked up immediately, the reaction was almost embarrassing.

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

The silence stretched thickly.

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

You swallowed. “What do you think?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“With my mouth,” you finished quietly.

You didn’t move afterward and neither did he.

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

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

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

Your eyes met his again through the reflection.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Hardened nipples," you gasped, eyes fluttering.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dean blinked up at you lazily, pupils completely blown.

You swallowed once. “Did you…?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

The kiss was warm, searing and long overdue.

Dean’s hand moved instantly to the back of your head, holding you in place like he’d been waiting weeks to finally do exactly this. It started slow for approximately two seconds, soft lips parting against yours carefully, almost disbelievingly, before weeks of tension snapped apart all at once.

You melted into him with a breathless sound as his mouth pressed harder against yours.

Dean kissed like he did everything else, thoroughly.

His thumb pushed lightly beneath your jaw, tilting your head back enough for him to deepen the kiss, tongue sliding against yours slow at first, exploratorily, before the restraint he’d been clinging to all night dissolved completely. The taste of him, the warmth of his mouth and the low groan that rumbled out of his chest when you kissed him back with equal desperation made your stomach tighten all over again.

The kiss quickly turned messy, hungry. You could barely catch your breath between them, mouths reconnecting instantly every time you pulled apart for air like neither of you could tolerate the distance anymore. Dean’s grip tightened on your hair as his other hand spread wide against your back, dragging you flush against him while his tongue swept against yours again, deeper this time, making heat rush straight through your body.

So much for rules.

Seems like Six Flags had just been privatised for a single Agent Provocateur wearer…indefinitely.

Jack's eyes swept over your form, watching his shirt wrap around you, reaching an inch below your panty-line. Fuck, he angled his head sideways, there was no panty-line.

"New rules, baby," He rasped as his hands gripped your hips, "Keep up."

His lips connected to yours the instant he was close enough and a deep sigh released from his nose, as if his entire body is relieved to finally touch your skin. Your hands reached up to press firmly on his shoulders, nudging your forehead on his.

"But jack," pausing the kiss and stretching his name out in a whine, "how do I follow rules I don't know?"

Jack's eyes stayed on your lips as he scoffed lightly and pushed his warm palms up under your shirt. "Where is it?"

You blinked for a moment before your grin returned. He was asking about the frill-edged red corset and thong set depicted so artfully on your figure in your text message pictures.

"I did look cute in it, didn't I?" you whispered, brushing his lips closely.

"Delicious is a better description, sweet," Jack turned his head to speak against the curve of your neck, open-mouthed and almost biting.

"That's exactly why I thought I shouldn't keep wearing it," you tipped your head back as your breath hitched, "you'll ruin it, it's expensive."

"Oh, hmm," his breath hot behind your ears, teeth bared to slightly graze your skin, "That's ok, next time we buy the store, yeah?" 

"We ruin the sets one by one," he breathes as he switched to the other side of your neck, stubble scratching your jaw.

Your leg hooked behind his knee, eliminating any space between your hips. You tugged hard at his scrub top as he attached his lips above your collarbone. It took Jack a second to step back and remove it along with his undershirt and your hands immediately land on his pecs. Warm skin under your palms still smelled of the man's heady, leathery cologne. Jack's callused fingers swept down to dig into your thighs, strong grip sinking where the soft meat of them meets your ass. You kissed him again, holding his cheeks towards you, and welcomed his opening mouth. 

You let yourself sink into it, kissing him was never not your favorite activity. In response, Jack slowed his touches, caressing your back softer, his adoring arms wrapping your waist in a hug as lips parted in a sigh. You smiled in his embrace and tangled your hands over his shoulders.

"I was just thinking you like me best like this," your whisper came forward with a smirk, "even when I occasionally tease you with fancy Agent Provocateur."

"Not quit," Jack shook his head once, before lifting his hands up your back and removing the shirt in one sweep, "This. I like you best like this. Because you don't need anything to make me lose my fucking mind." 

