Casually, then completely unavoidable.

It was Dean who said this one first. 

You were reorganising the boys fridge one night after he turned the takeout containers into a game of tetris “relax mom.” It made Logan laugh as he didn’t look up from his phone while he sat at the kitchen counter. 

He claimed he was there as moral support, but it was really because he just wanted to be near you “don’t encourage her.” He warned “she gets worse when shes stressed.” 

His words were met with a gasp “excuse me?” You scowled letting your mouth fall open when you turned to glare at him. 

Tucker grinned as he stole the chicken wings from your hands “careful dad, mom might get ya.” And somehow it just stuck. 

Mom and Dad. You and Logan. 

It wasn’t even meant to be the case at first but somewhere along the way, the two of you became the glue that kept everyone together. 

Logan kept track of the practice schedule and ensured that everyone ate the food that Tucker cooked.  

You kept a list of everyone’s birthdays, deadlines, arguments, and who wasn’t talking to whom.

Logan calmed the chaos, and you seemed to organise it. And somehow the two of you worked perfectly together. 

So of course, the jokes kept on coming. 

“Ask mom if I can go out.” Dean would say as he peered into the living room where you read a book, “Logan said no.” You knew all about the house arrest Logan had Dean on because he needed to study for a major midterm. 

Your brother huffed as he sprawled out on the couch, resting his feet on your lap “hey!” You scoffed, watching him grab a carrot stick from your plate, “your boyfriend is being dramatic again.” His words came as he stuck his tongue out at you. 

The sound of Logan complaining about the blocked shower drain travelled down the stairs. And Garrett was surprisingly calm about it, which was saying something as he’d once sworn that Logan wouldn’t live long enough to graduate if he dated you. 

Now he just complained like Logan was already a part of the family. 

Which in a way, now that your dad didn’t totally hate the idea, he was. 

Except lately, you couldn’t laugh at it the same way. 

Because something had shifted and only you knew why. 

It all happened three weeks ago. 

You were standing in your bathroom, staring at the sink as if it had personally betrayed you.

Two pink lines and those words you hated so much to see. 

You were pregnant. 

And the world did not stop. That was the most terrifying part. It just kept on going. 

Outside of that room, Hannah was laughing at something on her laptop while Allie was humming as she got ready for class. Someone could even be heard yelling in the hallway about how they needed coffee. 

Normal life kept on going on, while yours had just split into two. 

You pressed your hand to your stomach instinctively; it was still flat and still normal. 

Nothing looked different about you, yet everything was.

You were meant to see the boys later that day for lunch and you had no clue how to tell them. 

Garrett took so long to accept that Logan was your boyfriend, but this was a different ballpark. 

And Logan loved you like you were something delicate that he had to protect. 

You were terrified that this would break that. 

Logan on the other hand, was feeling like an idiot. 

He was ready to marry you, as if you asked him to go to Vegas tomorrow to do it he would. 

But it felt like you were ready to break up with him.

So rather than talking about it, he picked up whatever he could. Odd jobs to fill the time that he wasn’t spending with you. 

And for the most part, that really did work. He was able to make himself so busy that there wasn’t time during the day to think about what you might have been doing that didn’t involve him. 

But at night?”

That was a whole different story. 

He’d park his truck outside your building and send you a text begging to let him come up. He knew he could ask Allie or Hannah to let him in, but he wasn’t going to go against your boundaries like that. If you didn’t want to talk to him, well, he was convincing himself that he was okay with that.

So instead, he would hide away in his room, scrolling through the album on his phone of the two of you that you organised one day while he studied. 

It had everything from the time the two of you used to sneak around before anyone knew you were seeing each other. All the way to when Dean and Tucker would crash your couple pictures, swearing that ‘your kids’ have to be in them too. 

It made him laugh, honestly remembering how you’d shoo the boys away so that Allie could get a decent picture. Then Logan got to the one that Hannah took. 

It was from a party after a big win when the couples were playing each other in beer pong, despite the fact that Garrett swore he should be the one to play with his sister. 

Logan’s arm was wrapped around your waist as you had your tongue out, trying to focus on the throw. All the boy was focused on, both now and then, was you. 

Hannah couldn’t help it when her eyes stayed glued to the sight “I know Wellsy, he loves her more than he loves hockey.” Garrett’s voice was louder than he intended it to be as he spoke. 

The words made your cheeks redden as Logan tightened his grip on you “no I don’t.” He shook his head, convincing nobody, as his eyes were still on you. 

Garrett let out a dry laugh “I’m pretty sure she could ask you to drop hockey and move to Vermont to become tree farmers, and you’d do it.” Logan couldn’t argue with that because it was actually true. 

That boy was ready to move to the end of the world for you if you asked him to. 

You furrowed your eyebrows “that's not true.” You mumbled, finally turning your attention back to your boyfriend. Your eyes settle onto his lips “we’d totally farm goats.” Your words made everyone laugh as you kissed Logan. 

It earned a groan from Garrett with a complaint for you to just throw the ball. And all you did was flip him off in response.

The day when you knew you could no longer hide it from Logan came; it was gameday and also your one-year anniversary. 

After the game, the two of you had plans to go out, but with the way you had been acting. Logan honestly wondered if you were even going to be at the game. 

That was how Garrett ended up at your door. 

Well more like in your room.

Because that’s where you found your brother sat, comfortably on your bed when you came back from getting a smoothie with Allie “oh please make yourself at home.” You grumbled letting your bag drop to the floor. 

Your brother couldn’t help it when he let out a soft laugh “look are you okay?” The question made your eyes widen. 

Because you were so clearly not okay “I’m perfect Gar.” You forced the lie out as you sat on your chair. 

“No you’re not.” 

You rolled your eyes “why’d you ask me if you already knew the answer?” You sucked at your teeth crossing your arms in the process “you’ve been avoiding your boyfriend.” The point made you feel nauseous all over again. 

Garrett saw your reaction. It was like his little twinstinct to know exactly when your slight movement meant something so much worse “if he did something-” he was already getting up ready to march back to the house.

You were quick to press your hand into his chest, stopping him from leaving your room “he didn’t do anything I swear.” As much as you loved your brother, you knew that if he could. You’d be wrapped in bubble wrap and hidden away from the world. And even then he’d still worry himself sick over protecting you.

Garrett leaned against your table “then what is going on with you?” He knew that your dad had been blowing up both of your phones to meet his fiance but Garrett knew you ignored him in the best of times, so why would this affect you now. 

Staring at the ground, you frowned, “I need to tell Logan first.” If you could have it your way you’d never tell your brother, and just say you fund your child on the street.

You couldn’t help it when you sighed, pulling your brother into a hug that usually made you feel better “I just need to find the right time.” You knew your answer didn’t make sense but when you were going with it. 

Garrett nodded, not because he wanted to believe you but because he knew he had no choice in the matter “but please tell him before he eats himself up over something that isn’t his fault.” You wanted to point out that your boyfriend was in fact the exact reason why you were in this position. 

But you couldn’t so instead you nodded “I promise I’ll tell him after the game tonight.” You nodded, forcing a smile onto your lips when your brother kissed your head.

The game should have been an easy win. A game where they could have put up a B team and still won by 3 goals. But instead, it was an utter shitshow.

Logan spotted you in the crowd immediately; he always did the moment he stepped onto the ice. But tonight it seemed that once he knew you were there, he actually didn’t want to see you. He got into a fight, was thrown against the boards and spent more time in the penalty box than actual time on the ice as the coach pulled him off, seeing that his head wasn’t in the right place. 

Garrett actually pitied his teammate; he never thought there’d be a day when he thought you were in the wrong and that whatever issues you two were having would be your doing. 

So when you saw the look your brother gave you at the end of the game, you knew you were to stand by Logan’s truck waiting for him as the game ended. Or else Garrett would get involved, and quite frankly, nothing ever went well when he did. 

And that was exactly where Logan found you after the game “I’ll see you guys later.” He announced, no longer looking at Dean or Tucker; instead, his eyes had settled on you. 

You sent him a soft smile as the boys waved at you “hey.” Your voice was quiet as your boyfriend threw his bag into the back of his truck. 

He remained silent, “look we need to talk.” Your announcement almost made him laugh. 

Because how was it that you got to decide that tonight was when you’d finally talk “nice to know that my girlfriend still knows how to do that.” The comment came off harsher than it was intended to. 

The boy sucked at his teeth when you reached for him “look I know I have been an ass-“ Logan had to admit he was glad you had more emotional awareness than your brother “it’s our one-year anniversary and I didn’t even know if I still had a girlfriend!”

You wanted to respond, you really did. But you felt your stomach churn, and suddenly you were bent over in the direction of the nearest bushes.

Instinctively, he reached for your hair, pulling it out of your face as he rubbed your back “you eat something bad today?” Logan cocked his head, knowing that it wasn’t like you to throw up. 

You spat out a glob of spit as you shook your head “it’s what I wanted to tell you about.” You groaned, feeling your stomach churn again. 

To his credit, Logan didn’t push until you were standing upright again “I wanted to have some speech, but that clearly isn’t gonna happen.” you brought your sleeve up to wipe your mouth, not caring that you’d regret it later.

“I’m pregnant.” 

Your words made him freeze as his eyes went wide “we’ve been careful.” He spoke as if his word was gospel. 

Your cheeks reddened at the memory, “not always.” Your eyes trailed back to the truck. It was a night where both your place and his were busy and the two of you just couldn’t keep your hands off of each other. So you figured that his car was the best place for the two of you to be.

Logan frowned as he furrowed his eyebrows “this is what you’ve been avoiding me for?” He realised as he shoved his hands into his pockets, “did you think I’d leave you?” 

He wasn’t angry. 

He was hurt. 

Hurt that you would think that he’d leave you, and especially hurt that you thought he’d make you deal with this alone.

But you shook your head as tears welled in your eyes, “i thought you’d hate me.” Your voice broke as it broke something in him. 

He hated seeing you sad “hate you?” His voice broke as his hands cupped your cheeks “are you actually insane?” He would have laughed if you weren’t upset.

That was the thing that broke you. Finally, tears streamed down your cheeks and Logan didn’t think twice about pulling you into his embrace “I’m scared.” Your confession made his heart break as he could only think about how long you had been dealing with that emotion alone. 

His fingers ran through your hair, immediately soothing you “we will figure this out together, okay.” His words made you nod as you looked up at him. 

His eyes didn’t hesitate to meet yours. 

He was still him. 

He was still yours. 

And just like that Logan let out a breath he didn’t realise he was holding “I thought you were leaving me.” It made your heart hurt that he could have thought that it was the issue. 

You shook your head “I thought I was ruining your life.” You whispered back. 

Just like that, his expression changed. It changed into something solid, yet protective in a way that made your knees weak “you are not ruining my life.” He said firmly, “you’re my life.” His words were easy to roll off his tongue as if he hadn’t said the one thing that finally made the last few weeks feel like they were nothing. 

So the two of you stood there in silence as his hand rubbed slow circles on your back before his tired laugh finally broke it “I’m gonna be a dad.” You nodded, matching his tone “we’re gonna be parents.” He grabbed your hand, giving it a solid squeeze. 

Before his face dropped, “your brother is actually going to kill me.” His words made you really laugh now, that was something you realised a while ago. 

Logan guided you into the passenger seat of his car before he made his way to his own “you know,” you trailed off when he put the key into the ignition. 

You leaned over to kiss his lips “we could always just become goat farmers in Vermont.” 

And not in the cute, sitcom kind of way people imagined when they watched shows New Girl. It was actually the exact opposite.

It was difficult on the inside and out. When people found out you lived in the hockey house with four Division I athletes, there was no ‘ooh, that must be so fun’ unless it came from some lust filled puck bunny that only had the nastiest of fantasies. To people with actual working brains, more questions always followed their judgmental looks. Thing like ‘why, ‘how long’, ‘are you dating any of them’, ‘is that allowed’. Which you understood, but could only answer with one phrase.

“It’s a long story.”

Because it was! Getting into the intricacies of how you started the schools, and first ever, collage hockey cheer squad was too much: it always sounded like you were bragging about something that you didn’t see as a big deal. Plus, no one wanted to hear about how you despised the concept of bunking with a complete and total stranger for the sake of the college experience, especially when they were doing the same thing.

On the inside of the home, however, living with boys was even more difficult because… well, you actually had to live with them.

Living with boys was hard in a deeply specific, deeply exhausting way no one warned you about.

First, it was because boys were disgusting.

Not always and sometimes not intentionally, but sometimes and for some reason, even maliciously. Like that one time Dean left a condom in the shower because Logan ate his leftovers that Tucker made. You didn’t know if it was a man thing, or a sports thing, but they moved through life with a level of casual recklessness that made you wonder how any of them had survived into adulthood.

And the house itself reflected that.

At first glance, it looked like any off-campus athlete house. Loud with the occasional party, sort of worn-in due to said parties. It also constantly smelled of detergent and sweat.

But there were traces of you.

Your pink throw blankets were draped over the couch because the you always got cold and the boys knew nothing about buying decent blankets themselves. Your Vogue magazines were spread across the coffee table beside their sports journals and empty Gatorade bottles. There were tiny decorative glass bowls full of hair ties and bobby pins sitting in random places throughout the place because you kept losing them.

There was a lemon blossom candle on the kitchen counter that Dean lit it more than you did. He eventually stole it to put in his room for his after shower activities, but the touch was yours nonetheless.

Your shoes by the front door mixed into piles of massive sneakers and hockey bags was a contrasting sight. Your colorful sandals, soft Ugg boots and fuzzy animal house slippers. Your skincare products that lined one side of the downstairs bathroom sink stuck out next to Logan’s beard trimmer that sat threateningly close to your toothbrush.

There was the small pros that you found cute as you passed through, looking at the way your vastly different lives were all intertwined this way. But with the pros, comes the cons. And some cons might be to your doing as well.

There were the packages. God, the packages. The delivery driver knew you by name and you knew his. It was Anthony.

Boxes of PR constantly showed up at the house, to the point where neither them nor you could keep up. PR packages from makeup brands, clothing collaborations from boutiques that used your Instagram for promotion. There were skincare launches, cheer gear, women’s protein bars with aesthetically pleasing packaging because apparently gut health had to not only be gendered for some reason but become your entire personality this semester.

Though you found it stupid, you were doing it for the cheque. And the products worked because Garrett seemed to love them.

Dean once opened the front door and stared at the stack of boxes awaiting outside.

“What the hell is all this?” He asked exasperatedly, looking over at you, who sat in the couch. You glanced up from your laptop, peeking over the couch as if you could see the packages on the porch. “Probably PR.” You shrugged before going back to your screen.

“There are, like, ten boxes here.”

“Yeah.” You muttered, still clicking away on your laptop, not even looking up this time.

“Why?” He questioned, absentmindedly moving to load the boxes of various sizes into the home and sit them by the door. He lifted them up, dressed in nothing out gym shorts and slides, and closed the door with his foot. “I mean, who needs this much stuff? What even if half of this?”

You let out a small sigh, leaning back in the couch as you looked up at the blonde man. “What can I say Dean, the brands love me.” You shrugged with a cocky smirk before chuckling.

Dean scoffed and cut his eyes towards Garrett. “I picked the wrong career.”

⋆⁺₊┈┈ ೀ

Living with boys also meant your things slowly stopped becoming just yours.

Your blankets became communal blankets that barely covered you since you had to share with Logan’s huge body. Your expensive vanilla syrup for coffee was now used in Tuckers cocktail recipes. The fridge you so carefully organized slowly became demented into disarray as if it was ravaged by some beast, especially because Tucker cooked like a suburban mother feeding a family of seven.

Every Sunday, Tucker stood in the kitchen for hours meal prepping while music played low through a speaker. He moved around the kitchen with efficiency, his broad shoulders hovering over simmering pots. The place was warm as something baked in the oven and the entire home just smelled great when Tucker cooked.

The feeling almost made up for the rest of the boys existing.

Almost.

You had your own section in the fridge. Well, you were supposed to.

Tucker, the cute gentleman that he is and was raised to be, respected it. The others did not.

Your shelf was painfully recognizable compared to theirs. You had your glass jars filled with matcha or chocolate raspberry chia seed pudding. There was your coconut water, almond milk, and lemonade alongside your fresh fruit and sweet streets. In the door was your wellness shots that tasted like shit. And last but not least, your coconut cult probiotic yogurt.

Garrett liked called your grocery hauls ‘rich girl rabbit food’, which was ironic considering he ate enough food in a day to feed a small village. But you knew it was just a joke, especially since he’s seen your late night door dash orders.

Still, you bought those things for a reason. Whether it was your skin, your stomach health, your energy levels. It all went into your focus for cheer, which was important to you.

Being captain of the cheer team meant constant appearances, performances, uniforms, cameras, and social media posts. You couldn’t survive off frozen pizza and energy drinks, as much as you wanted to, the way the some boys somehow did. Trust though, you did indulge yourself whenever you seen fit.

Unfortunately, the boys viewed your food as fascinating, like zoo animals discovering their enrichment toys.

One afternoon, after your morning yoga session in the attic, you padded downstairs in green leggings and an oversized Briar U sweatshirt, water bottle dangling from your hand.

The house was suspiciously quiet. Too quiet for your liking, which caused you to narrow your eyes immediately.

You rounded the corner before turning into the kitchen, and that’s when you spotted them.

Dean and Garrett were standing in front of the open fridge, spoons in hand and substance in their mouths. They seemed to enjoy whatever they were eating, humming in content.

You furrowed your brows before your eyes dropped to the jar in Deans hands. He was holding your yogurt. Your Coconut Cult yogurt.

Dean was actively eating from the jar while Garrett slightly grimaced through another spoonful, mildly enjoying its taste.

You froze at threshold of the kitchen, eyes widening and mouth dropping open. “Oh my God.” You said, hands coming up to cover your mouth.

Both boys looked up at you, frozen like they were caught red handed. Which they were.

Dean swallowed. “Hey.” The words got clogged in his throat, trying to speak and swallow what he thought was a dessert.

“That jar is forty dollars worth of yogurt.” You snipped, eyes bouncing between them.

Garrett blinked. “Forty—”

“You ate my Coconut Cult?!”

Dean frowned down at the small jar. “It’s yogurt.” He scoffed. “And it definitely shouldn’t be forty bucks.”

“It’s probiotic yogurt!”

Garrett took another bite and immediately regretted it. “Is that why it has that weird aftertaste?”

“Yes!”

“So you buy this spoiled tasting yogurt on purpose?”

You marched across the kitchen in disbelief, snatching the jar from Dean’s hand like a mother catching teenagers with alcohol. “I eat this for my gut health, you idiots! You know I’m lactose intolerant!”

Dean leaned against the counter lazily. “Okay, we’ll owe you.” He shrugged as if it was nothing. “I didn’t know the chocolate moose yogurt was special and forty fucking dollars.” He chuckled in disbelief.

“Like you can’t afford it.” Garett mumbled.

“You two are going to regret this later.” You hissed, throwing the jar and what’s left over, in the trash. It’s not like you could use the rest anyway with the way they were digging back and forth into the probiotic.

Garrett scoffed. “The hell is that supposed to mean?” He questioned, watching as you rounded the counter to walk away from them.

You paused, turning to stare at them for a long moment.

Then you slowly smiled. “You’ll see.” You grinned before making your way back upstairs, confused in what you can down for in the first place.

Tucker walked in halfway through the silence you left, carrying grocery bags. His eyes moved between the two boys, who was left frozen in your wake.

“What happened?”

“They ate her Coconut Cult,” Logan called from the living room, where he was playing a Mario Kart on the television.

Tucker let out a small chuckle in disbelief as she placed the bags in the counter. “Oh,” he said softly. “Oh, you idiots.”

Dean frowned. “What?”

“That stuff has like a billion probiotics in it.”

Garrett’s face slowly changed while Dean still didn’t seem to get the point yet.

“And that means?” He questioned, eyeing the pair in the kitchen.

“Oh no.” Garrett mumbled, placing his head in his hand, holding himself up in the kitchen island. Dean eyed him, while Tucker chuckled in amusement.

