You are not in this alone

He’d explain that you haven’t seen antagonization until you’ve worked at The Bear.

He is silently attentive.

You’d throw your keys on the coffee table.

He’d swiftly place them in the dish by the door.

He’d warm up your car for you on a cold morning and ensure the tank is full.

When you’re too tired, he’d fold your clean laundry before it wrinkles.

Even after a double shift, he makes sure you’ve eaten a substantial enough dinner.

“Was just cereal for me tonight,” you’d answer absentmindedly upon being asked.

“Absolutely not,” he’d respond with a swift turn to the kitchen.

He’d throw something together in 20 minutes that would have taken you 2 hours not including prep time.

“That’s better,” he’d nod with a smile as he’d proudly watch you eat.

For all the delicate pastry in his work and carefully timed technique, Luca fucked rough.

He was so precise in everything he did, but especially when he was pistoning you into the mattress.

People underestimate how strong pastry chefs have to be.

It was more visibly apparent on him. Toned arms littered with tattoos.

You’d claw at them.

He knew how to pin you when you’d squirm and writhe away from his ravishing of you.

His firm grip on your waist, your thighs, came in contrast to his gentle affirmations.

“You’re doing so well,” he’d say with his ever deep voice. His accent.

“That’s okay, darling,” he’d wipe the tears of pleasure from your eyes.

He moves you like a doll.

He prefers you in any position where he can see your pretty face.

That’s easily on your back.

But don’t be surprised when he expects you to look at him while you take it from behind.

His consent checks are layered with teasing.

“Is it okay if I-”

“Yes!”

“I need to hear you. Use your words.”

His tone was soothing, but his actions were merciless.

You’d reach for your clit to help get yourself off and he’d seat it away and replace it his.

To your regret he wouldn’t stop once you’ve already cum.

“I can feel you pulsing.”

Red and swollen he’d fuck you until he’s content and had his fix.

He’s at his most vulnerable during sex when he’s cumming.

He’d rut into you past his own limit.

You could tell how spent he was when he’d collapse on top of you. As big as he is.

Contains: smut, porn with plot, violence, mentions of blood and bruises, hickeys, table sex, oral (f receiving), fingering, breast/nipple play, unprotected piv, creampie, cockwarming, soft!dom! secret agent!husband!matt x sub!fem secret agent!wife!reader

The city thinned out behind me in a slow unravel of glass and steel, replaced by tree-lined streets and the quiet stretches of suburbia that felt softer and warmer. The hum of my car’s engine settled low and steady as I eased off the main road. My fingers relaxed around the wheel of a car that blended perfectly, sleek but not flashy, clean lines that matched the middle-upper class neighbourhood without drawing eyes. It was our fifth wedding anniversary today, and excitement thrummed quietly under my skin, sharpening everything. I'd spent the day at the studio as the interior designer everyone knew, buried in swatches and floor plans, but now all that faded. All I could think about was heading home to Matt, my doting husband.

His text had come mid-afternoon: I have a surprise waiting for you. I'd read it three times, standing amid mockups with a smile creeping up that I couldn't shake. My assistant noticed but I'd waved it off with something vague about anniversary plans. But the warmth lingered even now, golden hour spilling honeyed light across the windshield, catching my reflection: lips curved and eyes brighter. Five years married, and he still did this to me. Made the ordinary feel charged and romantic. Planned intimate surprises that blurred the world around us.

I turned onto our street, tires gliding over pavement I could navigate blindfolded at this point. The houses here all carried that same curated charm with manicured lawns, warm lighting, and just enough personality to feel lived in without crossing into excess. And ours fit right in. It always had. Clean lines, large windows, and a soft exterior lighting that casted a quiet glow as dusk began to settle in.

My phone buzzed lightly in the console, and I didn't even need to look to know it was Matt. There was a rhythm to him, to us. A timing I’ve come to expect without thinking. Still, I glanced down at the screen as I slowed down, nearing our home now.

Don’t take too long. I’m getting impatient.

I huffed out a soft laugh, shaking my head. Of course he was impatient. He always was, in a way that was more teasing than demanding, like he enjoyed the anticipation almost as much as the payoff.

“God forbid I keep you waiting.” I murmured under my breath, smilingly.

As I prepared to pull into the driveway, I was already picturing the rest of the night in soft fragments of his voice, his hands, and whatever carefully planned surprise he’d decided to spring on me this time. The thought alone had me smiling again.

But then suddenly, a soft, almost imperceptible vibration tapped against my wrist.

Once... Twice... It was persistent.

My smile faded before I could even consciously register why.

No one else would have noticed it. No one else could. To anyone watching, it was just a watch. It was sleek, minimal, and just seemed like a subtle accessory that matched everything I wore. But the pulse against my skin wasn’t ordinary. It carried a distinct rhythm, coded and deliberate.

It was a work call. From my real job.

My hand tightened slightly on the wheel as I let the car roll past the driveway, continuing another few meters down the street before pulling off to the side, making sure I was well out of sight from our place.