Not waiting for your next quip, he pushed his grip under your thighs and sat you on the kitchen counter. You weren't sure if you gasped because of the cold marble against your very naked core, or because of the titillating hardness immediately rubbing between your legs from behind his pants. 

Jack's breaths sped up, as is usual when you're completely bare for him, and his hand went to the back of your neck in a soft but firm hold. The loving control of a grip at the nape put your body on fire almost instantly.

"You missed me, didn't you?" he mumbled onto your lips.

You hummed, voice breaking in a whimper, as he swept your tongue into a dance with his. Jack's hands were reddening your thighs and behind, the skin lighting up in sparks wherever his groping moved. 

"Hnn-" you whined when a thrust of his hips pressed his clothed erection right against your exposed folds. 

"I ever tell you, Sweetpea," He paused to run his tongue down your collar to the dip between your breasts, "how elated it makes me to hear your pleasure? I fucking love that you whine so easily now, we haven't even reached the bedroom."

You tangled your fingers through his curls and tugged, "Jack- Ah.."

"So good for me."

An open-mouthed kiss enveloped your hard nipple, and the entire room glitched out of focus for a split second. While your spine shook with the sensitivity of that single touch, Jack released you slowly, ensuring you're steady on the counter top before taking two steps backwards. The loss of touch was so jarring, your breath sobbed out of you in hiccups.

"Look at me, baby," He rasped, reached for the bar stool beside him and dragging it directly before you, "we're doing what I want right now, and I want to watch." 

Sitting on the stool, Jack reached down, unlatched the prosthetic clasp under his knee and leaned back, keeping his eyes on you. Yours swept over him and stopped at the darkened spot at the center on his pants. 

Jack huffed a chuckle when he followed your eye-line to the wet patch your wetness caused. You looked incredible like this, chest rising fast, nipple hard and ultra-sensitive, fists clenched tight to stop them from reaching for him, and his favorite; the glaze in your hooded eyes trained on him. Only him.

"Touch yourself for me." 

The enunciation sent a shiver through your scalp, like hearing his voice dropped you into an echoing chamber, where there was nothing other than him and the pleasant scratch of his words in your ears. Your hand went straight to your folds, heel on top of your clit, while your other hand went to your breast, and you tipped your head back.

Jack's tongue click interrupted, "Eye open, baby. Keep'em on me."

There was a heaviness in you lids as they blinked to his face, and your breath stuttered when you met his burning gaze. You moaned as your fingers caressed the scalding hot skin at your entrance, your exhales sharpen every time your touch brushed your nipple. 

"Good." 

"Fuck-" you hissed.

"I know, right?" he drawled, slow and languid in his seat.

Your whimpers got louder, as the burning sensation covered your insides and traveled up your stomach. Under his view, your touch felt like a combination of your hand and his. Your thighs started to tremble in effort to remain open, and unadulterated want shot through you hard enough to sting the corners of your eyes.

"Please.." you begged, "Jack, pleas-"

"Overwhelmed doing it by yourself, huh?" he hummed.

You nodded bashfully, biting your lip.

Then your palm brushed your clit at that specific, almost unreachable angle, and your jaw opened in a gasp as your eyes fluttered with the intense singe of pleasure. A slide-click sound had you open your eyelids again to see the glimmering prosthetic is back on Jack's limb. He slid a finger though the binding at his thigh, adjusting the socket pressure, then stood slowly with his eyes remaining on your writhing form.

Large hands cupped your hipbones as he closed in, followed immediately by his lips on yours. The firm press and slide of them built a hot throb of blood under your skin, you face tingling and lips swollen. 

You hummed into the kiss, opening for his tongue easily, and you started to reach for him, for his skin, freckled biceps, his beautiful face- 

Jack clicked his tongue again, closing a grip around both your wrists and placing them flat on the marble counter, "Hands stay here, it's my turn now."

Another kiss, "Be good for me?"