“Bro, what? Come on, tell me.” The blonde urged.

“If you took more than a spoonful of that, you’re gonna shit your brains out.” Tucker smiled, moving around them to load the fridge full of food.

Deans face dropped as Logan’s chuckles echoed into the kitchen.

⋆⁺₊┈┈ ೀ

Then there’s the bathroom situation, which somehow managed to be even worse than the food situation.

Because the attic that you lived in only had a tiny half-bath. Just a toilet and sink squeezed beneath slanted ceilings. Meaning for showers, you had to use the downstairs bathroom. The shared house bathroom.

The one that you shared with four hockey players.

There were not enough candles or cleaning products in the world to emotionally prepare someone for sharing a bathroom with men.

You cleaned constantly.

Constantly.

You wiped the counters, refolded towels, reorganized the cabinet products, cleaned the floors. Anything to aid in stopping the place from delving into a yuck fest within hours.

One time Logan left a pair of compression undershorts hanging from the shower rod for three days.

Three. Days.

“You guys live like rats.” You complained, thudding down the stairs, gloves still on from scrubbing the bathroom counter. It was dark out, the soft sound of rain pelting the windows. “Logan, I’m throwing these shorts away.” You deadpanned, only gaining a shrug in response from the man.

Dean lounged against the archway of the living room, eating cereal straight from the box. “And yet you stay.” He grinned, eyes in the tv, where some rival team shame tape played.

“Unfortunately, I’ve grown attached.” You muttered, walking over to the kitchen trash can to rid yourself of the rubber gloves.

“Aww, to us?” Logan questioned with a smile, glancing over from the living room couch.

“To Tucker’s cooking.” You quipped, flashing him a large beam. His smile dropped, causing you to chuckle as you leaned against the wall opposite to Dean.

Speaking of, he placed a hand over his heart dramatically. “How cruel, puck princess.” He chuffed, which instantly wiped the smile from your face. You reached over, slapping his arm.

“I told you about that name.” You said through clinched teeth. All while Dean just laughed, showing all of his pearly whites.

“Well, you hurt my feelings.” He shrugged, causing you to roll your eyes.

⋆⁺₊┈┈ ೀ

The problem with sharing a bathroom, though, was the complete destruction of privacy.

There was absolutely none. People, roommates and strangers alike, barged in constantly because apparently locks meant nothing nowadays. You were never in the habit of locking the bathroom door before you moved in with these people.

One night after practice, steam from the shower you just took was still clinging to your skin and you stood at the sink brushing your teeth while wrapped in your fluffy pink towel.

Dean stood beside you, half his faced covered in shaving cream and his sweatpants hanging dangerously low on his hips while music played softly from his phone on the counter.

It was oddly domestic, but the usual after a few years living together. It was now your norm to do such things. And everything was fine, same as always.

Until you opened the drawer looking for floss. There, sitting very obviously amongst your hair ties and face masks was a hot pink vibrator.

You paused mid-brush, brows furrowed.

Dean noticed you stopping immediately, the chill vibe shifting to something else.

His eyes followed yours downward, and once they were placed onto what caught your attention, they widened in horror.

Painfully slowly, what you could see of his face started turning red.

You looked at him the same time he looked at you. I enter of you spoke for a while, just staring at each other like you were both caught in the middle of some compromising position.

Then the bathroom door opened and Tucker stepped inside holding folded towels before stopping dead in his tracks.

His eyes darted between the two of you, faces red and frozen in your half dressed states. He then glanced at the drawer, seeing the item, and then back up at you two.

A long silence followed, and his innocent stare gave nothing away.

Finally, Dean pointed aggressively.

“That’s not mine.” You both said at the same time.

“At all,” You added quickly.

Tucker blinked twice before he simply backed out of the bathrooms towels still in hand.

The door clicked shut behind him, leaving you two in silence again, though this time more charged than before.

You then burst into laughter, so hard toothpaste nearly came out of your nose. That broke the tension between you two, causing Dean groaned, dragging a hand down his half shaven face while still blushing violently. “Oh my God.”

Living with boys is hard. It’s exhausting and loud and invasive. It was a feat that meant never knowing peace.

But sometimes it also meant coming downstairs at two in the morning unable to sleep and finding Tucker making grilled cheese in the kitchen.

It meant Garrett silently carrying your PR packages upstairs because he knew they were heavy. Or Logan shoving vitamins toward you after practice because you “forgot your weird supplements this morning.”

And sometimes it meant Dean falling asleep on the couch under one of your pink blankets while a face mask on and a leopard print headband that sat on his forehead because you convinced him to do skincare with you.

The house was chaotic and messy. Sometimes a bit overcrowded. But somewhere between it all, it became home.

The sports medicine clinic at Briar somehow always smells the same no matter what time of year it is. Hockey gear, melting ice packs, and disinfectant.

And is technically supposed to close at six.

Technically.

In reality, it closes whenever the hockey team finally stops wandering in with mystery bruises, split knuckles, sore shoulders, or dramatic declarations that they’re "probably dying" before immediately asking for snacks five minutes later.

Which is why you’re still here. Somewhere along the line, what started as a second-year sports medicine placement had turned into unofficial emotional support for the entire Briar hockey team, half the roster had your number for “emergencies,” which unfortunately ranged anywhere from actual injuries to Garrett once texting you a photo of a bruise shaped vaguely like Abraham Lincoln at two in the morning.

The fluorescent lights hum quietly overhead while you reorganise rolls of athletic tape for the third time that evening, one AirPod in, paperwork half-finished beside you, when the clinic door swings open.

You don’t even look up immediately.

“You’re late,” you say automatically.

“Mrs Logaaaan,” Garrett sings back.

Tucker’s voice follows before you can respond. “Oh thank god, my favourite healthcare professional.”

“Can you legally prescribe me a girlfriend?” Dean winks at you, messing with his hair- spraying sweat onto the other players around him. 

That makes you glance up and grimace.

“You need deodorant first,” you reply flatly.

Your comment earns a loud chorus of offended reactions.

“You’re so mean to us.” One of them whines

“You guys make it incredibly easy.”

Hockey players file into the clinic grinning like idiots, damp hair from practice still sticking up in random directions, one drags himself dramatically toward one of the beds clutching his shoulder like he’s been mortally wounded.

“See? I told you guys that Logan’s her favourite. She hates the rest of us.”

“That’s not true,” you say automatically.

It kind of is, though.

You’d known all of them for years at this point - through playoffs and fractured fingers and Dean getting banned from intramural basketball for “excessive dramatics” - but Logan had somehow become something else entirely before you even realised it was happening.

“Logan’s my favourite because he knows how to fill out injury forms without drawing smiley faces.” You snort quietly and reach for a fresh pair of gloves. 

“That was one time,” Dean argues.

“It was four times. It doesn't get funnier the more you do it.”

The boys continue arguing over each other while you start sorting through who actually needs treatment and who’s just here for attention.

And from behind all of them, Logan steps into the room, looking unfairly good for someone who just spent two hours getting bodychecked into plexiglass.

His practice jersey is half untucked, curls damp at the edges from sweat, hockey bag hanging from one shoulder while he watches the entire scene unfold with the long-suffering expression of a man who absolutely could stop his teammates and simply chooses not to.

Your mouth twitches on instinct.

“Not a single one of you knows how to act in medical facilities.”

“We’re athletes,” one of them replies solemnly. “We’re fragile.”

“You’re twenty.”

“Exactly.”

His eyes find you. It’s subtle enough that most people wouldn’t notice unless they were specifically looking for it, but you do. The way his expression shifts slightly the second he sees you, shoulders loosening a little like he’s finally somewhere he actually wants to be.

Unfortunately, the team notices too.

“There he goes,” Garrett says loudly to the room. “Looking at her like she personally invented happiness.”

“Actually disgusting,” another adds.

You shake your head under your breath, trying not to smile as you move toward the nearest bed.

“Alright, what happened?”

“Practice injury,” the player says dramatically.

“You got hit with a foam roller.”

“It was aggressive.”

From behind him, Logan laughs quietly.

The sound pulls your attention toward him automatically.

He’s already looking at you.

He always is, it started sometime last winter, subtle enough neither of you acknowledged it at first, until suddenly Logan had become this fixed point in your day without either of you meaning for him to.

And then, because apparently he enjoys making your job harder, he drops onto the stool closest to your station while the rest of the boys continue causing problems in the background.

You narrow your eyes slightly.

“You injured too?”

He shrugs once and glances at your clipboard.

“Are you busy?” he asks.

You look down at him. “No actually, this is all for fun.”

His mouth twitches.

Behind him, one of the guys points accusingly. “See that? Flirting.”

“We’re literally talking,” you say.

Which, admittedly, had become a problem sometime around November. Because Logan looked at you during conversations like every sentence mattered more than it probably did.

“That’s how it starts.”

Logan ignores them entirely.

“You look tired,” he says instead, quieter now.

You blink at him once, slightly thrown by the softness of it in the middle of all the noise, mostly because Logan only really sounded like that with you. Everyone else got easygoing sarcasm and dry one-liners. You got this version of him instead.

“Your team is exhausting.”

“That’s fair.”

“You included.”

“Less than the others.”

“Debatable.”

That finally gets a proper smile out of him, small but real, and it sits annoyingly well on his face.

You gesture toward the treatment beds with your pen. “Okay, which one of you is actually injured and which one of you just wants free medical attention?”

“My knee-”

“My wrist-”

“Emotionally, mostly-”

“Shocking,” you mutter, already beginning to inspect somebody’s wrist.

And through all of it, Logan stays where he is.

Closest to you.

Which, unfortunately, only makes the entire situation infinitely worse.. Because now he’s just sitting there. Watching you work.

You move from player to player while the clinic slowly dissolves into complete nonsense around you, someone stealing gloves from a supply drawer while another dramatically asks if bruising counts as a life-threatening condition.

“You’re literally holding an ice pack shaped like a cartoon penguin,” you deadpan, “meant for the kids who come for weekend lessons by the way.”

“It’s emotionally devastating.”

“You’ll survive.”

“That’s what they said about the Titanic.”

“Get out.”

Laughter breaks across the room in an undignified uproar.

Logan stays focussed on you with that same quiet gaze he always gets whenever you’re concentrating on something. One foot hooked loosely against the stool rung while he  absentmindedly spun the little keychain attached to the back pocket of your scrub bottoms. 

You glance back over your shoulder briefly.

He doesn’t even look guilty.

If anything, the corner of his mouth lifts slightly when he realises you noticed.

“You’re annoying,” you murmur quietly while digging through the drawer for bandages.

“Thought I was hot.”

You try to stay unimpressed, but your mouth still betrays you by twitching slightly while you go back to work, “You can be both.”

That earns the smallest laugh out of him.

Across the room, Garrett notices immediately, pausing mid-sentence and looking between the two of you suspiciously.

“Why are you looking at him like that?”

You don’t even blink.

“Like what?”

“Like you’re about to put him down.”

“Because he’s touching my keychain.”

“That’s weirdly domestic.”

“It’s literally a keychain.”

“Yeah,” Dean cuts in, grinning now. “A married couple keychain.”

Logan finally speaks again from beside you.

“Pretty sure married people have bigger problems.”

Dean chirps back, “Like taxes and children.”

Garrett points at Logan. “That man would thrive as a girl dad.”

Logan doesn’t even look embarrassed. If anything, he looks mildly annoyed at being interrupted.

You throw a roll of tape at them without looking.

The room erupts instantly.

“Okay,” you say over the noise, trying unsuccessfully not to laugh. “Everybody either sit down properly or leave.”

Shockingly, they obey.

You finish checking a plethora of oddly shaped bruises and superficial cuts while the clinic finally settles into a moderate calm around you, the post-practice energy finally starting to wear off.

The entire time, Logan stays close. Close enough that every now and then your thigh brushes his knee when you walk past, close enough that he occasionally reaches out to tug lightly on the edge of your hoodie sleeve just to get your attention for absolutely no reason.

Especially when Dean starts dramatically fake-flirting with you while you’re checking his wrist, only for Logan to look up from where he’s sitting and say,

“Relax.” Which is unfortunately the exact tone he uses whenever he’s jealous but is trying to pretend he isn’t.

Dean sharply bursts out laughing.

“OH MY GOD THERE IT IS, you’re actually possessive!”

“I’m not possessive,” Logan lies.

“You looked ready to fight me.”

“You’re annoying me.”

“That’s even worse!”

You shake your head, trying to hide your smile while Logan leans against the counter behind him, completely unbothered by the fact that the entire room is basically accusing him of being in love.

Eventually, when the bulk of the man-toddlers have left the clinic and you’ve handed out enough ice packs to survive a small natural disaster. You finally make your way back over to Logan, picking up the 100th incident form to fill out for the stragglers left behind, 

“You sure you’re fine?” you ask eventually without looking directly at him.

“Mostly.”

That makes you glance up, you click your pen and drop it into your pocket,

“Mostly?”

He finally shifts slightly on the stool.

“My shoulder’s stiff.”

You stare at him.

“You waited until after I treated everyone else to tell me that?”

A shrug.

“You were busy.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

His mouth twitches again.

“You like me anyway.”

The worst part was that he said things like that with complete certainty now, like somewhere over the past few months he’d stopped questioning whether you’d stay.

One of the teammates gags dramatically somewhere behind him.

“There it is.”

“Shut up,” Logan says immediately.

You’re already moving toward the storage cabinet before the teasing can escalate further, only to realise halfway there that the tape drawer is nearly empty.

You stop.

Then sigh.

“Great.”

“What?” Logan asks.

“Your idiot teammates used the last of my shoulder tape.”

A couple guys cheer from across the room, “LET’S GO.”

Logan rolls his eyes at them, “That sounds like a team problem.”

“That sounds like your problem,” you huff.

He looks entirely unbothered.

“So,” you continue, ignoring them completely, “I need to go grab more from storage.”

Logan nods once.

“You can come back after your shower and I’ll tape it for you properly.”

He pauses.

“You want me to leave?”

“You smell like a locker room.”

“That’s hurtful.”

“And yet,” Garrett says from the hallway without even looking back, “she keeps letting you come over.”

Logan doesn’t miss a beat.

“That’s because she looooves me.”

“Disgusting,” Dean mutters.

You point toward the hallway.

“Go shower or change or whatever the hell you hockey people do after practice and come back in twenty minutes. I’ll restock from the storage room.”

One teammate gasps dramatically.

“She’s asking him to come back.”

“She asks all injured athletes to come back,” you say flatly.

“Yeah, but not like that.”

Logan looks up at you with the faintest grin tugging at his mouth, then he stands, tall enough that suddenly the tiny clinic space feels much smaller than it did thirty seconds ago.

He grabs his bag from the floor without taking his eyes off you properly.

“I’ll be back,” he says.

One of the players makes kissing noises immediately.

You throw a roll of bandage backing at them.

This time Logan laughs properly.

The rest of them filter out behind him in a mess of noise and complaints, leaving the clinic suddenly, almost suspiciously, quiet.

You thank the gods and take advantage of whatever time they've mercifully gifted you. Taking the minutes to do small tasks like restocking tape from the back storage room, reorganising supplies and finishing the paperwork you abandoned earlier.

By the time the clinic door opens again, barely fifteen minutes later, the noise of the team has completely faded into the distance.

You look up from where you’re reorganising a tray of supplies with immediate suspicion.

“You showered fast,” you say lightly.

Logan closes the door behind him with his elbow before answering, hair still damp around the edges like he’d towel-dried it in under thirty seconds and called it a day. He’s swapped into grey sweats and a dark Briar hoodie, duffel bag hanging lazily from one hand, and he looks far too pleased with himself for someone supposedly recovering from an injury.

“Yeah,” he says easily, walking toward you. “Wanted to see you.”

There was a time that line would’ve completely short-circuited your nervous system. Now it just settled warm somewhere beneath your ribs because Logan said things like that all the time.

You roll your eyes automatically even though warmth blooms under your skin anyway.

The corner of your mouth twitches before you can stop it.

“Wow,” you deadpan. “Romantic.”

“I know.”

“You’re laying it on thick today.”

He drops his bag by the wall with a heavy thud and sits himself up on the treatment bed while you grab the fresh tape you’d dragged out from storage, and hold it out toward him

“There,” you say. “Knock yourself out.”

Logan stares down at the tape for a second like you’ve personally betrayed him, then his mouth pulls into the most ridiculous pout you’ve ever seen on a grown man.

“…Baby.”

“What?” you ask.

“You’re just handing it to me?”

“You have hands.”

“But you do it better.”

The thing about Logan was that he got clingier when he was tired. Post-practice Logan in particular operated almost exclusively on physical contact and opportunistic whining.

You choke out a laugh. “Absolutely not.”

“But you do it better,” he complains, looking up at you from where he’s sitting. “You literally study this stuff. It’s like having a personal private healthcare system.”

“You’re so dramatic.”

You fold your arms, trying very hard not to smile while he keeps looking at you like a neglected house cat.

You stare at him for a second, then laugh softly under your breath despite yourself.

“Oh my God.”

“I’m injured.”

“You are literally sitting upright.”

“My shoulder hurts.”

“You survived practice.”

“Barely.”

He says it completely deadpan too, which somehow makes it worse.

You step closer eventually, taking the tape back out of his hand with a dramatic sigh.

“I cannot believe this works on me.”

“It does though.”

You roll your eyes, lean down, and kiss the pout right off his mouth.

It’s quick, barely more than a soft press of your lips against his, but it instantly wipes the smug suffering expression off his face.

“There,” you murmur against him. “Better?”

“Much.”

“you're so manipulative.”

“You love it.”

Unfortunately, he isn’t wrong.

Still shaking your head, you begin to pick at the tape, searching for a start, a grin breaks across his face.

“There she is.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“You love me.”

He leans back slightly while you move closer, between his parted knees, 

“Take your shirt off.”

Logan’s eyebrows lift with mock dignity,

“Wow.”

“Don’t start.”

“I’m just saying, very forward of you.”

You point the tape threateningly.

“I can and will mess this up on purpose.”

That finally earns a laugh out of him before he grabs the bottom of the shirt and peels it up slowly over his stomach and chest before pulling it fully off. The movement flexes the muscles across his shoulders and arms in a way that makes your hands pause for just a second too long before continuing.

The first time you’d seen Logan shirtless, you’d nearly walked face-first into a supply cart. Now you liked to think that you mostly handled it with dignity. 

But even though you have seen him shirtless before, plenty of times, your brain still stalls for a second. Of course he notices, a Cheshire smirk spreading across his face.

“Are you checking me out right now?”

You snap your eyes back up to his. “Relax.”

“I’m serious.”

“You’ve literally taken your shirt off in front of me like a hundred times.”

“Exactly,” he says, leaning back on one hand. “So why are you acting shy now?”

“I’m not acting shy.”

“You stopped moving.”

“I was thinking medically.”

That gets a laugh out of him, low and warm and entirely too satisfied.

“Sure you were.”

You shove lightly at his shoulder. “Sit properly before I ruin your tape on purpose.”

“Yes ma’am.”

He straightens up obediently, but the second you lean closer to inspect the swelling, his hands settle automatically on your hips, warm and familiar through the fabric of your leggings. Logan constantly touched you in ways so absentminded, they almost felt instinctive - a hand at your back, fingers catching your sleeve, knees knocking together under tables. 

You glance down at them while peeling the backing off the tape.

“That’s not very professional of you.”

Logan looks at you innocently. “Neither is ogling your patient.”

You snort despite yourself and press your palm flat against his chest to push him back slightly so you can work properly.

“Shut up unless you want me to tape your arm to your torso.”

“Bit kinky for a medical facility.”

“John.”

You press the tape down slightly harder against his shoulder, he laughs quietly through the wince, shoulders shaking beneath your hands before finally relaxing when you glare at him.

“Abuse of power.”

“Keep talking and I’ll make it asymmetrical.”

That finally shuts him up.

The room settles into something quieter after that, the air hums softly around the two of you, close and warm and familiar in a way that makes the rest of campus feel very far away. You focus on the tape, fingers smoothing it across the curve of his shoulder and down his arm while Logan watches you with that same soft, steady attention he always gets when he thinks you aren’t noticing.