"Hah- Ye-" but your Yes was hiccuped as he used the pads of his thumbs right on the tips of your nipples at exactly the right moment to watch your speech stumble and sputter in heightened arousal. It bloomed a dimpled smile across his cheeks.

"Baby," Jack muttered against your forehead, "I'm gonna fuck you, Sweet, but I want to taste you first."

A sob left you and your arms trembled, straining so hard to stay on the counter and not stray to that silvery curl at the back of his neck. You wanted so badly on bite at his shoulders, move your nails along his spine. "Please, baby."

Reached a foot back and hooking it on the leg of the stool, Jack pulled the stool close to the back of his legs. His hands were firm and demanding as they slid down to your thighs, gripping and parting them. 

"Let me," securing a hold on the underside of your thighs, Jack seated himself directly before your parted lower lips, "I've been craving this since yesterday afternoon."

His breath heady and electrifying on your skin, his eyes ablaze staring intently at the shiny wetness before him. 

His head dips, tongue absolutely ravenous, and all at once your vision lights up in sparks.

He did say delicious, didn't he?

Thank you sm for reading! <3

taglist:

@stevesaint-eve @pitttcrue @cupidscigarette @cassierins @emmasjxlian @idrkman @turtleshavesoulmates @beaniesmom @thepitttrash @anisahfalcon @just-reading22 @neverendingdreamers @generation-zero @mimsie95 @angelbunny222 @peaches-roses-sins @hstbsl06 @emma8895eb

So, you divided your time between politicians trying to clear their names, influencers who wanted to rebrand themselves, and—of course—your metal-armed afflatus, Bucky Barnes.

He was now part of the Thunderbolts… New Avengers? They were still trying to discover themselves.

Oh, and that gave you a lot of material to work with—from old ‘Avengers’ Tower’ fanfictions to Thunderbolts’ Watchtower.

People were always sending requests, and you were always working on something new.

Alternative Universes, What If’s, whatever thing your readers asked you to do—you were taking it and doing it.

You had done it for several years with different characters, actors, singers, whoever you liked at the moment. And now it was Bucky Barnes’ turn. You couldn’t catch what it was. It could’ve been his deep background, how he looked rough around the edges, but the way he treated people gave him away as a soft man.

One of your rules was always to leave out Real Person Fanfictions—but he made you break all your rules.

The first time you found yourself writing for him was when he broke loose from HYDRA’s clutches. He was back from Wakanda, and he was now a citizen—or that’s what he told himself.

Then the flag-smashers’ ordeal occurred, and he went all the way to find any sort of solutions with Sam Wilson, the new Captain America.

And after that, he went radio silent.

For about two years, he was nowhere to be seen.

Sometimes he would be spotted in crowds just trying to pass as a normal citizen. That was, until he was announced as a Congressman.

Congressman Barnes.

Oh, the fanfictions you wrote and read with that prompt.

It was already bad having him as a reckless outlaw—now having him with a suit and being a man of the law?

God helped you and all the girls who had a crush on him.

Your mind took you to the most lustful places every time you saw him in the news with that suit and his suitcase.

“You’ve got a new client,” your boss told you, placing a black-and-yellow folder in front of you. “It’s a big one.”

‘Confidential’

You sat at your desk, reading your worst nightmare coming true. Something you’d read and written many, many times.

Your new client was none other than Valentina Allegra de Fontaine.

“What am I supposed to do with her?” You remained calm. Really trying not to look anxious or crazy.

“Well, she’s got her own reckless, ruthless ex-assassins, new superheroes that need to be cleared, and you’re the best in that.”

You sighed.

“C’mon, it’ll be fun. They are not hopeless, just… rough around the edges.”

And there you were, sitting at Valentina’s desk while she rambled about how they were the New Avengers, that all of them just needed to be polished, and they were going to be the perfect superheroes in New York.

Your first few weeks were easy; you didn’t have to see them at all. It was just you, Valentina, and Mel figuring out the best way to make them look better.

“You’re going to start with the easiest ones, Bob and Ava. They are not the best either, but it’ll be easier than Yelena Belova, Bucky Barnes, or the Red Thing.”

You were sitting in front of your laptop, your whole account stared back at you. It made you feel guilty now—this was supposed to be harmless to you and to anyone else.

And now you were working… literally on him.

No one really knew you liked him. So there was no point for you to ask to be removed from the case.

And you were for sure a professional. You knew how to take out your most primal and weird dreams from your workplace.

You’ve worked with real famous people—with famous actors and actresses, influencers, powerful politicians—and now you had the ex-assassin, ex-congressman Bucky Barnes, and it was even more difficult than any of your previous cases.

You had really thought about it before. How could someone like you help him to clean his public image? But it was just in a filthy fanfic.

‘I can change him. No, I can’t. Well, at least I can fuck him.’ You wrote in your author’s note.

Your mom had always told you that words had powers—you never really thought that this was the scenario where that would make sense. You never really thought you would jinx yourself with your writing skills.

“What if he finds out?” June asked, tilting her head.

Your friend, always by your side, was not always of help with her uncensored mouth. You looked back at her with a worried face.

“He will never find out!” She yelled, trying to hurry herself into making you feel better. “It’s impossible, you didn’t even use your name or your e-mail to create the account.

You sighed, knowing she was completely right, but with the kind of luck you were used to having. You could also swear that he would know everything about you as soon as he saw your face in the conference room.

“This is great material,” John laughed while he stared at his phone.

Alexei leaned in to look at it and laughed as hard as his lungs let him.

Yelena was staring at the screen with Bucky on her other side.

“What?” Ava chimed in.

“Just learning that Sergeant Barnes has a fan club.” John teased, showing her the screen.

Bucky furrowed his eyebrows, not quite understanding.

“What’s that, Walker?”

Bucky approached John and finally looked at it.

A website he had never seen—and a long kind of text looking back at him.

‘His hands flowed down your stomach till they reached your most sensitive spot…’

His inner voice read before he could stop himself.

“What the actual fuck is that, Walker?!” Bucky tossed away the phone.

Alexei and John burst out laughing.

“That’s called fanfictions,” John took his phone back and continued scrolling. “Apparently, people nowadays write stories about people they like in scenarios they fancy… and well, you got yours, Barnes.”

“‘m too old for this shit,” he mumbled, walking away.

But that didn’t stop him from lurking around.

He found himself in his room at the Watchtower on his computer, searching for words he had never thought of.

‘Bucky Barnes Fanfiction.’

Hundreds of thousands of results were displayed before his eyes.

He started reading some of them.

Some were… oddly accurate. Others were… oddly out of his imagination. But all of them were jarring.

He found a specific account that had… a great amount of works—all for him? His name all over the place, his face all around the page, but not a face or something about the creator.

‘Always take the risk.’

It was something the girl behind the blog would say in almost all her author’s notes.

How could someone be… this interested in him as to write something this lustful, as to create a whole world where he fell in love with the… reader once and a million times.

He continued reading the whole night—he didn’t want to admit it, but some of the works made him even feel a growing problem in his crotch.

“I don’t have time for this shit,” he said before putting down his phone.

He had a long day the next day with their new publicist, and he needed to show them he was not a lost cause. Not that he really cared, but he needed to show Valentina he didn’t need to be tamed.

He went on with his day until he had to meet the new publicist. She was just about to finish her meeting with Yelena and check what needed to be done with her.

Funny enough, Yelena looked comfortable with her.

That was a good enough sign for him.

“All yours,” Yelena said as she opened the door.

You were typing on the profile you were designing for Yelena Belova until you were taken out of your thoughts.

You had almost forgotten.

“Can I come in?”

His voice was everything you had dreamt about for years. It was deep, concerningly beautiful, respectful; it was every adjective you had used in your works, and now it was in front of you.