“You concentrate really hard,” he murmurs eventually.

“I’m trying to stop you from destroying your rotator cuff.”

“Hot.”

You roll your eyes so hard it nearly hurts.

“You’re impossible.”

“And yet,” he says lightly, thumbs brushing absentmindedly against your hips, “you keep me around.”

You finish the final strip and smooth your hand over it one last time, making sure it’s fully adhered before tossing the empty backing aside.

“There,” you murmur, “Done.”

The clinic suddenly feels too quiet without the team in it.

Just the hum of fluorescent lights, the faint smell of your strawberry chapstick, and Logan looking at you like he has absolutely nowhere else he’d rather be.

You don’t step away and his hands tighten slightly at your hips while you’re still leaning forward over him, palms braced against the crinkling paper beside him on the treatment bed. Suddenly you’re very aware of how close your faces are.

You can feel his breathe against your parted lips, warm and steady

“You’re staring again,” he says quietly.

“You’re shirtless in a medical facility.”

“You invited me.”

Your eyes flick down to his mouth first and you lean in to kiss him before he can say something smug about it.

The first kiss is soft, more amused than anything, except Logan enthusiastically kisses you back. It’s not so chaste anymore.

His hand slides from your hip up along your waist while your fingers instinctively catch against the back of his neck, and the second you kiss him deeper, he exhales softly against your mouth like it nearly knocked the breath out of him.

You can feel the warmth of his skin beneath your hands, nails digging into his shoulder.

His mouth stays slow at first, then the kiss deepens steadily until your breathing catches halfway through it, a small involuntary sound escaping you before you can stop it, and Logan takes the opportunity to tilt his head and kiss you deeper like he’s been waiting for permission.

One of his hands slides into your hair, the other stays firm at your waist.

The new angle arches you against him properly now, your chest pressed lightly to his as he kisses you harder this time, slower and warmer and very deliberately not innocent.

His mouth is still curved faintly like he’s enjoying the fact that you started this, but the smugness fades quickly when your fingers slide into the damp hair at the base of his head and tug lightly.

The sound he makes against your mouth is quiet, but enough to make heat rush straight through you.

“Oh, you liked that,” you murmur before kissing him again. Logan’s hand tightens instinctively at your waist like he’s annoyed you noticed, which only makes you want to tease him more.

“Don’t get cocky,” he says, voice lower now.

“You literally started pouting for attention five minutes ago.”

“And it worked.”

He kisses you again before you can answer, his fingers creep below the hem of your scrubs and his palm flattens up on your spine, against your bare skin. The other slides down from your hair to your neck, guiding you harder into his lips, mouth parting to swallow your shallow breaths.

The paper beneath him crinkles loudly when he shifts forward toward the edge of the bed, and you can’t help laughing softly into the kiss at how absurdly obvious the sound is.

“You’re so clingy,” you whisper.

“Mm,” he hums against your mouth. “You love it.”

You pull away from him, chest heaving as you make room for his hands to skate up your sides, your scrub top going with them, "Actually...", his hands pause against you. You grin, going to press hot kisses to his neck, "I love you."

He groans at that, blunt nails digging into your ribs, just below your bra- itching to take it off.

You’re about to help him peel off your layers, when the clinic door suddenly slams open hard enough to hit the stopper behind it.

“YO LOGAN-”

You jerk back just enough to look toward the doorway while complete silence takes over the room.

You and Logan freeze for approximately half a second while the entire hockey team stands in the doorway staring in collective disbelief.

One teammate points aggressively.

“I KNEW IT.”

Another gasps dramatically.

“MRS. LOGAN CONFIRMED IN REAL LIFE.”

You bury your face briefly in Logan’s shoulder, mortified and laughing at the same time, meanwhile, Logan looks ready to commit murder.

He reaches blindly for the tape roll beside him and chucks it directly at them.

“Get out, you perverts.”

The tape bounces uselessly off one guy’s chest and nobody leaves.

If anything, they move further inside.

“HE’S DEFENSIVE!” someone yells.

“BRO WE INTERRUPTED FOREPLAY.”

“You guys are so annoying,” you groan, face burning.

Logan just watches you laugh for a second, despite the fact his teammates are actively ruining his life in real time, something in his expression softens completely.

“You’re enjoying this way too much,” he mutters quietly.

You look back at him with teary eyes.

“You threw tape at them.”

“They interrupted me.”

“That sounded possessive. Maybe Dean was right?”

“It was, can't believe I'm proving him correct.”

"YES MRS. LOGAN" Dean cheers from within the pack.

That makes you laugh all over again.

Logan, meanwhile, tightens an arm around your waist and glares at them with absolutely zero shame. He doesn’t even bother to move away from you anymore, which is probably the most embarrassing part.

“Door,” he says flatly.

The boys finally retreat, still yelling over each other, and the second the door slams shut again, the clinic falls back into silence.

You look down at Logan. He looks up at you.

You still couldn’t understand what had possessed you to agree to this in the first place, getting completely naked in a shared house and climbing into the bathtub with a guy you were barely starting to know, all because you were determined to stop being so uptight now that you were away from home. 

You also didn’t know when you’d started thinking out loud or why you’d picked this exact moment to bring it up in conversation anew.

"Explain it to me again," he murmured, flicking the vibrator to life, one he’d stolen from your dorm, making a point to drag the buzzing tip in a feather-light path along the sensitive skin of your neck, letting the vibrations sink in slowly to relax you and hopefully distract you.

A shiver raced down your spine even though the bathwater stayed hot, bubbles cresting just below your collarbones as you leaned back against the solid wall of his chest.

"What part? The ‘casual is all we’ll be’ speech or the part where I told you not to snoop in my drawers?" Your words came out clipped but your body betrayed you by melting further into him. 

He continued trailing the vibrator lower, now submerging it underwater and tracing lazy circles around each nipple, the low hum making the peaks tighten and ache. His mouth followed, pressing open kisses along your throat, sucking lightly at the sensitive spot just below your ear while one hand cupped the weight of your breast, squeezing the soft mound.

"Couldn't hear your rant about the drawer mid-sex," he whispered against your damp skin. "Your moans took over and I'm pretty sure you stopped speaking English at some point. So...the former." 

You let out a soft, humorless chuckle that dissolved into a moan when he focused the vibrator on one nipple, buzzing toy tormenting the peak with relentless and slow circles, while he pinched the other between his thumb and forefinger, rolling it with firm pressure and tugging just enough to draw a helpless gasp from your lips.

"I'm not sure what there's to explain," you managed, squirming as he guided the toy lower, skimming it over your stomach now. Bubbles hid everything below the surface, but you felt every inch of its progress. Your thighs parted on instinct when the vibrator finally reached between your legs but instead of pressing where you needed it most, he teased along the inner skin of your thighs, drawing slow lines that made your hips twitch.

"Humor me," he insisted, voice low and calm.

You looked to the water even though the bubbles didn’t allow any visibility and swallowed, trying to gather your thoughts. "Guys don't look at me in my country–"

"You should check the blindness statistics then," he cut in, a mix of seriousness and dry humor in his tone as his free hand moved to cup both breasts fully, squeezing with just enough force to make the flesh spill between his fingers. "I know you're not worried about it, but someone should be." 

The vibrator hovered near your pussy now, the steady vibrations a maddening promise just out of reach.

He’d decided so the moment he first saw you on campus, because the second you stepped into his line of sight, his eyes had locked onto you. He still couldn’t believe an entire country had somehow overlooked your beauty.

"Hilarious," you replied flatly, though your breath hitched hard as the toy brushed your outer lips. He circled without touching your clit, keeping the pressure light and teasing. "Uh...this is merely me learning how to be okay with being seen, touched…and... and–"

Your words fractured when the vibrator edged closer to your swollen bud. Dean's grip tightened on your breasts again, kneading slowly while he waited.

"Go on," he prompted.

"And getting to do what all of my friends got to do in high school," you finished, voice breathy. "This isn't a relationship…or fuck forbid, a situationship."

"Right," he agreed easily, no trace of resentment in his words. He lowered his hand to your stomach and pressed you back against him as he finally settled the vibrator's tip directly on your clit. The sudden focused buzz made you whimper and drop your head to his shoulder as water rippled around your spread thighs. "Because you're only here for a total of ten months," he continued, voice steady. "You wouldn't want to waste your time with me."

"Fuck...yes," you moaned, hips rolling instinctively toward the toy. "Yeah…yeah–that’s it." He pulled it away at once, tracing your pussy lips with maddening patience instead. "Please, Dean–"

"I'm trying to focus," he said, a grin audible in his voice. One hand shamelessly claimed your breast again, squeezing and lifting the weight while his thumb brushed the stiff nipple. "This is a serious conversation...can't have you moaning and ditching English altogether."

"The conversation's over. Get back to work," you demanded, though the words shook despite your best effort. “Isn’t this what you’re good for?”

“So bossy,” He chuckled behind you, the sound vibrating through his chest into your back as the vibrator hovered once more, circling just outside your clit without granting full contact. “I’m sure there’s more to this conversation, considering how eager you were to bring it up again.”

The warm water sloshed softly against the sides of the tub as Dean's fingers adjusted the vibrator once more, the low buzz sending ripples straight through your swollen folds. 

"Um…" You blinked hard, struggling to focus while the vibrations teased the edges of your puffy clit without granting any real relief. "Uh okay, yeah…the second I catch feelings I’m out. We’re done."

"Oh really?" His voice stayed calm, almost conversational but he pressed the buzzing head firmly against your clit this time. The sudden pressure made your hips jerk forward, a sharp moan tearing from your throat as you nodded against his shoulder. Your eyelids fluttered shut, lashes damp from the steam.

"I need to…learn how to be casual about things," you managed between shaky breaths. The denial from earlier still throbbed through you, leaving your body hypersensitive and desperate.

"This having an expiration date should already make it casual," he noted, thumb circling the stiff nipple in slow strokes that matched the vibrator's teasing pace. He obviously didn’t mention how often the thought of your eventual departure slipped into his mind or how frustrating it was that you refused to let yourself get used to his attention, too afraid of missing it once you left the country.

"'S not enough," you shivered, a whimper escaping as your thighs tensed around his wrist. Your pussy clenched around nothing, aching for more at the thought of what his dick could offer.

Dean clicked the vibrator up to the next speed. The stronger pulses dragged a broken mewl from you that went straight to his hardening cock pressed against your lower back. "Better?"

"Didn’t mean that, fuck…" Your voice cracked, hips rolling instinctively toward the toy as your hands gripped the edge of the tub for leverage.

"What did you mean then?" He pressed the question while dragging the vibrator in tight circles over your clit, never letting it settle long enough for you to build real momentum.

"I need to see other guys," you admitted, voice breathy and strained. “...and sleep with them casually.”

He immediately slowed the vibration back to the previous setting, the sudden drop in intensity making you whine in frustration. 

"But not on the hockey team."

You shook your head, fingers digging into his thigh. "Dean, we can talk about this later…just let me come."

He ignored the plea entirely, instead kneading your breast harder, pinching the nipple between his fingers until it ached. "Actually, it’s even better if he’s not a hockey player at all."

"Fuck…okay! Dean. Can you–" You tried to ask for steady pressure, anything to push you over but he kept the toy moving in lazy patterns across your clit and down your slick lips, denying you the focus you craved.

He shook his head. "I can’t know who he is. I can’t vouch for what I’ll do if I see you with some–"

"Nobody knows about me and you. I can keep a fucking secret," you gasped between moans, grinding your hips upward in a futile attempt to chase more friction. Water splashed over the edge as your movements grew frantic. “Dean, come on.”

You felt his gaze burning into you as he pulled the vibrator away again and a needy whine slipped out of you. "No dates."

"Why would I–?I don’t even have dates with you." you replied flatly, arching your back away from his chest in protest. The moment you did, he brought the toy right back to your clit with perfect pressure and your body melted instantly with a shuddering sigh, thighs spreading wider under the water.

"No talking about them either when we’re together."

You moaned louder, head tipping back as your body began tensing, preparing for its release. "I won’t moan their names during sex, don’t worry."

"I’m serious. Not even as a joke…you can badmouth them, sure." He felt you nod but from the way you bit down on your lip to hold in the sounds, he knew he had room for one more demand. His hand left your breast only to return with a firmer grip, lifting and massaging the weight while the vibrator circled your swollen bud. "But I do wanna know about the sex."

"Why?" The word came out as a drawn-out moan, your pussy fluttering with every denied pulse.

"I wanna know how I can make it better for you."

"That won’t keep me from looking elsewhere." Your eyes snapped open as he removed the vibrator completely. Your hand shot out to catch his wrist, desperation clear in your grip. "Okay okay!…you arrogant prick."

Your breath hitched sharply as he pressed the vibrator back on your clit again, harder this time. 

"Did I make myself clear?" He watched your chest heave, lips parted and glistening, your hand tightening on his wrist as he ramped up the speed once, then twice. Your breath hitched sharply with each increase, body trembling on the edge.

"Crystal," you breathed, voice breaking. Your body tensed hard, back arching as the orgasm finally crashed through you. A raw cry escaped your lips while your pussy clenched and pulsed rhythmically against the buzzing toy. Dean kept it pressed firmly against your clit through every wave, drawing out every last shudder until you finally sagged boneless against his chest, your grip on his wrist going slack.

"That wasn’t so hard, now, was it?" he grinned, switching the toy off at last.

“No, but I’m sure you are...” You breathed heavily, chest rising and falling, body still trembling from the intense orgasm. "Asshole," you panted, sliding down and fully submerging yourself beneath the bubbles.

He let out a slow breath, trying to push down the frustration tightening in his chest because…he was good at casual. 

He only did casual, so why the hell was this getting under his skin so easily?

Dean kept one arm draped over the edge of the bathtub, gripping the vibrator tightly in his fist as if it could anchor him. His other arm rested along the opposite rim, fingers clenched white-knuckled against the porcelain. He was trying, really fucking trying, not to reach for you, not to pull you up and bury himself inside you.

Still, restraint be damned. His free hand slipped beneath the water, fingers slowly gliding over your submerged shoulder and along your collarbone, savoring the warm, slippery skin. 

Just as he forced himself to pull back, your fingers wrapped firmly around his throbbing cock forcing a low, involuntary groan to tear from deep in his chest.

His head dropped back, eyes squeezing shut in anticipatory pleasure.

Oh, he was so fucked.

The porch buzzed under your feet like it was ready to give out at any moment. The music was shitty and loud enough for people to hear a block down. That should’ve been your first cue to leave. 

You stood outside your brother’s infamous house and contemplated actually going in. Girls in tiny skirts and guys with backwards hats competed to blackout first around you, shoving in and out of the door. That was reason #1 you had avoided this night for three months. Your phone buzzing in your purse shook you out of your thoughts, Garrett’s contact name popped up on your screen as soon as you looked. 

dumbass graham: Where r u? 

you:  outside of ur house contemplating disowning you as my brother 

dumbass graham: You are so dramatic

dumbass graham: Get inside or im sending logan 

You sighed at your brother's message, shoving your phone back into your sparkly purse before smoothing your dress down for the millionth time. The dress was fine. A little more than fine, maybe. Tight in all the right places and deep red and just short enough that made you take a double take. You had tried on four before your roommates found this one and practically forced it upon you. They had told you it was going to give hot transfer and not slutty puck bunny but you still weren’t sure about it. 

The door swung open in front of you before you could change your mind and run away and John Logan popped out, grabbing your wrist. 

“There you are. Were you planning on standing there all night?” Garrett said, standing at the door, as Logan pulled you through. 

The second you were in the house you hated it. The smell of beer, boys, bad music, and hockey hit you like a semi truck and you wrinkled your nose. Your brother laughed at your put out expression and continued dragging you with him and Logan despite you slapping at his arm. Girls and guys looked your way, wondering who the new girl with the Briar U superstars were. 

That's why you originally hadn’t chosen Briar. You wanted somewhere you could be something other than Garrett Graham’s little sister and Phil Graham’s daughter. Everyone knew your dad and your brother, because everyone knew hockey. You hated that. You hated hockey. You had escaped for something different. Ireland. Which was safe and different until it wasn’t. 

“Look who we found loitering on the porch” Your brother said while chuckling to his friends standing in the kitchen. You finally looked up. Tucker was the first you made eye contact with and he pulled you in for a hug before you knew it. Then your eyes hit Dean Di Laurentiis. 

Dean was leaning against the counter with a red solo cup and a stupid smile gracing his features. Somewhere between your senior year of high school and this party Dean stopped looking like another one of your brother’s idiot teammates and started looking like a walking talking issue for your focus. He’d gotten hotter. And taller. And bigger. You had to take a second to ask yourself if this really still is your big brother’s asshole friend Dean. His arms stretched his gray t-shirt and when his eyes locked on you something in them sharpened with sudden interest. 

“Y/N, you remember the guys,” Garrett said, oblivious to your reaction as always. “You remember, Logan, Tucker, Dean, obviously, and that’s Beau.”

Beau lifted his glass and smiled in greeting. Your brother was rambling on about Hannah and Ally and wanting you to meet them. You had never heard of your brother having a serious girlfriend but that made you all the more excited to meet her. 

“Oh shit, Wellsy’s here!” 

Logan pointed to two pretty girls walking into the door behind you and went with Garrett to go get them. Traitors. You thought. Now it was you, Dean, Tucker, and Beau. You hoped they were enough of a buffer that you wouldn’t freak out at the thought of being this close to Dean. 

“Do you want a drink?” Beau said from your side, laughing at the look on your face like he knew exactly who you were freaking out about. 

“Please.” 

Beau stepped around Dean and to the fridge just as Tucker walked out of the kitchen to go talk to a girl he saw in the distance. You moved toward Beau to get the drink he was holding out but Dean beat you to it, stepping in front of you to hand you the drink himself. Beau smiled into his cup, knowing exactly what the look in Dean’s eyes meant. Dean’s eyes looked you up and down slowly and a familiar heat creeped up onto your face, before his mouth tilted into a mischievous smirk. 

“When did you get hot, Graham?” 

Instead of blushing or swooning at the sentence you found yourself in a fight of laughter. Not soft giggles either, loud, loud laughter that had tears coming to your eyes. Dean always found a way to remind you he hadn’t changed. He was still just another hockey player. An unbelievably charming and hot hockey player, but a hockey player still. 

“God, do all hockey players have such shitty lines or is it just you D?” You got out between fits of laughter. Dean blinked at you, clearly not expecting that reaction. Beau joined you laughing. Dean was quick to recover though and his stunned look turned into a shit eating grin. 

“There she is.” 

Your eyebrows lifted, “There who is?” 

“The girl who met me once and immediately told me hockey was a cult?” 

“It is a cult. I stand by that” You grinned back at him, shrugging lightly. 

“It’s a sport.”

“You literally live together.” 

“That’s brotherhood, little G.” 

“You all share one brain cell, no original nicknames or ideas.” You rolled your eyes at the nickname, Garrett had the dumbest nicknames for you and his friends always picked up on them. 

Dean stepped closer to you and you took a step back, hitting the counter. He looked entirely too entertained and entirely too attractive. Beau had left somewhere in the middle of your stupid conversation without a word, and you suddenly realized you had stopped paying attention to anything besides him. 

“Dean.” You said softly, trying to get any words out before you were too flustered to say anything. His eyes locked into yours and your blush was ten tones deeper. He leaned one arm on the counter beside you, keeping the other side open, like he was letting you have the option of escaping, but you stayed put where you were. 

“Yes, Y/N?” Dean’s shit eating grin was still plastered on his face which meant he knew exactly what he was doing. 

“Do you think if I left this party right now my brother would send a search party out?” 

“Graham, I think if you tried to leave this party right now before meeting Hannah your brother would send the campus police after you.” You tried to focus on anything but the way you could feel his breath on you or his hand inches away from your waist. 

“Do you like her?”

“Who? Wellsy?” You nodded, trying to change the subject. And if Dean noticed he didn’t do anything to stop it. 

“Yeah, Garrett likes her a lot. She’s really good for him.” Dean pauses. “Are you still with that guy from Ireland?”