“Sergeant Barnes,” You looked up and motioned him to take the seat in front of you. You bit the inside of your cheek as soon as you said that. It was something you had always dreamt of saying. “Or do you prefer Mr. Barnes?”

He nodded and stopped in front of the table, “You can call me Bucky—too professional for someone who’s been hired to change me.”

You chuckled, “I’m not trying to change you, M—Bucky. I’m here to help you all look as you really are. People with different pasts.”

“So, how’s it going to work?”

You gestured to ask him to take a seat.

“Basically, I created a profile of you all by searching on the internet. How people see you, how people would like to see you, what fits in your essence without making you all characters—but to get to it, I need to know you guys first.”

He frowned. He was sure he would be greeted by a pretentious woman, determined to change him completely.

You asked him several questions—about his past, his present, personal things, and not-so-personal things.

He saw you typing on your laptop while you nodded as he responded.

“Can I ask something now?” You tried not to look up from your computer. You were doing it so well without looking up at him, and you wanted to keep it like that for longer.

“Of course, Bucky.” You switched to look at him for a second, just to make him acknowledge.

“How long have you been doing this?”

“Oh, quite a long time by now. I’ve helped several people look better in the public’s eyes.

“And how do you know I’m gonna be a success? Have you seen me?”

‘If you only knew…’ you thought. “I’ve seen you, Bucky. You’re not a lost cause. Rough around the edges at worst.”

“Can I know what your plan is with me?” You widely opened your eyes.

“You’re the first one to ask—I thought maybe Bob would do it, but not you.”

“If I’m going to be controlled again, I’d like to know this time what’s going to be done to me this time.”

You froze.

All the times you had written, researched, and found things about him and his Winter Soldier years were now hitting.

“I—don’t want to control you. Not at all.”

He realized immediately how affected you looked just by his comment.

“No. No. I apologize, I was joking, trying to make this lighter for both of us.”

“I just want to make myself clear. I don’t want to change you, to make you a prince in the skin of an ex-soldier. I want you to feel comfortable with your own person, so that you can show people a better self.”

“And what if I don’t want to be changed?” He crossed his arms in front of his chest.

“Then we won’t. I’m not here to force you all to change. You will be reviewing the plan I’m creating for you, and we will go from there.”

He was taken aback, “Really?”

You nodded—and carefully turned your laptop around. The night before, you had carefully taken out every and each thing that would make him notice that you were drooling over him on the internet—and still with those precautions, your leg was shaking under the table, you were biting the inside of your cheek, and a sweat drop was rolling down the back of your neck.

He started to read under his breath.

“Haircut, stop trying to make him look lobotomized and healthy and more like a real veteran, stop the narrative into politics.” He was mumbling and chuckled as soon as he read the last part.

“What do you think?”

“Well, nothing is too odd for my taste.” He accepted.

You didn’t want to admit it, but it was the first time you had taken other people’s opinions—and even your own—to create a profile for a client.

“I’ll send you the whole program in a few days, Bucky,” You took back your laptop and closed it.

“I thought Alexei was next?”

You shook your head, “That’s a full day's case I need to review on its own…”

He laughed.

Fuck. His laugh.

“A feisty one?” He asked, trying to make you laugh.

“Well, I always say we need to take the risk.” You shrugged and stood up, “I guess I’ll see you soon, Bucky.”

Late at night, Bucky was sitting still on his bed—insomnia was no joke to him. And today was not the exception.

He had already done everything—tea, pills that never really worked on him, staring at the ceiling with no purpose.

“Just jerk yourself off!” Alexei would say to Bucky every time he saw him pacing around at midnight when he couldn’t sleep.

But Bucky hated the idea of masturbating at the sight of other people.

Then, his phone rang with a notification. When he took it, the first thing that came to his mind was that account.

That silly thing John had mentioned earlier, and that somehow made his cock twitch in his pants.

‘It’s no harm.’

He said as he opened the search bar.

‘There’s no real person behind those stories.’

He repeated once and twice.

It was just him and whoever wanted to read those filthy things.

He opened that account again.

The numbers behind those posts were big, and he was astonished at the thought of him being the person they wanted to do all these things with…

He started reading one.

‘His tongue delved on your tongue while his hands gripped your thighs carefully…’

His thumb smeared the pre-cum already leaking from his tip.

He couldn’t stop himself from jerking off while he read it. His mind was as confused as his cock.

The way the author described every movement, every thrust, and sound. He was even questioning himself if he had done this with a stranger, and now she was telling all their business in anonymity.

He even read about the hyperspermia. How the fuck did they all know about it? Was Steve telling everyone around, and they all just assumed he was the same?

Before he could even react, his throbbing cock left all his warm seed on his palm. He was almost falling asleep when he read it again.

‘Always take the risk.’

And then he could remember you telling him that.

‘I always say we need to take the risk.’

It had to be a coincidence.

It couldn’t be something else.

Now his will to go to sleep was gone.

He couldn’t stop thinking about the coincidence.

By the first ray of sunshine, he was already awake and sitting in the kitchen looking at nothingness when his phone rang.

The account had posted something new.

This time, it was not a filthy story.

It was what she had tagged as “Fluff”.

Something completely different from what he had read the night before.

He had spent his whole night trying to catch something else, to see if it was all in his mind, and it was just a similarity—that you were not definitely the person running that account.

He read the author’s note.

‘This is something completely out of my character, but things are happening right now in my life that I can't get myself into writing filthy and insane things.’

Bucky furrowed—what could have happened that took her out of her comfort zone?

“Morning!” You said walking in—he immediately put his phone down. “Sorry, did I scare you?”

“Oh. No, don’t worry. I was immersed in something.”

You smiled and took a bottle of water. “Well, need to get going—Alexei’s a big one.”

He nodded, and you waved goodbye.

He was now sure you weren’t the person behind that blog.

You were so stern, serious, focused, you didn’t even flinch when he talked to you, you didn’t even give him more than a smile the day before.

Bucky kept lurking the next few days, but the account kept posting, sometimes filthy things that made him explode in his own palm. Meanwhile, other times it would post just casual things that seemed like an attempt to keep the account alive.

And you were still trying to figure out how to keep your readers happy while respecting the man you were now helping to become their real and greatest version.

“Did you really stop posting just because you have your literal muse in front of you?” June furrowed her eyebrows.

“Yes. I can’t. He’s so polite and serious that every time I try to write something disgustingly filthy, I can’t.”

“C’mon. It’s now when you bring your writing to real life.”

“June! This is my fuckin’ job. I’m not risking it all just because I was getting horny about someone who turned out to be my client.”

He had noticed something. The account was now ‘on a hiatus.’ The person behind just announced they were dealing with some things and didn’t feel like continuing to write without feeling ‘wrong’.

Not sure if he wanted to admit it, but he didn’t want the person behind the account to leave.

It was not the fact that he kept reading, nor the fact that this decision could make it more difficult to find out who was behind the posted stories.

And he did something he never thought he would.

He created an account and commented under one post.

‘Hope you’re doing fine. Love your writing!’

Just that.

He did it just one hour before he knew you were coming. It was deliberate, and also a test.

He had seen you were a bit down, not completely; you were still smiling, but he could notice you were still tense behind that weary smile.

To his surprise, you were slightly different. You smiled a little bit more, and you looked lighter.

“Good morning, Bucky!” You smiled and set your laptop on a desk.

“You seem different. Good news?”

You remembered that weird and sole message from a stranger. You didn’t really understand why, but you were happy that someone took seconds of their life to leave you a short and maybe meaningless message on their side, but cute to you.

“Just… I had a nice interaction with a stranger today.” You said while pulling up his profile on your computer.

Even when you had asked him to have his hair cut, and he accepted without even flinching, you seemed proud of your job, even happier, more confident. You had explained to him that he seemed more kept and stern with shorter hair. He just assured you that he trusted you enough to make that kind of decision.