Your eyes moved from your brother and Hannah making their way to the kitchen back to Dean. You hadn’t realized you didn’t delete those pictures. 

“Oh, uh no. I’m not.” You had dated Ernie for 6 months while you were in Ireland. 6 months of telling your family about him and bragging and posting him. 6 months of him cheating on you with your roommate. But you didn’t tell anyone that last part. 

“His loss.” Dean got the hint to change the subject when all you did was hum in response. “Do you still hate us?”

“Hockey?” You corrected. “Yes. Deeply. Passionately. For the rest of my life.”

“You know it’s your families whole personality right?” 

“And look how that turned out.” 

Dean laughed again. Not the same as before, when he was tyring to flirt. It was softer. More real. And you laughed with him. 

“You know,” He said thoughtfully, “Last time I saw you was when you were yelling at Tucker and Logan for eating all your tiramisu.”

“Hey, I had spent like 3 hours making that” You said, trying to be serious and failing immediately. A big grin taking over your features. “I stand by my reaction.”

“I still can’t believe you were making tiramisu at 17.”

You shrugged. “Some people develop useful hobbies”

“Some people have dedicated their lives to a sport”

“Some people also peak in college.”

“Ouch” Dean laughed, staring at you with a look you couldn’t quite figure out. “You know after a whole year in Ireland I figured you’d knocked that Boston accent out of you.”

“I do not have a Boston accent, you ass.” 

“You do. Garrett never really had one but yours was always there. You can hear it when you say vowels.”

Your hand flew to your mouth, embarrassed. “Oh my god, Dean, shut up”

“There it is again.”

“I don’t have an accent.”

“You absolutely do.”

“It comes out when I’m tired.” You try defending. 

“That’s so cute.” Dean smiled smugly. 

Your stomach did a horrifying flip and you laughed with your head in your hands. Dean’s hand was now resting on the counter behind your back and it was like his closeness was bruning into you now. Before you could say anything, Garrett’s voice cut threw the kitchen. 

“Why are you standing so close to my sister?”

You went to take a step away but Dean stayed put, not caring. Which unfortunately made you look a lot guiltier. Dean, on the other hand, looked unbothered. 

“Relax, G.” he said easily, grabbing his cup off the counter behind where you were standing. “We were catching up, I haven’t seen her since freshman year.”

“About your trip?” Garrett sounded like he was about to accuse you and Dean of something else but Hannah thankfully stepped up instead. 

“Hi, you must be Y/n, I’m Hannah.” She was adorable, you’d give Garrett that. You smiled at her, grateful for the interruption and the chance to feel like you could breathe again with Dean slightly less close with you. 

“Hannah!” You repeated warmly. “Logan and Garrett do not shut up about you.”

Garrett scoffed and Logan started to interrupt you but you continued anyways “Garrett made me listen to him talk about you for an hour on facetime like a week ago when you guys met. I almost hung up.” 

Hannah laughed and gave you a quick hug as another girl came up to stand next to her.  

“This is Allie.” Hannah said, pointing to the girl standing besides her. They were both even prettier up close. Allie smiled at you very knowingly. As if she had seen Dean and you pressed against the counter and understood everything going on in your head. 

“It’s nice to finally meet you.” Allie said. 

“You too.” 

Garrett and Hannah were absorbed in their own world within seconds, and Allie had run off to find her boyfriend. Logan was staring at Hannah like he was going to cry if he had to watch her be with Garrett for a second longer. You liked this. You liked Garrett’s friends. Almost enough to distract you from the hate you had for parties. 

Dean pushed off the counter and came closer to you again, dipping down to talk into your ear so you could hear him over the music. 

“Are you hungry?” 

 “What?” Your brows furrowed and you turned away from your brother towards Dean behind you.

“You look hungry.” Dean shrugged. 

“That’s got to be the worst line you’ve used”

“It’s not a line.” He protested. “You just don’t seem like you like this party and you look like you’re planning on robbing our kitchen.” 

“It’s not that, I just don’t like parties” You don’t know what made you be honest. Dean just seemed to bring it out of you tonight. Dean didn’t seem to enjoy that answer and took your drink from your hand, putting it on the counter. 

“Dean–” You started protesting, but he ignored you completely. 

“You hate parties?” He repeated as he guided you somewhere through the crowd. Your brother and his friends left behind you in the kitchen. 

“I hate hockey parties.”

“It’s because you were never at my hockey parties”

“You all smell like axe body spray and terrible cheap alcohol.”

Dean laughed loudly, dinally stopping at the edge of the makeshift dancefloor in their house. The music was too loud, the bass vibrating beneath your too high heels. 

“This is my nightmare.” you yelled over the music, gesturing wildly. 

Dean turned towards you with an amused smile, “Yet you still followed me.” 

You rolled your eyes but warmth spread through your chest despite yourself. Dean moved closer, one of his hands settling on your waist like it belonged there. Your brain short circuited as you looked down at the hand. 

“You’re tense.” He said like it was the most obvious thing, like there was no reason to be, like his hand wasn’t sitting on your waist, swaying you.

“I’m standing in the middle of a dance floor surrounded by drunk athletes and girls who would kill to be dancing with you.”

“And?”

“And I’m much too sober for this.” 

Dean barked out a laugh. “That bad at dancing, huh Graham?” 

“You have no idea”

“You know,” Dean said, leaning too close, “for someone who hates hockey players, your eyes haven’t left me all night.” 

Your jaw dropped instantly at the insinuation. You thought you were being so slick. 

“I am not staring at you.”

“Sure, Graham.”

“You are delusional. You just think every girl would kill to be with you.”

“Cute deflection.” 

Before you could come up with a response, Tucker came barelling through the two of you, much drunker than when you had left them. 

“OH MY GOD.” He slurred loudly at the two of you. “It’s time for shots!”

Tucker grabbed both of you, and leaned towards Dean, whisper shouting at him. 

“Dean, if Garrett kills you I am taking your room.” Dean shoved him away with a laugh and the three of you made your way to the kitchen. 

The night blurred after that. Somewhere between Beau and Allie singing showtunes and Tucker starting a dance battle with himself, you stopped checking the time and accidentally started having fun. 

By midnight your ribs were sore from laughing and by one in the morning you were sure your cheeks were permanently red thanks to Dean. And by two, you were drunk. Not blackout drunk, but too drunk to stop yourself from saying something stupid. And way too drunk to walk home. Way too drunk to pretend like every time Dean leaned in you didn’t stop mid sentence to look at him. 

“You okay?” He asked, steadying you as someone bumped you while walking by. 

“I hate you.”

“For what?” 

“You made me enjoy a hockey party. That’s deeply embarrassing.” 

Dean’s grin softened. “There she is again.” 

“Stop saying shit like that.”

“Like what?”

“Things that make me almost like you.”

Dean looks genuinely offended. “Almost?”

You laughed into your drink at his reaction before finally checking your phone. 2:27am. Your eyes widened. You had to go home. 

“Oh my god.”

“What?”

“I need my brother.”

Dean made a face immediately and you shoved his shoulder. “Shut up, D. I need him to take me home. Him and Hannah were the only ones not drinking.” 

Dean pulled his phone out to call your brother for you as you tried and failed to stand up straight without his help. A few seconds passed before he started laughing.

“What?”

Dean just turned his phone toward you. 

Garrett: DO NOT COME UP HERE UNLESS IT’S AN EMERGENCY. 

Garrett: also hannah says bye :)

“Oh my god” You groaned, putting your face in your hands. 

“Well,” Dean said, looking far too entertained. “Looks like your ride abandoned you.” 

“I hate everyone in this house.”

“That’s not fair.” Dean laughed again. “Beau didn’t do anything.” 

You grounded dramatically and leaned your forehead against his chest for a second to steady yourself before realizing what you were doing and immediately straightening. Dean noticed. Of course he noticed. His grin turned lazy. 

“You’re drunk, Graham.” 

“And you need to think of a better nickname.”

“Drunk and mean.” He laughed. “Baby doll, you’re swaying.”

. “That’s what you think was the better option.” Your face burned at the nickname. “I’m standing perfectly still.”

“You haven’t stood still in 20 minutes.” Dean said. “You almost ran into the wall.”

“The wall almost hit me.”

Dean let out a soft laugh and reached out to steady you. The contact felt unfairly natural at this point in the night, you leaned into it. 

“So what do I do, D?” You pouted. “Sleep on your disgusting sex couch?”

“You can take my room.”

“That’s arguably so much worse.” 

Dean laughed at you but pushed you towards the stairs anyways.

“Dean, stop, where will you sleep then? I can’t take your bed the night before practice.”

“Great point, guess we’re sharing.”

You tried to ignore the warmth in your chest at his offering. You tried to convince yourself it’s just because you’re drunk but you know better.  You tried to remind yourself who this was. It’s Dean Di Laurentis. Your brother’s Dean. Cocky, flirty, hockey, Dean who you know has slept with half the girls on campus. 

“Dean.” 

“Y/N.”

“This is a bad idea.” You tried to sound confident but it came out more as a question than anything. 

“Your brother would kill me if I let you walk and he’d kill me if you slept on the couch.” He pursed his lips, thinking for a second before deciding it was fine. “It’s fine.” 

The two of you headed up to his room and he tossed you a shirt and sweatpants that were way too long. You laughed. 

“What?” He looked at you staring at the clothes. “Are they ugly?”

“No, no, they’re just huge.”

“Well if you’d rather sleep without clothes, I won’t protest.” 

You threw a pillow at him as he laughed and you went into the bathroom. When you came back out Dean was shirtless wearing just sweatpants. You looked at him, frozen where you were standing for a second before dumping your dress and heels outside of the bathroom and swaying over to the bed. 

“You had fun tonight.” 

You opened your mouth to protest but stopped yourself. You couldn’t deny it. Because annoyingly, you did have fun, a lot of fun. Not just with Dean. With Logan and Tucker and Allie and you had fun watching your brother fall head over heels with Hannah too. A soft silence passed between the two of you before he got in bed next to you. 

“Thank you, Dean.” Something in his expression softened. And then his eyes flickered down to your mouth. For a second both of you were too close. But neither of you moved. The music downstairs died down softly and the only sounds that could be heard was the shuffling of people coming upstairs and voices from the other rooms. 

“You know,” Dean said with a smirk that made you think he was 100% going to ruin the moment. “This is going to make me look really good when you tell people you don’t actually hate hockey players.”

You laughed softly at him and shoved a pillow in his face. “Don’t push it, Di Laurentis.”

Dean grinned at you and then before either of you could do anything too stupid he turned around and turned the light off. 

“Get some sleep, Graham.” 

Considering you two have been friends since you were in elementary school, she asked you right away if you would be a bridesmaid, and you agreed excitedly. You haven’t been able to see one another since you went to college on the entire other side of the country, but you were able to find time after graduation and before starting your new job to fly out to the east coast for the special event.

“Who’s Dean again?” You question as she hands her other bridesmaids flowers as well.

“He’s one of Garrett’s friends and teammates. He’s nice, but he can be a real pig sometimes,” she says, although her tone is light and loving, letting you know she was only slightly kidding. 

“In a sense of he eats a ton or he’s misogynistic?” You wonder with a raised eyebrow.

“Well, he does eat a lot, they’re hockey players, and I wouldn’t say misogynistic, but quite the opposite. He’s a big ladies man, so I’m sure he’s going to be hitting on every available woman here. But don’t worry, I warned him to stay away from you.”

“Thanks,” you chuckle softly along with the other girls. Hannah stops to look in the mirror, taking in the sight of herself in the stunning white dress. It’s simple yet so elegant, the satin material hugging her body perfectly, the A-line chest and bodice complimenting her in all the right places, the flow of the skirt not too dramatic as a ballgown, but enough to get the attention of everyone. Of course, it had to be complete with a bow on the back of the dress where the bodice meets the skirt.

You and the rest of the girls were all in dark maroon dresses, all different styles but the color staying the same. You had picked out a one-shoulder dress with rouching on the bodice and a nice flowy skirt. On the back, though, there are two straps of the fabric that lay flat against your back with a small space in it. It was breathable and comfortable, and you couldn’t be happier that she allowed different styles.

“Okay, are we ready to get married?” Hannah’s maid of honor, Allie, cheers while jumping up and down, more than ecstatic to send her best friend down the aisle.

After another emotional moment as the reality sets in for Hannah, everyone files out of the room and is lead down the long hallway by the wedding planner, who eventually leads the group down the elegant velvet green staircase, adorned with the flowers Garrett and Hannah chose to have, perfectly complimenting the gold trim of the entryway.

The place they chose is absolutely breathtaking. It’s practically a Parisian castle just outside of Philadelphia, and the entire wedding happens on site.

So much for a small wedding.

The bridal party has special suites, the cocktails happen in the entry hall, and the happy couple are getting married under a massive tree on one side of the estate.

Hannah stays inside with her father, who delicately holds her hand, wiping his tears with a tissue, which sends the photographer into a frenzy to capture the perfect photo. The bridal party is led outside to meet up with the groomsmen, and you awkwardly stand around as everyone else chats away since they all know each other.

“(Y/N), this is Dean, your buddy for today,” Garrett steps over, introducing you to a tall blond man with a perfectly sculpted face, a dimple appearing in his cheek as he smiles at you. Though the groom quickly disappears as he prepares the rest of the group.

“Hi, nice to meet you,” you stick your hand out for him to shake, and when he does, it feels like an electric shock goes up your arm.

“Nice to meet you as well. So you’re a friend of Wellsy?”

“Wellsy?” Your eyebrows furrow together in confusion. He just chuckles and points in the direction of where Hannah is preparing to walk out in front of the guests.

“Hannah. G used to call her Wellsy before they were dating, and it stuck with the rest of us,” he explains.

“Oh,” you nod along. “Yeah, we were friends in elementary school and stayed in touch when we both left for college.”

“Nice, where did you venture to?”

“Seattle, the University of Washington,” you smile proudly.  He offers you an impressed look, but his ability to respond is cut short when the entire party is rounded up to prepare for the ceremony to start.

Dean sticks his arm out for you to take, a cheeky smile on his face as he does.

“I’ll lead the way, m’lady,” he chuckles to himself. 

You delicately place your hand on his strong, flexed bicep, another thing that makes your heart swoon, and follow the group outside and down yet another set of steps. Your feet were already hurting from the heels everyone is made to wear, and you can’t wait until the reception to take them off and switch them for a pair of sandals or flats.

The ceremony is beautiful and exceeds the expectations of even yourself. Hannah’s family were able to make it, though only one person on Garrett’s side was able to come, and that is Cindy. Thankfully, the seating was mixed, so it wasn’t obvious that it was mainly his friends that were there. 

Since it’s supposed to be a short, to the point ceremony, the entire bridal party and groomsmen remain standing, and from across the way where Dean stands, you can’t help but notice the way he keeps giving you looks, winking at you, and biting his lip. 

You are sure that you’re the one he’s kept his focus on, seeing as everyone else in the bridesmaids have significant others, but also, Hannah mentioned that her, and even Garrett, had warned him to stay away from you, so why was he breaking that?

After Hannah and Garrett seal the ceremony with a kiss, the entire crowd erupting in cheers, throwing streamers in the air as they walk down the aisle, both of their smiles so wide that it looks painful, though it’s clear that neither of them care.

They deserve this moment after all the hurt and heartache both of them have been through their entire lives. 

Dean sticks out his arm once more for you when it’s your turn to walk back up the aisle, his head turning to look down at you; even with heels on, you’re still shorter than him.

“I saw you crying over there,” he lightly teases. “Tug at your heartstrings too much, huh?”

“It was beautiful,” you nudge him with your elbow. “I didn’t see you crying, was it not emotional enough?” Dean shrugs and his eyes kind of glaze over with a realization.

“I’m not one to cry,” he shrugs.

“That doesn’t sound healthy.” He chuckles and shrugs again in response.

“Everyone expresses their emotions differently. Like tonight, I plan on getting hammered with my boys to celebrate the fact that my man is a husband now.”

You shake your head and part from his grasp to meet up with Hannah and give her a huge hug to congratulate her, gushing about how perfect it was and how tonight is going to be even better.

While the guests venture into the hall where the cocktails and small appetizers are being served, the bridal party stays outdoors to take some photos. And thankfully, since it’s a nice spring day, it’s not too hot and not too chilly, so being outside is bearable.

Finally, when photos are finished, you are able to head back inside and take some time to relax before the reception starts. 

Which, like Dean said, was definitely a celebration.

About an hour into everyone gathering in the ballroom-like space, dinner having finished, speeches given, and the drinks flowing, it was getting rather crazy in there. Not to mention, Dean has not stopped hitting on you any chance he gets.

From comments about how he likes your tattoos and asking what they mean, to asking you to dance since you were his aisle partner and it’s only fair, and making little gestures at you from across the room when your eyes meet for a fleeting moment. 

And every advance, you brush off. Because you’re rather…socially inept at times, unable to read certain cues or intentions that someone has, you mistake his flirting for friendly banter, and find nothing more to his light teasing and small comments, compared to what he’s meaning it as.

“You know, you look like a Greek goddess wearing that,” he says to you as you stand at the bar, refilling your bottle of water. Turning to him with a confused expression, you raise an eyebrow.

“Why’s that? Because it looks like a toga?” He seems taken aback by your blunt response, not understanding why you didn’t seem to accept the compliment.

“Well, yeah, I guess you could say that,” he stumbles over his words, shrugging a little.

“Greeks didn’t wear togas, those were more Roman,” you state, taking a long drink of your water to hydrate. Dean offers an interested gaze, though he doesn’t stop trying. 

“Hm, so you know a bit about Greek and Roman times, do you?”

“I studied it in college, so knowing “a bit” is slightly an understatement,” you chuckle, walking away from him to head back to your table.

He throws his hands up in defeat just as Logan walks by him.

“What’s wrong, man?” Dean points in your direction, a longing look in his eyes.

“She’s a tough cookie to crack.”

“I think the word your looking for is nut. She’s a tough nut to crack.” Dean glares at him. “That’s the correct saying. Anyways, what about her is so tough?”

“I’ve been flirting with her all night and she doesn’t seem to get it.”

“Maybe she doesn’t care and she’s not interested,” Logan shrugs, patting his friend on the back. “I thought you were warned to stay away from her? Maybe Hannah told her the same, for her to stay away from you.”

Dean thinks it over for a moment as he watches you laugh and have a good time on the dance floor with Allie, Hannah, and Grace. Sabrina isn’t here, as she and the baby are both sick, however she urged Tucker to go and have a good time, and that he is.

“Have you even had a drink tonight?” Logan questions. Dean nods and looks down at the beer bottle in his hands

“Just the one.”

“Well have a couple more, forget about Wellsy’s stuck-up friend, and mingle around! Who knows, there might be someone you can screw around with in the coat closet by the end of the night.”

Dean can’t help but laugh at Logan’s words, that’s usually what he would do at events like this, find a pretty girl to talk up before bringing her to a private area to fuck.

But tonight was different, and you were the only thing on his mind. Maybe it was because his friends had told him to stay away from you, and the fact that you’re now “off-limits” to him was enticing. Or was it the way you smile? The soft, light voice that filled his ears as you conversed during the photo session, getting to know one another better.

He didn’t know what the hell it was, but he knew one thing, he wanted to get to know you even more. And not to just get in your pants.

This is a new feeling for him, and if he admits to Hannah or Garrett what he’s feeling, they’ll say he’s lying and give him all kinds of shit for breaking his promise.

Instead, he lays off of you for a while, though he doesn’t lighten up one bit. He sits at the table that is for the bridesmaids and groomsmen, messing around on his phone. The guys are way past tipsy at this point, so none of them really notice his absence. 

The three guys are busy lifting Garrett up in the air, with the help of a few football players and the rest of the guys on the hockey team, but all Dean can focus on is you. He shakes his head, trying to rid the thoughts that were plaguing his mind, but he’s unable to.

You seem so intriguing and all he wants to do is hear more things in that silky voice of yours. Although when he does yet another scan of the place, you are nowhere to be seen. He grows slightly concerned, seeing as this place is massive and you could be anywhere on the 42 acres of land, so he stands and makes a bee-line for the large double doors, practically going unnoticed.