The way that comment made you happy made him think of something.

You had been inspired by him just by his mere existence. What would you do if he gave you more than just that?

So, he started things slowly.

He brought you coffee one morning—he had seen you the night before, working late with Alexei, trying to make him understand that not everything had to be a brand deal.

“Brought you some coffee. Hope you don’t mind.” He placed it without waiting for an answer and left.

In the meantime, he was also learning how to interact with you on the blog without seeming like a stalker, more like a very interested reader.

On one hand, Bucky Barnes himself was doing nice things for you, while on the other hand, strangers on the internet were hyping you up to keep your writing blog alive.

And that didn’t help your idea of not writing about him anymore.

On the third day, he brought you dinner. You were checking what changes to do on Yelena to make her look less… intimidating.

“Are you busy?” He looked at you, lifting the take-out in his hand.

“Oh, no… but you didn’t have to do that.”

“I know, I just saw you struggling today with Yelena, and I wanted to bring some moral boost in the form of food.”

“Thank you so much, Bucky.”

His phone rang for the first time in weeks.

A new post.

Very oddly specific situations written between pornographic scenes.

A coffee scene between two coworkers.

Late night dinner when they needed to stay late.

Given compliments without innuendos.

He didn’t need any more confirmation. You were behind those words—and that turned him on even more than the words you wrote.

But he knew better than just to approach and expose himself.

So, he decided to take a step further.

Give you a real-life experience to see if you would put it into words.

He knew it was wrong. Fuck, it was wrong. But he was now immersed in the whole idea.

And, oh, if life gave him the perfect moment.

He was going to take a late-night bike ride when he saw you still in your car dialing a number on your phone. He leaned on your window and knocked twice.

“Hey, do you need some help?” You sighed. You wanted to say no, but you were really longing for your bed that specific day.

“My car’s not working, and I really need to get home.”

He furrowed, “And your insurance is not answering?” You shook your head.

He wanted to see how far he could get.

“So—I was just about to head to have dinner and then head back here. What about we have some dinner, and then I take you home?”

Your cheeks were burning.

“C’mon, just a friendly dinner. Or are you afraid of bikes?”

He had seen plenty of your works where you talked about how you would love to ride… him and his bike too.

You stuttered. The way his words came from his lips made you nervous.

He tilted his head, and you stepped out.

He made you hug him by the waist while he drove to the restaurant.

You were sitting in front of him while you both talked about whatever came to mind.

“So, do you like shorter hair?” He teased.

“Not that I personally like it, but I know…” You furrowed and stopped yourself. You knew your girls liked him with shorter hair. “I know people prefer shorter hair.”

When the night was over, and he took you home, you didn’t really know why you did it, but you asked him to come in.

Just for a drink.

You lied to yourself. You wanted more, you really wanted more. Even when you knew it could be seen as wrong, if someone knew the whole perspective.

The air around felt thick. From time to time, you noticed how he shifted in his place, trying to ease the imaginary weight in his shoulders, while you tried to keep your mind clean—not lustful, not wandering on thoughts that were not meant to be thought while you had him in front of you.

He was standing in front of your kitchen bar while you were bringing some beers from your fridge. You didn’t want to give it more than a thought, but you could notice how he stared at you…

“I—I think it’s getting late,” you stuttered.

He chuckled and placed the beer on the counter. He walked around the bar and placed himself in front of you. His hand found its way to your hip, pulling you closer.

“Can I?” You parted your lips open and granted him access.

His lips found yours faster, and he lifted you on the counter to sit. You could feel him position himself in the middle of your legs, your hands grasped his shirt from the back, making you impossibly closer to him.

If he knew what you liked based solely on what you wrote, he knew exactly what to do now that he had you there.

He had basically studied you.

From what you liked to write the most.

Praising, explicit consent, a talkative man during sex, harsh but sweet at the same time. And he was going to make sure this exceeded your expectations.

He yanked you to the edge of the counter by your jeans just to take them off immediately. He knelt and looked at you from below.