The music starts to grow quieter the farther he gets from the ballroom, and soon he finds himself stumbling out another set of doors just down the hall, onto a large stone balcony that overlooks the land. The sun was in the process of setting, so the sky was absolutely breathtaking.

And sure enough, there you stand, your gold heels no longer adorning your feet, replaced by a pair of black flats.

He doesn’t miss the shiver that overcomes you when a breeze whistles in the air, and before he can even think about his next move, he is shrugging his suit jacket off and placing it around your shoulders. Startled, you jump about ten feet in the air, not realizing there was someone else out here with you, but relax when you see that it’s Dean, a soft and friendly grin on his face, that little dimple making an appearance as well.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you, but I noticed you were a little cold,” he states. “Had to escape the noise, huh?”

“Yeah,” you simply state. “It was getting a little too wild for me.” You glance over at Dean and can’t help but bite back a smile. “You’re not in there getting hammered with your buddies?”

He meets your gaze, which sends a shiver up your spine. His striking green eyes are heavenly, only enhanced with the striking colors of the sky in front of you two. He swallows thickly, knowing you’re seemingly onto something.

“I have a lot on my mind,” he shrugs.

“Isn’t that when people drink the most?” Your comment appears to trigger something in him as he shifts awkwardly and suddenly avoids eye contact with you.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to…upset you if I did. But you said earlier that you were excited to-”

“I know, I know. It’s not that, I…well, to put it lightly, something happened and now I can no longer drink heavily when there’s a lot going on up here,” he taps his temple. “So, I’ve had one beer. But the guys don’t seem to notice, so it’s a win-win.”

“Hm, I get it,” you murmur. “So what’s on your mind to the point where you can’t let loose and have fun?” Dean debates on just blurting out the truth, but he dances around it.

“I dunno. Maybe it’s the fact that I want to know more about why Greeks didn’t wear togas like we were taught when we were younger,” he laughs softly. You playfully roll your eyes and turn towards him a little, keeping his jacket around your shoulders.

The sweet yet musky scent of his cologne impales your senses, and sometimes you’d find this amount of cologne to be unbearable, but right now, it’s incredibly intoxicating and you want to drown in it.

“Still on that, huh?” You bounce back. “Well, you’re not wrong about the Greeks wearing something similar, but they’re very different and were worn for different occasions. The Greeks wore three different types of clothing, a chiton, a peplos, and a himation. All very similar to a toga, but the first two are rectangle, and the third is basically what goes over a chiton. A toga is more of a circular piece of cloth.”

As you go on a small lesson about history, Dean is entirely taken aback. He wasn’t expecting such a detailed and well-rounded answer.

“So stereotypically, it does look similar if you have no idea what makes all of them different. Togas were also considered formal wear and were also mainly worn by men once women moved over to what was called a stola.”

“How the fuck do you know all of this?” He questions, not even caring about his language. For a moment he regrets it, not knowing if you would be offended by such talk, seeing as how shy you have been all day, but when you let out a hearty laugh, he knows he’s safe.

“I minored in history so a couple of my classes had to do with Ancient Greece and Ancient Rome,” you state. “Plus, it’s fun having that info in my back pocket, for moments like this.”

“So what did you major in?”

“Museology. Curating and managing museums.” His eyes go wide in surprise, as if he’s never heard of such a thing. “What was your major, Mr. Green Eyes.” He can’t ignore the small flutter in his heart. Is this her flirting back?

“Political Science, and I was headed to Harvard for pre-law, but I ended up getting a cushy job coaching and being a P.E. teacher instead.”

“You gave up pre-law to be a P.E. teacher?” You question, though there’s no judgement or ridicule in your tone. Just plain curiosity.

“My dad is an attorney, my brother is a lawyer, they both went to Harvard so I was supposed to follow in their footsteps. But over the course of my last semester, I was assigned a coaching position for a middle school and I fell in love with it. I loved getting to see the kids excited to learn and better themselves, it was a lot more of a rewarding experience than I ever expected law school to be. Sure, it would have been nice to follow the family legacy, but that’s not who I am.”

“That takes a lot of strength to do something like that,” you reply. “But I can tell that you have a passion for teaching, and that’s what the world needs.”

Dean instantly swoons even more than he has been all night, in complete disbelief that this is all happening.

“Any big museum jobs lined up for you?” He questions. You nod sheepishly, staring down at your hands, slightly embarrassed to brag about your accomplishments.

“You could say that,” you murmur.

“And what does that mean, baby doll?” Dean internally curses himself for letting the pet name slip.

“Baby doll?” You wonder, holding back a laugh. His hand flies up to his neck, awkwardly rubbing at it. 

“Sorry, I uh, I call everyone that. I actually called Hannah that the first few times I saw her, when she was tutoring Garrett. She didn’t care for it at all. I’ve been trying to not use it on you because of what she told me, but it-”

“Did she really tell you to stay away from me?” You grumble.

“Oh yeah. Garrett did as well."

“She told me you were a big ladies man, but I haven’t exactly seen that tonight.” His expression softens and he takes a single step closer to you.

“That’s because I’ve had my eyes set on one girl all evening,” he whispers. Completely clueless to the situation, you blink up at him before turning to look towards the doors that were still open.

“Well, she’s probably in there looking for you.” Dean can’t keep his eyes from rolling in slight frustration, but also pure amusement.

“It’s you, ya big goof! I’ve been flirting with you all day, or at least trying to, but you don’t seem to get it, do you?” It takes a moment for his words to sink in, and then, everything hits you.

The stolen glances during the ceremony, the gentle touches to your arm or bare shoulder, passing it off as trying to carefully step by you, the compliments and slightly flirty comments…oh god.

“I’m a little dense when it comes to people flirting with me,” you admit shyly, staring down at your hands as you twiddle your fingers together nervously. Seconds later, Dean’s hands are covering yours, easing the shakiness in your limbs and the chaos of your mind.

Raising your head, you meet his gaze once more, a tight-lipped grin spreading across your lips.

“Hey, this is new to me too. I’m not used to girls being so dismissive to my advances, I’m not entirely sure how to act.” You can practically hear the sarcasm dripping from his lips, eliciting a real giggle from you, which of course leads him to follow in suit.

“Gee, it must be so hard for you. I feel for you, I do. What ever will we do?”

“I’m Dean Di Laurentis, I usually get what I want.”

“Oh yeah? What is it that you want, hm?” Based on what Hannah and the others in her friend group have told you about Dean, you’re expecting the worst and most disgusting response from him, like how he wants to take you to his room and fuck your brains out, or push you to your knees and shove his co-

“I want to take you out on a date,” he interrupts your thoughts, startling you and throwing you off entirely. So much so, that you aren’t even sure how to respond to such a thing. It’s been a while since you’ve been on a date, you’ve focused mainly on your studies in hopes of landing a good job after graduation. 

Now that that’s complete, maybe it is time to start looking again. But is Dean really the one to start with?

“You…do?”

“Yeah. You’re incredibly smart and very beautiful, any guy would be absolutely lucky to take you out. But I wanna be the lucky one.”

So many thoughts are racing through your mind, you are unable to process them all at once. It ends up leaving the two of you in silence for a lot longer than you would prefer, leading Dean to think that he’s overstepped a boundary.

“Unless you were the one to let Hannah know to stay away from you. Like…you told her that you wanted nothing to do with me. If that’s the case, then I completely understand. I know I used to have a reputation, but-”

“Do you just want to go out with me because I’m “off-limits”?” You question, insecurity rising in you. His eyes soften as he realizes that’s what’s holding you back from this.

“I mean, I won’t lie, it’s been a very enticing thought, but I do think you’re beautiful, and like I said, you’re very smart, and I would love to pick your brain on more things. And, also find out where that new job of yours is at. You never answered me on that.”

“The Museum of Natural History. In New York,” you admit. Once again, his eyes go wide in shock. One of the most well-known and visited museums in the country, and you’re working there?

“Are you serious?” He gasps in awe.

“Uh huh. I start in June, so it’s going to be crazy getting everything packed from Seattle and moving it across the country.”

“That’s fucking exciting, holy shit!” He exclaims. “What exhibits are you working with?”

“Well, I don’t exactly know yet, but I know it won’t be strictly one. I have the qualifications to work with any sort of thing, from statues, to bones, to clothing. So it’s wherever they put me.”

“I will absolutely have to come visit you at work, hell I’ll organize a field trip with my students and come visit you.”

“You’re teaching in New York?” Now it’s your turn to be gasping in surprise. What is the universe doing???

“Yep. A private school just outside of Manhattan. I start in August. Hey, look at that, we’re gonna be neighbors.”

You share a laugh, which quickly dies down, leading to silence. As you share an intense gaze, you feel your heart flutter as you prepare the words you want to say.

“How does a coffee date sound?” You offer, your cheeks turning pink as you revert back to the main topic. Dean’s entire face practically lights up at your suggestion, but he makes a slight amendment to it.

“How about we get up early, grab some coffee from the kitchen here, if we can find it, and take a stroll through the halls and gardens before everyone wakes up?” Your smile grows wider at his thought and you find yourself nodding almost immediately.

“I love the sound of that.” Just then another breeze blows over the two of you, the temperature dropping sifinicantly now that the sun is down, Dean’s jacket not providing much warmth anymore.

Dean, taking matters into his own hands, places a gentle hand on your shoulder and guides you back through the doors, shutting them behind you. Instantly, warmth surrounds you, shielded from the chilly night air that had settled outside.

Realizing that you’re alone in this empty hallway, another idea pops into your head.

“What do you say we get a little head start on our date right now?” You bite your lip, hoping he takes your offer this time. He glances around at the ornate decorations and designs of this castle-like structure. He can hear the crowd of guests still going wild. And while he’s well aware that he should get back in there and celebrate with his friends, as should you, he can’t resist your charm and kind-hearted nature.

“Shall we, m’lady?” He jokes, recalling back to earlier.

With a giggle from you, you copy your actions from earlier and place your hand on his bicep, this time squeezing it gently for good measure, which doesn’t go unnoticed by Dean, but he doesn’t draw attention to it.

So, for about an hour, you two walk around what feels like the entire building, chatting away about what your college life and classes were like, how he met Garrett and Hannah, how you met Hannah and when she started telling you about Garrett, everything you could possibly think of. Eventually, you come back around to the ballroom, though a majority of the guests have left.

Your main friend group is what remains, Garrett and Hannah slow dancing together alone on the dance floor, Logan and Tucker passed out in a couple chairs, Grace cradling Logan’s head in her lap, trying to get him to drink some water, and Allie taking care of Tuck since Sabrina isn’t here to do so.

Turning to Dean, you find him reluctant to go in, so he nods his head in the direction of where the rooms for the bridal party are. You guide him to the room you’re staying in, which you thankfully have to yourself, stopping right in front of the door.

“Are we still on for tomorrow morning?” You wonder, gazing up at him, still in awe of just how handsome he is.

“Of course. I didn’t get to pick your brain on the types of transit the Greeks and Romans commonly used. Were we being lied to about the Greeks using chariots too?” A short laugh escapes you, your hair falling in front of your eyes.

“The Greeks and Romans both used chariots, but for very different reasons,” you answer, even though you know he’s more than likely being sarcastic.

“Good to know,” he nods. “But I expect a full run down of particular ways they used them,” he playfully points a finger at you.

As your shared laughter subsides, the tension between you grows thick. And it gets even thicker when Dean’s hand raises to brush the tendril of hair from your face, tucking it gently behind your ear. His hand lingers for longer than he knows it should, but you don’t seem upset or uncomfortable with it.

“Goodnight Dean,” you whisper. You really want to kiss him right now, but your mind is screaming at you not to. Instead, you settle for a quick kiss on the cheek, which you can barely reach due to the height difference between you.

Dean chuckles and slightly leans in so you can press your lips to his warm, pink cheek. Even though it should end there, Dean can’t help himself but to return the gesture, his lips making contact with your own blushing and on fire skin.

“Goodnight, baby doll.”

With that, Dean heads down the hall to his own room, giving you one last glance before disappearing inside, the door clicking shut and sounding through the hallway. You are finally able to relax and take some deep breaths, entirely overwhelmed with how the way this night turned out.

You have a date with Dean Di Laurentis. The famous Ladies Man of the Briar University guys, as Hannah has told you. You couldn’t believe it. Part of your mind was screaming at you that this is a bad idea, that everything your friend has told you will eventually come to light with him.

But the other part didn’t care, the other part saw this…intelligent man who hides behind a stereotype, because no one can get into Harvard on account of their good looks. Plus, he has such a kind heart, you can’t possibly believe he would lead you on after all of this talk, especially when Hannah has said he’s always been clear about his intentions with women.

As you saunter into your room and crawl into bed, you figure out if you should tell Hannah or not, seeing as you practically escaped the last two hours of her wedding to spend it with Dean. Though it’s just a simple little date, just walking around the premises while drinking coffee. It’s nothing.

But as you drift off to sleep, you can’t stop thinking about the blond man and his pretty green eyes, the way his hands feel against yours, the way his voice flows so smoothly from his lips, his genuine interest in what you have to say about your passions. All of it only excited you for the morning even more.

And, possibly for the future and seeing him much more after this. You were’t sure of many things, but you knew confidently of one thing.

Dean is a special guy, and you are sure that he’s going to become a very important person in your life in the coming months.

It's odd, but one of the most feasible ways to earn a manner of destressing is when you and Jason are locked in martial combat. When you avoid the massive column of his arm that swings out to you, searching for means to club you to the ground: this is when you find yourself reaching a state of meditative ennui. 

When you send out flying kick at him that is meant to topple his footing from beneath, that will stymie him from further retaliation: this is when you feel as though strife of the day has cleared residence from your head.

When the two of you find yourself in stalemate after battle well-fought and endured between each other, shoulders heaving as you consider possibility of retrial or to abstainment—this is perfection. This is bliss. 

And talking with Jason is easy, as you recline on an elbow on the padded mats as he remains ramrod still in seated position. You feel at comfort with him. You don't even take in the manner that he watches how your gym shirt shuffles up with the languid stretch. How he is watching the vulnerable skin that is becoming his to appraise in his consumptive sights. 

All you can focus upon is the question that you direct with a crooked little smile. The one that summons his arc of gaze back to you. 

"So, what do you think about my technique now?" You ask, propping your cheek in your hand. You lean further into the give of the mat. 

He makes a humming noise that seems to thrum through the entirety of him—his green eyes are so bright yet so demonstrative of depth. "I think you're getting better." 

"Just better?" You can't help but feel a familiar smile of disbelief that is crossing the span of your face. "What about getting great?" 

He's sarcastic, but far be it from him to allow his joke to disrupt the symmetry of his expression. He's monotone in his deadpan delivery to you as he states, "Don't want all the praise to get to your head." 

You tsk with a click of your tongue. Your eyes pinwheel askance to the circular figure-eight that your free hand is tracing in the seam of the mat beneath you. 

"Bet Roy would be nicer to me." You return with an almost petulant staunchness—it's a casual statement that you've lobbied out into the silence. It carries no insinuation, no barb. And you're unaware of the immediacy of the effect that it carries upon Jason, as the statement absorbs for him. 

"You like fighting with Roy more than you do with me?" He asks, and perhaps there's a specific quality to the lightness of his question. Jason doesn't ask things lightly, he doesn't provoke things from the natural order—unless the topic has summoned his attention with great necessity. 

You look up to him, feel something odd tumbling in the housing of your chest as you find those green eyes directly upon you. 

"No—"—You shrug, a disjointed, uneven movement given your recline—"—I like fighting with the both of you just the same." 

You provide the statement without bearing, without any layered intention. But Jason continues to proceed forward with the line of inquiry that he seems to determined to have out, turning directly towards you. You can't deny the way that this makes an unspooling of adrenaline press through the length of your body as you watch him do so. 

"Don't lie." Jason urges, his voice low, his voice soporific—as though he intends to lull proper answer from you. "He's not here to hear it." 

You shake your head without bearing any specific need to provide greater thought. You know the truth of your statement. But it's clear from the way that his eyes are staring through your body, taking in every detail of your face as you reply—he is unsure. He needs further verification. 

"No—"—You disagree with his assertion. "I'm being honest. I think I like fighting against the both of you just the same." 

He's quiet for the elapsing of a few seconds—in terms of Jason, a time that is eternal and everlasting. When he speaks, his voice is graced with an edge of curiosity. 

"That so, sweetheart?" He asks, and there's something that seems to relax in the pitch of those shoulders that you didn't realize until now, have drawn taut. That were pinched with something yet to be relieved. 

"'Course it is. Although—"—You lean forward in mollifying, conspiratorial manner to encourage him to listen closely—"—You're the more durable one out of the two of you."

There's a crook in the smile that he regales you with, that is both handsome and interested as he perceives you. You chuckle, putting your unoccupied hand that doesn't provide support over your mouth. 

"But don't tell him I said that." You request of your confidant. 

He's supremely benign as he relaxes back to full posture to you. "Won't breathe a word of it to him."

There's something quite articulated in the atmosphere of the room that you cannot quite place definition to. Warmer, perhaps—greatly affected by something that is making sensation prickle up and down your arms, your neck. Something that makes great heat pool under your skin.

Mercifully, it's Jason who breaks it, direct as he asks, "So you down for another round?" 

"Only if you can keep up, Todd." You grin, and find your way to footing. Unaware still of how he watches every movement you make, as though he will never receive further chance to watch it. 

"Think I will." He grins—and this little interlude is forgotten in the brutality of blow exchanged. For now, at least. 

Your conversation with Jason remains tucked away and dormant in the background of your consciousness until a few days later. It's only resuscitated when you and Roy are tucked away in what qualifies as little more than a broom closet.

He affectionately refers to it as a "weapons room," but you know that the dimensions are indicative of something a little more menial. 

You don't mind. The space is cramped, but with Roy, it's always cozy. He's looking at you now, over the blade that he takes care to sharpen with a whetstone.

Resting on the bench that the two of you have taken residence in are an abandoned shaft of arrows, and a few more blades that require the necessity of being polished. It's not vastly entertaining work—but the company can't be found anywhere else. 

Roy seems to doubt the veracity of your claim, though. He arches his brow that frames the temple of his forehead in striking manner. 

"Sure you don't mind helping me out with this?" He asks, as though he's impugned himself upon your time in dishonorable manner. Instead of being a friend that you actively seek out time to spend with. 

You make a huff of a chuckle as you look away from your charge—a blade in dire need of a gleam to the curve of it. "Course I don't mind. I love spending time with you." 

"Love spending time with me?" Roy echoes your choice of words, letting those brows jump up the acreage of his forehead. He looks quite shocked. The expression makes you laugh at the vaudeville of it all. 

"Almost sounds like a confession." He replies gruffly to you, and there's exaggerated delivery in his words—but still an answer sought out. 

And here there's a parallel to an interaction that you've forgotten about only until now, that makes your heart pulse quickly in the column of your throat. That makes you take in recuperative breath so you can concoct an answer. 

"Only a confession that I like you, Harper—"—You say in manner that makes it ambiguous as to what you could be talking about—"—What's the harm in that?" 

He understands the intentions of your words, doesn't press you for more—but doesn't relieve you from the conversation at hand. He resurfaces with further interrogative aims. 

"Just as much as you like going on patrol with Jason?" He asks of you. 

"Sure—"—You make a lobby of a shrug as you swipe a cloth over the blade, revealing a sheen undiscovered as of late—"—But there's different qualities to the both of you I like." 

"Like?" Roy continues to ask, taking you both away from the task at hand. But you think it's been abandoned for a while now. You consider how best to word the muddled thoughts that are pinwheeling about each other, looking for manner in which to relieve the flush humming under the sinew of your body. 

"Jason's the stern sort and can sort through something if he thinks about it enough." You supply first. Roy sets his dirtied cloth and blade beside him, taking great audience to your elaboration—"—And when he puts his mind to it." 

You direct the tip of the blade in his direction with great particularity. "You like going about it in a casual, methodical manner." 

Roy flexes the ability of his cocked brow once more, but says nothing in response while you articulate. 

"There's a rhyme to the reason—but it's a good palate cleanser." You finally conclude your explanation to him. 

He tilts his head in almost-offended means. "That's all I am to you? A palate cleanser?" 

You laugh at the self-deprecating tone that he takes, eager to correct his assumption. But there's something in the way that this conversation has upended your sense of composure, your ability over diction. What you mean to say is not what you actually say. 

"Either that or on my actual palate—"—You choke upon the words as you realize that you have fumbled. It's further substantiated by the way that Roy's eyes go wide, coupled with his dubious smile. 

"Wait." You hold up a hand, letting the inferno of embarrassment devour you alive as you flail internally. "Ignore I said that."

You abandon the blade to the plateau of your lap as he begins to laugh, a loud, clear noise that does little to abate the agony. 

You try and smother your torment so that you can say, "I swear to God, that came out wrong—don't tell anyone I said that—"

He recovers eventually, just long enough to allow you to stew in your misery while wishing death upon you both. But when he speaks, there's a ken to his gaze that you don't quite understand, still fomenting in your horrible mishap. 

"Consider it forgotten." He reassures you with a well-acted lie, and encourages you to return back to your responsibilities. And you try your best to forget this as well. 

Time off is a luxury so rarely provided, but so well-enjoyed when given opportunity. You, Jason and Roy happen to be the lucky trio that is given the privilege of indulging in it now—and have taken the time to do so in the rec room of sorts. Though, it appears that there's no one else in the room. All that occupies it are a few chairs and a pool table. 

It only makes sense then, that the three of you would gravitate towards it in search of engaging activities. But then the three of you are stymied by a specific type of hesitancy—the hesitation of the layperson. 

"Okay, but do any of you two know how to actually play pool?" You ask of them, deciding to take one for the team. 

Roy answers in very typical fashion, "We learn more on the job—in the heat of the action." 

You're trying to ignore the way that he looks rather dashing in his civvies—red shirt and jeans—while Jason is in black and cargos. Casual wear that suits them well, that complements each other. That makes you marvel at how well they frame the clothes, so that the muscles are so clearly visible through them all. 

But these are thoughts that you must dash away if you're to have an enjoyable experience. 

You chuckle and press a gripped knuckle to the junction of your hip. "So I'll take that as a no. Are we going to team up against each other?" 

Jason suggests alternative as he regards the rack of pool cues that he is in closest proximity to. "How about every man for themselves and whoever sinks a hole gets a point?" 

Roy isn't one to be left bereft of answer. "You say that because you're going to miss the balls you actually need to get." 

In supplement, he jerks his head at the pool balls still held by the frame—and ducks the jab that Jason sends his way. But these playfighting is momentarily suspended. At least, as you stalk past them and make appropriate choice given your size. As they both silently take in the way that you stand before them with weapon of choice. 

"Well," You gust through your teeth as you look at the battleground before you, "Let me get this shitshow on the road first, then." 

It's a quick approach, a bending of joints as you position yourself in the sights of the white ball that you take aim at. There's a delightful clack of onomatopoeia as you send the balls in colorful spiral across the horizon of the green table. It's only interrupted by the satisfied way that you pull the cue back at the display—right into Roy's hip. 

"Oh fuck—"—You exclaim, looking back at the fair distance that Roy has chosen to not take away from you. Were you more cognizant, you would note that he had been too distracted by the adjusted angle of your body over the table—"—I'm so sorry about that!" 

Jason is dry as he takes the forefront to go make his shot, bypassing you to take aim. "Gotta watch the rear, Harper."

You're too busy dashing away the implications and the heat that is collecting under your face to watch as he very expertly misses any shot with the cue ball that darts around the perimeter of the table. Roy himself is no better when the white ball spirals in place at his shot. 

"We might be here longer than I thought," you grumble to yourself. You return to make your shot—and do no better, the cue ball ghosting a touch against the purple stripes but finding inertia on the green plane. 

Though he's one to talk, Roy decides to interject into the silence, "Gotta watch the technique on that backswing."

"It's pool, not golf, Harper." Jason informs Roy with neutral cavalier quality. 

"With them," Roy jerks his head at you, "Might as well be the same difference." 

This is what causes you to find full standing position. You don't resist the glare at the Two Stooges clearly enjoying their japes between each other. 

"Well, is one of you gonna help me, then?" You demand, clutching the cue stick to your chest to better fortify your indignation. Jason advances towards you without further need for prompting, and takes perch next to you on the banister that surrounds the table. 

And suddenly—the game doesn't seem so important. What does is watching the flex of his bare, exposed arm as it leans on the wood grain, a vein cutting through the meter of his skin in delicious manner. The way that his muscle becomes so much more sharply delineated as he rests on it to provide you tutelage. 

You're unaware if he's taken notice, with the way that he instructs you to follow his teaching. 

"Alright, sweetheart." He says, and it's odd—it always feels normal the manner in which he says sweetheart. But this time it's different—there's something that runs in dangerous undercurrent in the way he says it this time. In the way that his eyes are piercing through you. In the way that something is quickly flaring to life in the residence of your body as you watch him, watching you. 

"Use your hand as the base to support the cue stick—"—He informs you to take heed, which you do so with careful precision, feeling the felt tickle the underside of your palm—"—And then take aim." 

"You mean, what I've already been doing?" You joke, but the delivery of it is lighter, breathier. For some reason. 

"You asked, " He replies with a lilting tease in the cadence of his voice. 

You zero in on the blue solid that is in perfect alignment with the white one, letting the cue stick rest on the fleshy meeting of your forefinger and thumb. But it's so very hard to concentrate on the game when Jason is looming besides you, watching the minutiae of how you direct the shot. 

And when it goes wide, how his rich, caramelized laugh thrums through you—you remember to make a noise of disappointment. Although you feel anything but. Although something wicked is building foundation in your brain as you turn from Jason who appears nonplussed at your defeat. 

And you turn to Roy. 

"Alright," You say, leveling the sight of your eyes upon him, "It's your turn to help me." 

Roy appears none the worse for wear at being cheated out of his turn. But he doesn't approach you, remaining on the support of his cue stick as a crutch. 

There's a playful angle to his voice as he cocks his head at you. "Coulda sworn it was one of our turns." 

Your reply is pert and smart as you chirp back, "It's one of your turns once I actually sink one." 

To your side, Jason argues without any real determination to the statement, "Don't think that's playing fair." 

You laugh as though rules are something that any of you three have devoted great attentions to in this hamfisted attempt of a game. "Don't think any of us actually know how to play, so does it matter?"

Jason is unable to find suitable quarrel with the statement so you direct your third of the trio to ascend to the wings. "Get over here, Harper." 

Roy finds his way to you with surprising speed, coming far closer than Jason did. The lack of space that the two of you assume between each other makes you without breath for a second. But only a second, for Roy is speaking, and it's as though he's in the shell of your ear, crooning such sweet sorrows. 

"Okay, lean down and make sure that the cue can only hit the side if you want spin." His hand points to the ball that is now your best option for scoring—though you could care less when you take in the ridge of his knuckles, the swathe of his palm as he points. As you idly consider the calloused spread of his palm upon you. 

"—And hit it directly but not with too much pressure." He finishes, though this is the only snippet of dialogue that you're able to truly remember from him. 

"Alright," you lie with more surety than you actually possess, "Let's give it a shot." 

Once more, you approach the threshold with more gravitas than you actually possess, all-but-feeling the schooling of two sets of eyes that are attentive to your every move. The fact that the cue ball is once again relegated to limbo on the board without hitting a single ball is unsurprising. 

You stand back up with a groan on your lips that one might describe as defeated. "I don't think I'm going to get this." 

Roy's voice is still so very close to you, urging you down the primrose path. "Maybe you just need us to hold you through it." 

It's the fact that it's the late hour could perhaps blame the reason why you say back with light, airy quality, "Maybe I do." 

Jason's voice is rugged with something that has yet to be willingly categorized by you. Something that is velvet and dangerous no matter which way you proceed. 

"Well," He asks carefully, "What do you suggest?"

"I think—"—You turn to address them both, Jason to your right, Roy to your left, mustering up a bravery that you must execute now or never—"—I think I suggest this." 

Your hand finds easy purchase on the collar of Jason's shirt, though you know he could have stayed your hand, deflected the direction of it. He allowed you to grab him because he knew your wants. Because he read the desire that was marked in the curl of your fist as you found him. 

As you dragged him down to your level, as he allowed himself to be led with surprising ease. As you found the full of his mouth with your own, as you finally tasted the forbidden fruit that you had denied yourself by self-deception. 

As you kiss Jason Todd. And savor the scent of his cologne on your tongue and find the flat of his own pressing against yours, desperate to keep you against him. As he makes a low, needful groan into your mouth, his hand wracking around your body—as he draws as much of you as he can spare into his arms. 

It's only when the two of you pull apart that you are made aware of the audience that has taken vested interest in the passionate display before him. As he leans disaffected, languid arm on the table, a lazy smile creeping up his face. 

"Any of that for me?" Roy asks with a grin that is taking root on his face. As he already knows the answer that you will provide his way, as Jason's grip slackens upon you to allow him to join the fray. 

'Wouldn't be a good scientific experiment if I didn't." You match the inflection of his grin as he makes to close up the distance with sharp alacrity. 

"Come here." you say, but he's already arrived—and his mouth is hot and desperate to taste yours. His tongue is eager to search out the access of your mouth, to explore the journey of your teeth, to grab a handful of you.

You're vaguely aware that there is a hand on the back of your head that isn't Roy's, that Jason is murmuring low, wanting praise. That you have one hand around the curve of Roy's cheek—and the other is fisted into the sleeve of Jason's arm, keeping him as steadying anchor. 

It's you who pulls away first for air—takes in the flushed, hazy glow of Roy. Evaluates the lustful cant of Jason's eyes as he watches the two of you reassess the rapidly changing nature of your relationship. 

But it's you who brings them back in, and allows them to press you down to the top of the pool table, with utmost gentility and undying servitude to make you undone—your wish their every command. 

It's the next day when you wake up. You're sandwiched in sweaty, tacky, barely-clothed and blanketed, satisfied tangle of limbs between them when the memories coalesce over you.

You realize in short time that they are already awake, soft, murmuring conversation of inane things exchanged between them. It falls short and drifts off as you shift, to signify your return to the waking world. 

"So," You ask sleepily, ever one to get to the point, "What are we?" 

There's a mutual, knowing chuckle between the three of you. Jason's hand urges around your jaw, not directing you to look any specific direction—but it's soft, tender. 

"We're hoping you would tell us." Jason says, and there's a clear, navigable proposal that he—that they have both—laid at your feet. The chance to mark this fleeting indulgence—or something more material. 

You look to the sea foam green of Jason's eyes, to the cornflower blue of Roy's, to their expectant, hopeful faces that are drawn with everlasting optimism. And you know your answer. 

"Well, I don't want to choose either of you without the other." You say meekly. It's at this, as if in reassurance, they draw closer about you, bastion to uphold and uplift you in this time of crucial need. 

Roy's voice is laced with amusement as his hand worries around the nuance of your collarbone, making you giggle. "Didn't think you'd have to." 

Jason picks up point to continue.

"As long as you want us like this—"—And you take in the two of them, as they wish for the moon and hope that you'll join their heavenly orbit—"—This works for us."

It's no great, difficult choice. You smile at them, and feel the relief that seeps through the meter of their bodies that are worked in devotion to you. 

"Then—"—You offer them sly show of teeth—"—Let's pick up where we left off from last night."

Ever chivalrous, ever true, ever both yours—they oblige. 

dividers created by my dear friend @itsgivingardener

The evening had started innocently enough. 

Clark had gotten off early from the Planet, beating you home and surprising you with a clean apartment and dinner on the stove by the time you walked through the door. He greeted you as he always did, a kiss pressed to your lips, soft smile warm and welcoming as it moved against your mouth. Your eyes were glued to him instantly, like a moth to flame, as he helped you out of your jacket and pressed another sweet kiss to your temple. 

While Clark was oblivious to the way your stare followed him around the kitchen, you could think of nothing but the size of his shirt—2XL, fuck—as it stretched across his chest. 

Because he was still wearing it. The shirt. The godforsaken Oxford. 

Surely there was some sort of scientific, biochemical explanation as to why your nervous system went haywire whenever Clark was in this getup (which he commonly was, it was his work attire for god’s sake)—white Oxford, black slacks with matching cap toes. Cuffs undone, rolled to reveal tantalizing wrists and forearms. Shirt tucked in, because for some unknown reason it was inexplicably more attractive than the unkempt, casual veneer that the untucked look gave off. 

His behavior certainly didn’t help, either.   

Seeing your husband in his element—his domestic element, that was—did irreparable damage to your insides. You were content to watch him putz in the kitchen, head resting in your chin as he talked to you about his day. Tonight it was something about Jimmy’s failed date last weekend…you think. You aren’t really paying attention. The sinful way his Oxford looks tucked into his work slacks has your undivided attention. 

God, those thighs. They’re so massive it’s practically a sin—you want to suffocate between them. His broad shoulders and chest need their own zipcode. And something about his hair after a long shift at work…he didn’t have Superman duties tonight, but his curls are wind-mussed from his stroll home. You adore his glasses, but without them he just looks so…sophisticated. Mature. Good enough to eat. 

The thought has you absently gnawing on your lower lip like some kind of sex-crazed fiend. 

“—and I told him that’s a bit of a stretch, but what do you think?” 

I can think of something else you can stretch. 

“Honey?” 

You blinked. “Huh?” 

He’s turned over his shoulder to look at you, stirring the pot of soup on the stove. Totally oblivious to the way you were blatantly ogling his ass. 

“Jimmy’s date, Stephanie? That she’s probably an ‘astrology’ witch, not an actual, like, ‘casting spells’ witch?” 

“Oh, uh,” you struggled to recall what he’d been talking about. “Yeah, no. I agree. That’s a bit of a…stretch.” 

Blue eyes narrowed in suspicion. “You didn’t hear a thing I said, did you?” 

You were quick to deny it. “No, no. I was listening.” 

His mildly amused expression said he didn’t believe you. You watched as his eyes dropped to the poorly concealed grin on your face; you were still chewing on your lip, and there was no mistaking your intent as your gaze moved painstakingly slowly down his body.

Clark took a deep breath. 

And turned back to the stove. 

Hm. So he was playing coy tonight, then. 

“So…your day was good?” 

God, his back was truly glorious. You wanted to drag your nails down his shoulder blades as he fucked you into the mattress. Listen to the headboard shake. Grip the downy curls at the nape of his neck as he sucked bruises into your skin. 

“I mean…I’ll, uh, I’ll take the silence as a yes?” 

How sweet—his voice trembled a bit as he stirred the pot on the stove. Were you making him nervous? Yes, yes you were, you realized with a triumphant grin. You kept quiet, but the silence was deafening. 

“You know, Lois was telling me about this cool new art exhibit that’s opening downtown—” the chair scraped across the hardwood as you stood up, “—and she thought you’d like it, since the paintings focus more on realism as it was portrayed in the Renaissance—” 

Standing behind him, your forehead could rest just between his shoulder blades—Clark was massive. You looped your arms around his waist, hands finding the two front pockets of his dress pants and sliding into them casually. He didn’t turn to look at you, but you felt his acknowledgment of your presence in the way his spine straightened. 

“—so I was thinking we could stop by, maybe next weekend? I know my folks wanted to come visit soon—”

“Mhm. Sure.”

“—but it would be a great little outing! Maybe Ma and Pa would want to go with us?”

You kissed the back of his neck. “Clark.” 

“You think they would like it, right? I mean, maybe not Pa, you know how he gets with pretentious people. Not that all artists are pretentious! Just some of the more modern—” 

“Clark.” 

“Yeah?” 

You stood on your tiptoes to nip playfully at his earlobe. “Turn around.” 

He obeyed immediately, looking down at you with wide eyes that were anything but innocent. Oh, he absolutely knew what your intentions were. It was unfair—how perfect your Clark was. So beautiful, so big, so tempting that you couldn’t and didn’t want to hold back any longer. 

So you didn’t. 

The kiss was filthy. Apparently, way filthier than Clark had been expecting, as he let out an adorable squeak of surprise when your tongue immediately sought out his own. His large hands braced on your hips, squeezing tightly as yours slid up his chest before settling on the collar of his shirt. You allowed a moment of silent mourning for the absence of his tie—you loved to drag him around by it, yank him down to your mouth. 

But god, the feel of his strong hands—hands you knew could effortlessly lift you onto the counter—made you voracious with need. 

You broke away from his lips, leaving him breathless (despite knowing that, realistically, he didn’t need the air, which somehow turned you on even more). Your lips and teeth painted a path across his strong jaw, down the sides of his neck, up behind his ear. Clark melted under your touch, shifting you two slightly over so he could lean back against the countertop rather than the stove. His breath caught when you bit down particularly hard beneath his jaw, desperate to leave a mark that would only last for mere minutes. 

“Jesus, sweetheart…” he breathed, hands still gripping your hips as you damn-near attempted to mount him against the kitchen counter. 

You pulled back, hands cradling his jaw as you met his eyes, pleased to find them equally as feral as you knew yours looked. “Kiss me,” you said desperately, not giving him time to answer as you smashed your mouths together again. 

“I’m…trying…to…hmph!” 

He hadn’t been expecting your wandering hands, one of which was presently cupping him through the cotton of his slacks. 

“I want to suck you off,” you stated, breathy and bold.

Clark, as you expected he might, made a desperate, whimper-like sound that rumbled from the back of his throat. It almost sounded pained, but you knew him better than that. 

“Oh, gosh. You do?” were the half-surprised words that eventually stumbled out. 

You almost laughed, barely concealing it behind a grin that you were certain he felt against his lips. You slid your hand lower, squeezing around his balls as you licked back into his mouth. This time he broke the kiss, head thunking against the cabinets as a tremor ran through his body, hips jerking against his will. 

“Yes, Clark. I want it so bad.” You let your voice drop into a whisper against his neck as you squeezed him again, “I can feel how badly you need em’ emptied.” 

“I—Geez Louise, okay.” 

That one made you laugh, a teasing chuckle that you cut off by drawing him back down to your lips. Seeing him this caught off guard was giving you a strange power-trip; your husband was no blushing virgin, but he definitely wasn’t used to you being so vulgar with dirty talk. Usually, surprisingly, it was the other way around—Clark could get you flustered so easily, especially when that deep voice of his was in your ear whispering praises and showering you with affection. And if he used his Superman voice? You were a goner. 

It seemed that tonight, however, you had turned the tables. 

“Let me help you, baby,” you murmur, rubbing all over the hard length of him. “I can feel how much you need it. It’s making me so wet just thinking about it.” 

His protest is weak at best. “Th-the soup…it’s…gonna burn…” 

“Put it on simmer.” 

You gave him no more time to argue, knees hitting the floor hard enough to bruise. You could tell as much based on Clark’s soft, rushed “baby, careful,” but you were too busy salivating thinking about getting his cock in your mouth to care. 

His dress shirt was ripped from his pants, and the sight of his lower belly heaving under your attention was almost enough to make you actually start drooling. 

Fuck, you could lick along his happy trail. No, wait, you could, so you did; messily licking and kissing and practically making out with that gorgeous Adonis belt of his, descending lower till you reached the line of his slacks. 

Not expecting the heat of your tongue, Clark gasped above you. He was beautifully flushed, eyes saucer-wide and lust-blown. His hands hovered innocently above your shoulders, adorably unsure of where you wanted them as he let you take the lead. 

“Golly, honey, what’s gotten into you?” 

“This damn shirt, that’s what,” you panted, raking your eyes up his body before locking on his face. It was an effort to force yourself to slow down, wanting to take your time with him despite your ravenous desire to touch touch touch. 

Clark looked somewhat mesmerized. “I w-wear these all the time—”

“Exactly.”

He had already tented his slacks, something that your eager cunt was quick to notice as it fluttered between your legs; you forced yourself to stay focused, sliding the black leather of his belt through his pantloops torturously slow. 