His finger stroked a line from your clit to your entrance. Back and forth. Teasing. Leaving you breathless.

“Fuck, fuck,” you mumbled through your teeth, biting your lips.

He finally leaned over and stripped a line with his tongue, focusing on your clit and fingering you with no shame. His metal hand held you steady while he worked carefully on your core.

“Not here, please.” You husked, he grunted, still latched to your cunt.

He finally distanced himself, and without more warning, he carried you on his shoulder and walked to your bedroom. You were trying to keep your thoughts separated from what you had written for years. But this all seemed so familiar somehow.

Meanwhile, Bucky had learned all your favorite positions, what you loved to write the most, and what you liked to describe in full detail. He took his time taking your clothes off, then he finally knelt to be in the middle of your legs—he pulled down his zipper and took out his length.

It was already leaking, and you were sure you were salivating at the sight of him slowly rubbing his cock with his strong hand. You really tried not to look at it, but he was doing it even slower. He knew you loved the sight, and he loved the way you didn’t even try to hide it.

He didn’t even think twice and slid in. He knew you were already all worked up, almost leaking from your cunt, waiting for him to thrust.

And he did it. Fast, snapping hips against hips. The echo of skin against skin filled your room, and your hands gripped his waist, digging your nails to make him go faster. He proceeded to wrap your neck and body with his arms while he thrusted harder, his still clothed body didn’t help with the heat he was expelling.

“D’you like it?” He mumbled in your ear while he caged your whole body with his broad form. “Tell me if I’m being too harsh.”

“No!” You snapped and wrapped your legs around his waist, “Don’t you dare stop.”

He chuckled and continued his fast and torturous pace, “This is what you always wanted?” He growled.

“Yes, yes. Always.” You cried out.

“Look at me,” he ordered, and you turned your eyes to him, “Good girl.”

You clenched immediately.

Where did this come from?

“Oh, you like it. You like to be called a good girl.”

You nodded and whined.

“It’s good that you are behaving so well, you’re earning it.”

“Don’t stop, Bucky. Don’t stop.” You pleaded—you were sure you sounded pathetic, but you didn’t care at all.

“I can feel you clenching. Do you need to cum?” He asked in your ear, and you nodded, “Come on my cock, make it all wet.”

You came undone immediately, and his throbbing cock started to spill warm ropes in your cunt.

He pulled out and continued spilling on your pelvis and stomach. He jerked himself while the ropes came directly to your skin.

You were still panting and trying to calm down your breathing.

He walked and brought back a towel to help clean your body. “I’m so sorry, I made a mess of you.”

You shook your head; you were still speechless.

“You need a minute?”

“Please.” You cried out again, and he chuckled, sitting next to you in your bed.

When you finally felt better, you looked up at him, who was now stroking your head, trying to calm down his breathing too.

“How are you feeling?”

“Much better.”

He noticed how you were knitting your eyebrows in the middle.

“Did I do something wrong?”

“No… not really. It’s just…” You sighed, “I didn’t expect you to want this.”

He chuckled and made you sit on his lap.

“You’re gorgeous, incredible, you helped me a lot these months to feel more comfortable with myself after years. From asking me nicely to cut my hair, to respecting the fact that I’m not a charming prince that would be the love interest in a romcom.”

You furrowed… those words.

‘Well, since we can’t have a real-life Bucky Barnes, we can have a love interest in our romcoms here in our fanfictions.’

You tried not to pay much attention to it.

It was just a mere coincidence.

“Yeah. No. You’re definitely not a charming prince.”

He chuckled at the way you tried to feign that this didn’t take you aback.

“And besides, I think you have the best perspective on me than anyone else. You took your time to know me… to know us all… I don’t know what’s going on with me about you, but I think I need to explore it with you by my side.”

You giggled, “I think we can sort things out after this night.”

He tugged you in his chest and placed his lips on your ear, “Is it here where I put on the request for… reader going on a proper date with Bucky?”

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