“Hmm. This the Armani one I got you for Christmas?” you grinned slyly at him. 

Clark nodded dumbly. Your eyes dropped to his Adam’s apple as it bobbed in his throat. “Mm…mhm.”

The belt thwipped free and instantly your mouth re-attached to his waistline. 

“Open your shirt for me, baby,” you requested breathily. He immediately did as you asked, breath already coming in pants as you watched his fingers tremble to undo the buttons. 

Holy shit. He looked too good, Oxford hanging open, glasses tucked into the breast pocket, hair a mess, eyes glazed over. If you didn’t know better, you’d say he looked tipsy at the sight of you.

You continued nipping along his scalding skin as your fingers hooked beneath the waistband of his slacks. You pulled them down so slow that they caught on the ridge of his cock, making his breath hitch before you tugged them just low enough to give you access.

He was desperate and swollen beneath his black boxer briefs, and honestly if you weren’t so turned on the sight might even be a little comical. But alas, you were fairly certain you were soaking through your own underwear, head empty save for thoughts of your husband and his perfect body and his sweet voice and the reverential look in his eyes. 

Clark’s hands finally leapt to cradle your head when you leaned forward to nuzzle his clothed erection like you were in heat, mouthing along the fabric and feeling him twitch between the thin barrier of his boxers. Your hands moved to cup his heavy balls again, squeezing gently and earning you the first groan of the evening. 

He shifted his weight, hips twitching with thinly-veiled restraint, and it sounded like his brain was short-circuiting. “I– you– hon, you…you don’t have to—” 

You pulled back far enough to send him a quirked brow. “You want me to stop?” 

Bless his soul, Clark hesitated for a millisecond, piercing blue eyes glued to your face, breathing hard; as if he was really considering it. Then, slowly, he shook his head. 

No. 

Your grin was wicked. “Didn’t think so.” 

“But only if you really wan—” 

“Clark Joseph Kent,” you cut him off. “I don’t want anything coming from those pretty lips except my name and the sounds of you feeling good. Got it?”  

His head knocked against the cabinets again, eyelids fluttering. “Golly…yes ma’am.” 

That shot between your legs faster than a lightning bolt. You sighed in satisfaction as you resumed your exploratory touches, fondling him over his boxers as he fought and failed to keep his breathing level. 

You eventually pulled the elastic of his boxers halfway down his stupidly hard cock, exposing little more than the flushed-red tip. Mischief on your mind, you placed chaste little kisses along his sensitive frenulum, relishing in the way his breathing stuttered. 

“H-honey,” he rasped. 

You looked up at him with eyes of pure sin. “Hm?” 

His voice broke around a whine, “please don’t tease.” 

Arousal burned between your thighs, in your blood, in your ears. 

It was tremendously rare that Clark let you go down on him—he was a giver at heart, both inside the bedroom and out of it. You’d lost count of how many times he’d come, totally untouched, humping the bed like a dog as he made you come over and over on his tongue or fingers. 

It was all incredibly flattering, but what truly did it for you was knowing that he liked getting head; loved it in fact, but was entirely willing to shove aside his own pleasure for the sake of yours. 

But, much like your adoring husband, sometimes the lines of your respective pleasure intersected; sometimes sucking him off was what you craved, and it was more than enough to satisfy you. No matter how many times he argued that “no, honey; it’s different—it’s easier for me to get there than you,” you aggressively denied it in a vehement desperation to make him feel even half as good as he made you feel. 

Which was why you cherished every opportunity to get your mouth on him, and also the reason you didn’t tease him half as long as you probably should’ve as punishment for making you wait to do this again. 

His fingers twitched atop your head when you finally dragged his boxers down, freeing his massive cock that flinched against his abdomen. You wrapped a fist around him, offering a few firm strokes as you sought out his eyes. 

“You have such a beautiful cock, Clark.” He trembled. “It’s so pretty, and so, so hard for me.” 

“Gosh, sweetheart. S’all yours,” he said, voice breathy and uneven. “Please, just—” 

“Just what?” 

“Just…touch me.” 

You tightened your fist on the next upstroke. “I am touching you.” 

Oh, how you loved to watch him squirm. “You…you know what I mean—” 

“I’m not sure that I do.” 

You watched the look on his face when he realized you were going to make him beg for exactly what he wanted. 

Clark wasn’t one for profanities, but he sure made your name sound like a curse as he shifted above you, frantic and needy. “Please, I- just…don’t keep teasing me like that—” 

You only hummed, letting spit dribble from your mouth onto his leaking slit to loosen the glide of your hand over his dick, which was actively throbbing in your hand. “Tell me what you want and I’ll give it to you.” 

His eyes rolled when you suckled gently on his tip. “B-baby…don’t make me beg you to—”

“Say it, Clark. Just tell me.” Your free hand returning to fondle his balls is what finally did it. 

“Your mouth!” he blurted at last. “Pleasepleaseplease. Just put your mouth on me. N-need it so bad—” 

“Okay. Was that so hard?” 

You were true to your word, swallowing as much of him as was humanly possible in one go, a move Clark clearly had not anticipated given the groan that bellowed from his chest and the way his fingers curled in your hair. When you looked up at him, he was slack-jawed and breathing like he’d run a marathon, chest heaving beneath his open shirt. 

Much like the rest of him, Clark’s cock was huge—not, like, disproportionately huge, but enough that it was a struggle to take him even on your best days. Clark knew this—hell, he’d spent years married to you and had long since learned how to prepare you for him—but it was a struggle no less to take him as far down your throat as you wanted to.

But given the heavy manner in which he was already breathing, you were determined to deepthroat him tonight, even if only for a few seconds.

You inhaled, forcing yourself to suppress the gag in your throat as you did your best to take him as far as your body would allow. 

“Baby,” Clark was whining sharply, “oh gosh, baby. That…thatfeelssogood b-but please be careful—”

As if on cue, your throat unwillingly constricted around him as you gagged, effectively cutting Clark off with his own groan. You could sense the concern in him without even needing to see it on his face; in an attempt to distract him you suctioned your mouth, dragging his cock out halfway to lave your tongue along its sensitive underside, tracing the pulsing vein that wrapped around his shaft. 

It worked like a treat as his hips jerked, lower pelvic muscles twitching directly in your line of sight as he shuddered. 

He was so fucking perfect you could hardly believe he was real, that he was your husband who loved you and came home to you every night and cooked you dinner and helped with the laundry and wanted to take you to art museums because he knew you loved them.  

“You’re so pretty,” he breathed down at you, incapable of not praising you when you were treating him like this. The praise washed over you, and if your underwear wasn’t soaked before it sure as hell was now. “Gosh, honey. D-don’t know what I did to deserve this, but…” 

You pulled off of him to catch your breath, but kept your hand pumping him lazily. “Just being you,” you breathed. “It’s just you, Clark.”

For some reason this seemed to affect him more than you thought it would, his eyes swelling with a sudden surge of affection that one might not normally expect when giving a blowjob. 

But your Clark was a teddy bear at heart, his innermost parts soft and gooey and sweet like melted chocolate. Even in the midst of lust he didn’t know how to turn that part of himself off, and you never wanted him to. 

You let your saliva drip down onto the wet length of him, holding his gaze and watching it re-glaze with unbidden desire. His eyes fluttered when you squeezed just beneath the tip, letting your tongue do the rest of the work as it circled his frenulum. 

“Yesss sweetheart,” he hissed, breath stuttering. “That’s…oh, honey. That’s so good. Gosh, you’re so perfect.” 

His praise forced a low whine from the back of your throat, the sound vibrating over his length and making him shudder. He relaxed his hold on your hair, running his fingers through it in a gesture so frighteningly tender that you momentarily forgot you were actively sucking him off. 

“Mmm…I know you like it when I talk to you like that. It’s all true, you know. You’re so perfect for me.” 

Feeling encouraged and oddly heartwarmed, you slowly built the tempo back up, taking him down halfway and jerking off whatever didn’t fit with your fist. You got unapologetically messy with it, knowing the vulgarity of your actions would spark something feral in Clark because, yes, he is still a man, and the sight of his wife slobbering all over his dick with absolutely zero shame was definitely emptying his brain. 

If you were honest, it was surprising both of you how obscene you were being; but if the wetness between your thighs and the state of his cock were anything to go by, there were certainly no objections. 

One hand continued to grope his balls, swollen with need and begging for attention that made Clark whine deliciously when you massaged them. Your other hand finally moved to grip the wrist of the fist that was still ensnared in your hair, tugging on it so as to encourage him to guide your movements. 

Clark took your wordless command in stride, leaving you to wonder when exactly the power dynamic had shifted, and also why you were completely content to let it happen. 

Actually, you knew the answer to that. 

Clark’s dominance had always been gentle; far sweeter than what you might’ve expected from the Man of Steel. He was so good to you that you were almost always willing—perhaps even subconsciously—to hand over the reins during sex. Even though this encounter had started with you in charge, it became obvious as his hand fisted gently in your hair, guiding your movements over his throbbing dick, that things had changed, even if he was content to let you believe otherwise. 

Thankfully though, he didn’t stop whimpering for you, which you were eternally grateful for. 

“S-so pretty. You’re so beautiful. Mmm. Takin’ me like this, makin’ me feel so good.”

On the next forward motion, you slid as deep as you could, attempting to deepthroat him yet again and this time succeeding. Your nails on his thigh were enough to reassure him of your comfort, so Clark held you there, his grip firm as he panted down at you. 

“Gosh, honey. Look at you.” 

You retracted for air, messily tonguing around his sensitive tip. “Use me,” you demanded, voice just this side of raw from the intrusion of his cock. “Please, Clark, please.” 

“Honey,” there was worry in his tone, but also underlying need. His cock throbbed in your hands. “Are you…are you sure? I don’t want to hurt you.” 

“You won’t, I promise,” you soothed, peppering kisses up and down those massive thighs of his. “It’s nothing we haven’t done before.” 

“I know, but…” he trailed off, brows furrowed, hesitation tight across his face. 

“Clark,” you said sternly. “I’m asking you to. Please?”

His breathless nod was all the answer you received before his fingers tightened in your hair. That alone was enough to have you moaning in preemptive bliss, letting your jaw go slack, tongue lolling out of your mouth. Clark teased your lips with his head, tapping it gently against your tongue as you shifted your weight around on your knees. Your poor pussy was desperate for attention, your entire body wrought with energy like a live wire. 

When he finally pushed his cock into your mouth, it was with a low groan that sent what you would equate to an electrical current between your legs. Staying true to his word and your demand, Clark readily took control, moving your head back and forth, back and forth, nice and slow at first. But his need eventually won out, as it so often did with you, and soon thereafter he was panting as he guided your hot mouth over his cock, hips building a rhythm that matched the bobbing of your head. 

“O-oh, honey. That’s- mm. So fu–” he broke off on a low moan when you hollowed your cheeks on the next stroke. “Yes baby, suck it like that. Gosh, y-you’re so pretty and perfect like this f’me…” 

Your hands stroked up and down his powerful thighs, squeezing every so often just as a way to stimulate other parts of his body. Clark regarded you with an admiration only he was capable of, even with his cock shoved halfway down your throat. 

“My beautiful wife. You love worshipping this cock, don’t you sweetheart?” 

The unexpected filth of his words draws a moan from your chest. Clark hums, obviously satisfied at the sensation it provided around his dick. And then he fucking grins, something just shy of smug as he listens to your little mewls. 

“Mhm. Yeah, I know you do, hon. Got yourself all worked up for me, desperate to use that pretty mouth.” 

Clark’s pace began to pick up, his hips getting sharper in their movement as you made a conscious effort to keep your throat loose. Saliva was dripping down your chin, escaping from the sides of your mouth; the sounds his cock was making between your lips was lewd, succeeding in winding you up even more as Clark started to chase his pleasure. 

You sucked around him a few more times, nails biting into his slacks as you silently urged him along. The noise that came out of him then was strangled. “Oh…sweetheart, I’m close,” he stammered, tugging on your hair in warning as his hips kept pumping. “I- honey, m’gonna come– gosh, can I– where do you wan’ me to—”

The simple fact that you ignored his warning was sufficient enough of an answer. 

This realization is what seemed to push Clark over the edge, a beautiful shudder wracking his wide frame as he came with a whimper so sharp and so whiny that you almost orgasmed too, your pussy so swollen and aching with neglect that you involuntarily clenched your thighs. Clark’s grip on your hair tightened just a fraction, guiding your mouth over his pulsing dick. His eyes were blazing down at you, the frantic expansion of his lungs making his chest rise and fall beneath his open shirt. His signature Superman curl had fallen in front of his eye. 

You swallowed everything he had eagerly—and there was a lot to be had—making pleased little noises as his come slid down your throat. 

“Ohhh, gosh, yes,” Clark moaned in relief. “Mm. Mm, that’s so good. Oh, gosh. You’re too good to me baby.” His fist finally went lax in your hair, fingers soothing through it in reassuring caresses as his hips moved in tiny thrusts, seeking that last bit of sensation. “Oh, sweetheart.” 

Then he was guiding you to stand, hands gentle yet insistent on your shoulders. You stood, unable to help the satisfied little grin on your face as you tucked him back into his boxers and readjusted his pants. You bit your lip as the zzzip of his pants being done up filled the space between you. You gave his crotch one last little tap, a smug grin of your own forming on your face. 

Clark was still a little spaced out, lips parted as he watched you with hooded eyes. You gave him a peck on the nose, and it seemed to break whatever trance he was in. He fell forward, hands cradling your face, and kissed you deeply. 

Knowing he could probably taste himself on your tongue reminded you of your own insistent arousal, and you moaned into the kiss, struggling to keep up. 

“Thank you,” he said when he finally allowed you oxygen. He pressed his forehead into yours, “you’re incredible, sweetheart. If I had known my dress shirts affected you this much—” 

“Oh, don’t act all innocent,” you said. “You absolutely know what they do to me.” 

His mischievous little grin confirmed your suspicion. “Okay, yeah. Maybe I have somewhat of an idea.” 

Clark kissed you again, his hands travelling down your sides to rest at the hem of your own work slacks. You couldn’t help the way your body arched against his; his question was clear. 

“Let me…?” 

“If you want to.” It was a stupid thing to say, really. 

“Of course I want to, baby.” 

You yelped in surprise when he lifted you effortlessly into his arms, backing you up until you were seated on the island counter. Now at eye level, you could more thoroughly enjoy his handsome dimples as he smiled softly before leaning in for a slow kiss. 

“Least I could do is return the favor after that.” His voice dipped low in a way that made your gut tighten with need. He was dangerously close to using that voice. “Besides, you think I didn’t notice how tightly you were clenching your thighs, sweetheart? And even if I didn’t, you forget that I can smell how much you need me.” 

“Fuck, Clark…” you whined when his fingers ghosted between your legs, rubbing along the seam of your slacks. 

“Mmm, that’s it. Bet you could come just from this, huh?” He pulled back just enough to watch your expressions, blue eyes alight with desperation and something far deeper. You could feel his breath across your cheek. “Just some pressure, baby? Yeah? Does that feel good? You’re so worked up for me, honey.” 

You couldn’t form a coherent thought. It was like a switch had gone on off in Clark in some lust-addled, post-orgasmic glow. Honestly, screw him for being this irresistable; for making you so goddamn easy for him. Didn’t this start with you seducing him? You were such an easy lay when it came to Clark that it would’ve been humiliating if you hadn’t been married for several years. 

He added his whole palm now, giant hand pressing up and down the length of your searing center, palming the entire area of your sensitive clit. It was simple pressure—something firm and real to grind your pussy against, and it was making your head fuzzy with the pleasure of it. You were certain he could feel some of your wetness beginning to seep through the fabric, which was only slightly mortifying—your panties were definitely a lost cause if that were the case. 

Perhaps more unbelievable was that yes, you were indeed about to come from simply grinding on his hand between two layers of clothing. Your fingers flew to the bicep of the arm that wasn’t currently flexing between your legs, nails digging into the white sleeve of his Oxford, making you remember just exactly what had gotten you into this predicament in the first place. 

Your greedy eyes honed in on your husband, in such close proximity to you; his broad shoulders and strong chest, the soft suggestion of farm-built muscle peeking between that godforsaken shirt. Embarrassingly, seeing his uncuffed sleeves is what pushes you over. Something about the delicious blend of professional and unkempt; the implication of propriety that came with his pristine office attire contrasted against his unruly curls, perspirated face, and borderline slutty forearms. 

“G-god, Clark, m’gonna co– I–” You try to warn him, but it’s pointless. 

Clark leaned down, free hand caging you into his body as it rested on the countertop beside you. He nuzzled his face into your neck so that his words were a breath right against your ear. “Come for me, Mrs. Kent. Just like that, baby. Let it happen.” 

You shook against him, a broken cry falling from your lips as your body finally found its peak. Clark worked you through it, lips pressing kisses against your neck between words. 

So good, baby. There we go. You’re so perfect. I love you so much. That’s it, honey…breathe through it, let yourself feel good. 

He continued to hold you, hand finally stilling when the twitch of your hips signaled the dip into oversensitivity. You withdrew him from your neck when your pulse had somewhat settled, cradling the back of his skull. Now, it was your turn to smile at him, sated and lazy, fingers scratching soothingly at his nape. Your kiss was finally slow, almost chaste, nothing more than a tired exchange of gratitude. 

“The soup,” you halfheartedly mention when you part. 

“It’s simmering, it should be fine.” Clark had already preoccupied himself with hugging you as close as physically possible. Almost subconsciously, your legs wrapped around his waist, inviting him closer as he sank into your embrace against the countertop. Your body bowed backwards slightly as he leaned into you, making you giggle at how cuddly he always got post-coitus. 

One of his hands rose to your neck, absently stroking the front of your throat in a tender caress. Worry colored his next words. “I didn’t hurt you, right?” 

“No, baby,” you reassured him, hands running the length of his back. Your heart swelled with warmth at the concern in his voice. Clark, your gentle giant—capable of crushing planets and he was worried about a little deepthroating. “I would have told you. You know I would’ve.” 

He hummed, and though you could tell he wasn’t totally satisfied with your answer he also trusted your word. 

“I love you.” He rubbed his face against your neck affectionately and you squirmed at the feel of his five o’clock shadow. 

“You better,” you teased, running your fingers through his inky hair. “Though, to be fair, you could probably get me to do just about anything as long as you’re wearing this shirt. Tucked in, of course. Cuffs undone, hair a mess. God, Clark. How are you so perfect?” 

He smothered your neck and cheek with kisses, drawing another giggle from you. “Well. I don’t know, but I feel the same way about you, if it’s any comfort.” Clark inhaled sharply, “especially when you wear that one dress. The one with—” 

“The open back?”

“Mm. Yes.” 

You laugh, ruffling his curls before pecking him on the lips. “I love you so ridiculously much, Clark Kent.” 

“That’s good,” he kissed your nose. “Because I was lying. The white bean and sausage soup is definitely burning.” 

“Clark!”

B = Body Part – their favorite body part of theirs and their partner’s.

Jason's favorite part of his body is his hands. I feel like this might be the most common answer, but for a good reason. His hands are strong and capable of so many things, good and bad. He can beat a thug's face in, work on intricate mechanical parts, or bring you to climax with just his hands. As for his favorite part of your body, would it be cheesy for him to say your heart? It'd be too easy for him to say something like your breasts or your lips, which are of course appreciated (very much), but it's really your heart that he admires. Sometimes— especially on his worst days— he's still astonished that it could love someone like him.

C = Cum – anything to do with cum, basically.

As far as volume goes, this man can cum a lot! And while he enjoys painting your chest or your stomach or even your back in those thick, pearly ropes, Jason will always prefer to cum inside of you. It feels so much more intimate, and the sight of his spend dripping down your thighs is so much more satisfying than anything else.

D = Dirty Secret – a dirty secret of theirs.

While I believe that Jason would be honest and open with his partner about his kinks, fantasies, and the like there is one thing he wouldn't admit and it is that sometimes (particularly if you're separated for any extended period of time) he will masturbate with your used garments. Panties are his go-to, but anything with your scent on it will get him going. The way you smell naturally (and the way it mixes with your perfume, if you happen to wear any) is something he finds so intoxicating and he loves the way the fabric feels around his cock as he fists himself.

E = Experience – how experienced they are… or are not.

Realistically, Jason's not very experienced. He died young and, upon being brought back, set out on a quest for revenge so I don't imagine he had much time for getting down and dirty. I also don't see him as being one for one-night stands, so previous partners are probably few and far between. He's not inept, though. Jason's watched porn and he knows how to listen to his partner. So while he may not have been a master in the beginning, Jason has learned your body, what you like and what makes it tick, and has proved to be an excellent lover despite his inexperience.

F = Favorite Position – which position is their favorite and why.

Missionary, hands down. Other positions are fun, of course, but Jason loves being able to watch your face twist in pleasure as he fucks you into the mattress, to lean down and stifle your moans with a kiss, to press a hand against your stomach and feel himself as he thrusts into you—

G = Goofy – are they more serious in the moment, or are they humorous?

More often than not, Jason is serious when it comes to sex— it's an intimate act and he revels in connecting with you in this way. Even when its rough (and we'll get to that later) to Jason its still making love. That being said, sex can be goofy and he cherishes those moments just as much as he does the serious ones.

H = Hair – all about body hair and their grooming habits.

I can't see Jason caring that much about his body hair prior to becoming sexually involved with a partner. Once he is, though, he takes care to keep his pubic hair neat and trimmed.

I = Intimacy – the romantic aspect of how they are in the moment.

As mentioned previously, Jason relishes in the intimacy of sex. It wasn't always this way, though. He's struggled with his emotions and showing vulnerability— both in the bedroom and outside of it. Now, when you're making love, he's completely open about his feelings— caressing your cheek as he tells you how much he loves you, pressing soft kisses to the parts of you he knows you struggle with, telling you just how beautiful you are with your sweat-slicked skin and messy hair.

J = Jack Off – masturbation headcanons.

He's not big on masturbating. Jason's hand pales in comparison to you, but if he's away from you for an extended period of time he'll make do (sometimes with the aid of one of your garments, as previously mentioned). Typically, though, Jason would rather just wait until he comes home to you.

K = Kink – one or more of their kinks.

This boy has a major praise kink, both giving and receiving. Let's be honest, the boy doesn't just crave praise, but deserves it too (and not just in the bedroom). Tell him he's doing so good, that he looks so damn handsome while you kiss his scars. I also think he would enjoy a dom/sub dynamic— not every time, but sometimes he needs to feel like he's in control and you're all too happy to give it to him. Those experiences are a little rougher, but he's always extra attentive afterward.

L = Location – their favorite place to do the do.

Honestly, I don't think Jason would be super adventurous when it comes to location. Anywhere in either of your apartments would be game. Bed? Classic, can't go wrong there. Shower? Kitchen counter? Up against your front door? All great too! Anywhere outside of those four walls, though, he wouldn't be very keen on. There are a few reasons for that, the biggest being that he wouldn't want anyone to see you (or himself to be honest, he's a little self-conscious of his scars) exposed in such a way and the other being the safety aspect. Terrible things can happen anywhere in Gotham, after all.

M = Motivation – what turns them on, gets them going?

Outside of the obvious answers, one of the most reliable ways to rile him up is to wear one of his shirts. The way it hangs from your shoulders, skimming your thighs and flashing glimpses of your panties underneath is enough to get his blood pumping. And if you're doing something domestic while wearing his shirt— like cooking dinner or washing dishes— you won't be for long.

N = No – something they wouldn’t do. turn-offs.

I like to think Jason's pretty open to trying new things so long as it's safe. That means he is not bringing his guns or knives into the bedroom. Additionally, due to his past, I think that Jason would not be okay with being restrained. If you wanted him to tie you up, I think he'd be open to that, just don't go putting the fuzzy handcuffs on him.

O = Oral – preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.

As much as Jason loves receiving, he loves giving more. He's damn good at it too! As I mentioned before, he's learned what you like and how your body responds to him and that applies to this. He will eat you out happily and eagerly, without expecting you to return the favor. If you want to feel like a powerful goddess, return the favor. ;)

P = Pace – are they fast and rough or slow and sensual?

It all depends on the mood and what either of you need. There are some nights that he comes home from patrol and he needs to feel like he's in control of something— and sometimes you feel like you need someone to take control away from you. Those are the nights that he's rough, his fingertips sure to leave bruises on your hips as he fucks you relentlessly. Most nights, though, he enjoys the slower, sensual pace.

Q = Quickie – their opinion on quickies, how often, etc.

Jason isn't opposed to quickies, but they're not his favorite. He enjoys foreplay and taking his time with you, but there are some occasions that call for a quickie and when they do, he'll never say no.

R = Risk – are they game to experiment or take risks?

Jason is game to experiment, so long as it's safe. There are some things he absolutely won't do, as mentioned in the No section, and others that would take some convincing (such as if you wanted him to choke you) but he's open to try mostly anything you bring up.

S = Stamina – how many rounds can they go for and how long do they last?

Jason can go for one or two rounds typically, but he can last for a loooong time. There are some occasions, typically after a rough night or patrol, where his stamina just isn't at its normal and it'll just be one quicker round, but even then he still makes sure you orgasm at least once before he does.

T = Toys – all about toys, whether they own them, use them, etc.

I don't think Jason is opposed to toys, and he would happily use them if you so desired. As I've said before, he's not very experienced prior to meeting you and definitely wouldn't own any toys. Together, however, the two of you would start a little collection. His favorite is the little bullet vibrator that he can press against your clit while he's fucking you.

U = Unfair – how much they like to tease.

Jason loves to tease you, both verbally and physically. The problem is that in doing so, he gets himself worked up as well. Verbally, he will taunt and tease the entire time, but he just can't hold himself back from touching you or fucking you for very long.

V = Volume – how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.

While I wholeheartedly believe Jason is vocal in bed, I do think that he's (sadly) quieter when it comes to his grunts, groans, and moans. If you want to hear those beautiful noises, you'll need to either overstimulate him— the more worked up he is, the louder he is— or reward those noises with praise.

W = Wild Card – a random headcanon.

Some nights, once you're lying comfortably against his chest, Jason will grab a book off the nightstand and read aloud. You don't mind that he's halfway through the book and you have no idea what's going on, you just appreciate the calming cadence of his voice and the way his free hand gently rubs your arm.

X = X-Ray – what’s going on under those clothes.

So, Jason's a big guy and it goes without saying that his cock is big as well. It's about 8 inches hard and thicker than average, but not unmanageable. He is cut and has a delicious vein that runs along the length of his cock.

Y = Yearning – how high is their sex drive?

Jason's sex drive is higher than average, but not so much so that he's trying to get you into bed with him every day.

Z = Zzz – how quickly they fall asleep afterwards.

But this time, there was nothing. He’s vanished into thin air. Nearly.

This disappearance feels off, not like the other times. Jason has been avoiding Bruce and the others more than usual these past few weeks. Whenever he was brought up on it, Jason brushed him off with the same dismissive irritation he always uses.

At first, Bruce assumed it was just another way to hide something illegal or bloody so the family wouldn’t interfere with whatever he was planning. But, this feels deliberate, too much so. If there was a blood trail, Jason’s long since cleaned it up.

Bruce hasn’t felt this nervous since that day in Ethiopia nine years ago. The memory comes to him abruptly, the one where he’s digging through debris to find his son’s lifeless body. An image of a boy too small for his age, bloodied, bruised, and broken.

Bruce closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. Focus, he tells himself.

More so since Jason’s made it clear on multiple occasions that he wants very little to do with his family. Still, Bruce opens the tracking program he designed specifically for the kids. Red lines scatter across the map of Gotham, zig-zagging and crossing over one another. Each line is a confirmed sighting of Red Hood over the past few weeks.

There’s nothing new; all the tracks are old and useless to him. So, Bruce takes a shot in the dark and zooms out, not really expecting to find anything. Jason leaves Gotham from time to time for places like Bludhaven, New York, or Trenton, so it’s nothing unusual. Most of them are old.

Save for one. A blue line, not connected to Red Hood at all, but, rather, Jason’s civilian phone. Bruce stares at the line, genuinely puzzled. It’s the number and phone that Jason used when he was Robin, and Bruce had been so sure that it had been disconnected.

More concerning, it’s pinging in an area akin to the suburbs. It’s the type of place that families and older folks live to get away from the inner city.

“What are you planning, Jason?” Bruce mutters to himself. He knows there’s no better way to find out than going there himself.

—

Bruce has narrowed it down to an apartment building. It’s a great place; there’s a park and a gym, which make for nice amenities.

It’s the complete opposite of Jason’s warehouse in Gotham, a shabby place that’s dank and cold. There’s little there to show life beyond the necessities of food rations and a cot. The only thing plentiful in that warehouse is the amount of weapons that irk Bruce to no end.

The normalcy of this place makes him feel uneasy.

It’s a little past six, so it’s quiet; there’s no one really around except for a family enjoying a nice evening on the playground not far away. Even the security guard at the front desk is relaxed, his feet kicked up with a magazine in his hand. He's the perfect guy to get past easily.

He slips through the door when a couple, oblivious to the world beyond just them, walks out. As Bruce climbs the stairs, he pulls out his phone and activates the tracking app. The pinging from it grows louder the closer he gets. By the time he’s on the third floor, his phone is going wild.

When the sound can't get any crazier, Bruce stops. He's in front of a dark blue door with a doormat that says ‘hello’ in pretty cursive letters. For a brief moment, the thought that his phone or the program might not be working crosses his mind. 

Shutting the tracker off, he shoves his phone into his pocket with one hand as the other knocks on the door. There’s the sound of a woman’s voice and a baby’s whine before he hears the peephole cover scrape against the wood.

Before the door opens, there's the sound of someone muttering, and there you are with a baby in your arms. Bruce is speechless for a moment, not anticipating meeting a mother and her baby. The tracker must be wrong, or maybe you stole Jason’s phone?

He can’t think long on the possibilities as you ask, “Can I help you?”

Your question is worded kindly, but there’s a tiredness to your tone that makes it clear Bruce needs to get to the point. He does, because the last thing he wants is to bother an exhausted mom. Just as he opens his mouth, there’s a call of “mommy” that rolls through the house. Bruce can’t see the source of the voice, but he can guess it’s a little boy.

You turn and call back, “One second, lovebug!”

When you look at Bruce again, you huff and cock an eyebrow, ready for him to go on. He clears his throat and asks, “Does a man named Jason Todd live here?” Bruce forces one of his charming smiles in hopes it’ll deter you from slamming the door in his face.

Your brow furrows, and your hand goes up to cover the back of the baby’s head. Taking a partial step back from the door, you turn half away from him. “Babe, there’s someone at the door for you,” you call to someone further in the apartment.

Babe. Okay, this was a new development.

Then, Bruce hears Jason’s voice. “For me? Who the hell—”

When Jason steps into the doorway, his eyes widen, and his mouth falls open slightly in shock. “Bruce,” He breathes. Then, after a moment, he shakes his head. “How did you find—You know what, I have a feeling I already know. What’re you doing here?”

“I was worried,” Bruce admits as he shifts his weight a bit. He feels uncomfortable now, like he’s tumbled through a door he shouldn’t have.

“Worried,” Jason repeats, cocking an eyebrow like he doesn’t fully believe him.

Bruce swallows. “Yes, worried.”

Before Jason can make the smartass retort Bruce can feel him about to spit out, a boy, no older than two or three, appears in the doorway. The sight of the little boy leaves him speechless. He's an exact clone of Jason, right down to the little black cowlick at the top of his head and the bright, hopeful look in his green eyes.

For a moment, Bruce is brought back to Ethiopia, seeing Jason, not much bigger than the toddler but still so much older, bloodied and beaten. He snaps back to reality when the boy loudly whispers to his father, asking who “that man” is.

Bruce realizes that Jason has never mentioned him, and that feels far worse than death.

Jason doesn’t answer, but picks up the toddler and brings him further into the apartment, leaving the door open so Bruce can follow or leave. He steps in, taking in the scene before him.

It’s a warm, lived-in space. Nothing special or big, but it’s just enough. As he makes his way into the living room, Bruce notices paper plates shaped like animals with remnants of what he assumes must have been a good, hearty meal on the coffee table. On the TV, a kids’ show plays, momentarily catching the attention of the toddler.

Then, Bruce sees you again. You’re settling the baby in a pink baby bouncer, trying to get the infant to calm, but it’s clear she’s about to wail. By the small swell of your stomach, Bruce guesses that you’re recently postpartum.

Jason motions Bruce further inside, telling him to sit down in the cushioned chair opposite the couch, where he sets the squirming toddler. “As you can see, I’m fine,” Jason says as he picks up the plates left on the coffee table before momentarily disappearing into the kitchen.

You take the time to introduce yourself, reaching a hand out to shake Bruce’s. After telling you his name again, it finally seems to register who he is by your quiet, surprised, “oh”! At the very least, Jason has mentioned him to you.

“Well, what now?” Jason says as he rounds the couch to sit on the other side of the little boy. Almost instantly, the toddler is all over Jason’s lap, but he hardly reacts as if it’s something that happens all the time.

Clearing his throat, Bruce says, “You have a nice home.”

“Thank you,” you say, sounding much sweeter than when you first answered the door. He can’t blame you for being wary. In Gotham, or anywhere else for that matter, you can never be too careful. After a moment of prolonged silence, you add, “We moved in a couple of months ago! It’s a wonderful place. It even has a daycare a block or two away. Perfect for our babies.”

You pinch your boy’s cheek before moving him over to sit. Your daughter is making whining noises in her bouncer, which pulls Bruce’s gaze to her. She’s the perfect combination of you and Jason, with her father’s nose and curly black hair; everything else is you.

“How old are they?” Bruce asks quietly, as it had simply slipped from his mouth.

Jason crosses his arms, looking like he’s trying to seem protective. Yet, there’s a bit of a wane in his tough demeanor by the way his eyes gaze pitifully at his father.

“Our boy here is two, and our girl is just over a week and a half.” The smile that graces your face is the only one that can come from a mother who adores her children. “They both already have Daddy wrapped around their fingers, huh?”

You take the boy into your lap and press kisses to his black hair. He giggles and kicks about for a moment before Jason settles a hand on his legs.

Bruce watches as his boy looks fondly at you and your son, like a proud father and partner. He doesn’t know what to do or say. There are so many questions to ask. Many he can probably answer himself, though he doesn’t want to. All the answers Bruce wants, he wants from Jason.

“She’s beautiful. They both are,” Bruce manages to say.

Jason mutters, “Thanks.”

You, on the other hand, take the praise more personally: “Our boy is just the spitting image of his dad, so no argument there. But, Jason says our girl looks like a little alien.”

“She did look like an alien the first day. All smooshed and red-faced. She’s cute now,” Jason replies, leaning over to take the baby into his arms.

When Bruce opens his mouth to speak, Jason’s smile falls a little. “Beautiful. That’s the word you’re looking for, Jay.”

Jason snickers but corrects himself. “Beautiful. More than, really. Angelic. Spitting image of her mama.”

A blush crosses your cheeks, and you wave him off. “Oh, stop it—”

A sharp cry cuts you off as the baby’s discomfort now fully boils over. Jason tries bouncing her before checking her diaper for any accidents, but that doesn’t seem to be the problem. Your boy is covering his ears, angrily looking at his little sister, and it seems like he’s about to tell her to shut up.

You sense the growing agitation and hold out your arms. “Give her here, babe. Oh, she’s hungry.”

Jason’s gentle as he hands over the baby, his eyes full of hurt at the sounds of his crying girl. Luckily, the moment she settles against you, her cries turn into little whimpers, and her hands blindly grip your shirt. Excusing yourself, you walk down the hall to nurse the baby in your room. You look back and call after your son, who hops off the couch with a grin as he toddles after you. He pauses when he notices Jason isn’t following.

A rueful smile crosses Jason’s face, and he reaches out to run a hand through his son’s black curls. “I’ll be there in a second, go watch cartoons with Mama and your sister.” The boy hesitantly leaves, glancing over his shoulder at his father.

It dawns on Bruce far too late that Jason has lived a whole life separate from the one in Gotham. A life that was never meant to involve him or any of the others.

Jason leans back against the couch and rubs a hand over his face. “Don’t go telling everyone about this. I don’t need any fucking bats in my business.”

“I won’t, but I think Dick, at the very least, would like to know you’re alright,” Bruce says.

Jason shakes his head and laughs to himself. “Dick can go fuck himself.”

“Jay—”

“No. Don’t—” Jason cuts in. He exhales and looks away, trying to hide the way his eyes are glassy now. “Don’t give me some bullshit that you guys miss me or want me back. What did you expect when you came here tonight, hm?”

Bruce didn’t know how to answer. He knew that he couldn’t because Jason would be right. He’d come here, to his son’s home—to your home—expecting to find plans to conquer Gotham or, worse, finding Jason dead. Because obviously, it couldn’t have been anything good. You, two kids, and a nice, comfortable home were the last thing on his mind.

“You can’t even fucking look at me,” Jason spat. “Which, I guess, proves my point.”

“I’m sorry.”

When Bruce looks at Jason again, he’s blinking back tears and looking at the ground. Sniffling, Jay stands and wipes his hands down the front of his sweatpants, his eyes going to the hallway where you disappeared before going back to Bruce. It’s a good minute of going back and forth before Jason finally figures out what he wants to do.

“Sorry isn’t good enough anymore, Bruce.” There’s a pause before he goes on. “It hasn’t been for a while. A long while.”

“I understand, Jason.” Bruce stands, holding his jacket tighter around him, and takes a step. When he does, you come back out of the room with just your son on your hip and a baby monitor in your free hand.

“Are you leaving?” You ask, and there’s not an ounce of contempt in your face. In fact, Bruce could have sworn you sounded a bit disappointed.

Jason answers for him, “Yes, he is.”

You must be able to understand the stress because you don’t ask for any more information. The boy in your arms squirms until you let him down, and he trots over to his father, who happily picks him up.

“Hey, baby,” Jason coos, pressing kisses into the boy’s hair. “Let me walk my friend out, and I’ll come play with you, how’s that?”

“Okay,” the boy mumbles joyfully. Jason gives the boy one more kiss before putting him down.

My friend. Bruce has the near urge to yell a correction at Jason, but can’t. The last thing he wants to do is yell at Jason in his home. It wouldn’t make the situation better, especially considering Bruce wants to be allowed back.

Bruce turns to you and gives a forced smile. “Thank you for letting me in. I’m sorry to have shown up unannounced.”

You open your mouth, then shut it, your eyes flickering over to Jason for a split second. No doubt, you don’t know what to say, and you certainly don’t want to say the wrong thing. You manage to find something and reply with, “It’s no trouble. It was nice meeting you.”

As Bruce turns towards the door, he notices Jason giving you a passing kiss that’s too sweet not to be filled with love. A home full of love—a foreign concept in Wayne Manor. He looks away, thinking about how he assumed everything wrong, and tries to comb through the excuses to show up again. Bruce wants to know the man his son has turned into and to know the mother of his grandchildren

Selfishly, he doesn’t want to be known as Jason’s ‘friend’, either. No, Bruce wants to be ‘grandpa’.

Jason corrals him out the door, nearly pushing him, before stopping just before the threshold. Bruce takes in the hallway again, not at all happy with the sight of long rows of doors—Jason’s family should be in a house with a yard for the kids to play in, he thinks. Just for a moment, Bruce considers buying a house for Jason in hopes that it might bridge the gap between them.

Knowing Jason, he'd set it on fire before even considering moving in.

“I’ll see you around?” Bruce says, hopeful.

Jason looks like he’s going to say no—in fact, it looks like he wants to say it, but there’s the sound of the boy inside giggling. It sounds just like the little boy who used to think Robin was magic. And Jason suddenly looks hesitant.

“Maybe,” He says before he shuts the door.

Bruce stands there for a second, staring at the welcome mat, as he listens to a loud, high-pitched laugh seep through the door.