I tilted my wrist and tapped the screen. The display lit up instantly, not with notifications or messages, but with a clean, dark interface that only appeared when it mattered. It was meant to be secure, encrypted, and untraceable. My pulse steadied automatically, instincts taking over and my focus sharpening in an instant.

“Go.” I said.

The line clicked open.

“Status.” My supervisor’s voice was clipped and direct. No greeting or preamble, which meant this wasn’t routine.

“I’m off-site.” I replied, eyes scanning the empty stretch of road out of habit more than necessity. “What is it?”

There was a brief pause.

“Agent, we’ve identified the source.”

Everything in me stilled. For weeks— no months, there had been a pattern. Near misses and multiple compromised operations that didn’t make any sense. It almost felt like someone had been watching me. Tracking and testing, but always just out of reach. Always one step ahead.

And now, the mystery was finally solved.

“Confirming target origin.” he continued, his voice stoic. “High-level. Contract issued through a third-party firm. We’ve been working to trace it back.”

My grip tightened on the steering wheel, something cold slipping beneath my skin. “Who is it?” I asked.

Another pause. Longer this time.

“Uploading.”

The screen changed to a file opening instantly. There was a profile, with a white background and clean black text.

My eyes dropped to it without thinking and the world stopped. A photograph stared right back at me.

Matt.

Not the Matt I knew in fragments of soft mornings and late-night laughter. Not the one who texted me about surprises or brushed his thumb over my wrist absentmindedly when we walked side by side.

This was different. Still him, but stripped of warmth. It was a professional ID image, where he looked controlled and composed. He wore a suit, and his expression was neutral but unmistakably focused. There was something in his eyes I had never seen before.

Or maybe, something I had never allowed myself to recognize.

My breath was trapped in my throat. This couldn’t be happening right now. In this moment, nothing was making sense. The image, the name beneath it, and the file details scrolling in cold, efficient lines.

But then, everything did. The inconsistencies, the absences he’d explained too smoothly, and the instincts that had always felt… just a little too sharp.

The way he moved, the way he watched, and the way he always seemed to know.

A slow, almost disbelieving breath left me, my grip loosening slightly on the wheel as the weight of it settled in. “You’re certain?” I asked, though I already knew the answer.

“We don’t flag without confirmation.” my supervisor replied. “He’s been operating under deep cover. Clean record. Highly ranked.”

Highly ranked. Of course he was.

A quiet, almost incredulous sound escaped me. It was something just shy of a laugh, though there was no humour in it. Just disbelief. Just the sharp edge of realization cutting clean through everything I thought I understood.

“Your husband,” he added, more carefully now. “Has been assigned to eliminate you, agent.”

Thick silence filled the car.

I stared at the image, taking him in again, really looking this time. The man I had spent five years loving… reflected back at me as something else entirely. Something lethal.

“No wonder.” I murmured under my breath, the words slipping out before I could stop them.

No wonder I hadn’t been able to track the source. No wonder every lead had dissolved before I could reach it. No wonder, because it had been him all along. Right in front of me. The best in his field. Or…

My lips curved slightly, something sharp and dangerous flickering beneath the shock now, threading its way through the chaos of it all. My equal.

“He’s been active on your last three compromised operations.” my supervisor continued. “This isn’t a coincidence.”

My gaze remained fixed on the screen, on the man I knew—on the man I clearly didn’t.

“Contract has been reassigned.” he added.

There it was. Not a question or suggestion. Just a directive. Clean and final.

My lips pressed together slightly, something sharp blooming beneath the surface as the meaning settled in fully now.

The target was identified, the assignment had been issued, and there was no hesitation to be expected.

“You’ll receive full parameters within the hour. Handle it quietly.”

Handle it. Like it was any other job. Like he wasn’t…

My eyes flicked up to the rear view mirror, landing on the reflection of the house I shared with Matt.

My husband.

“Understood.” I said. The word came easily. Too easily.

Then the line went dead and the screen went dark.

I sat there for a beat before making a move. Giddy anticipation curdled into steel resolve, as my fingers flexed towards the glovebox where my backup piece waited. Surprise indeed, Matt. Happy fucking anniversary, baby.

With a deep breath, tasting the metallic tang of adrenaline on my tongue, I eased back onto the road. I drove towards the house, masking the storm raging inside me as the garage door yawned open with a mechanical groan. Parking in the shadows of the two-car space, I killed the engine, and the sudden silence amplified the thud of my heart. But I was on active duty.

First things first, I needed to be armed before I headed inside. The central console popped with a hidden latch, revealing my go-bag: suppressor for the Glock, ankle holster with a compact 9mm, and a slim karambit knife that slid cold and reassuringly against my calf under the pants leg. I strapped it all on methodically, leather biting into skin, and the metal weights settling in on me like old friends. My breath was even, but my senses were on high alert. 

I stepped out of the car, door closing with a soft thud that felt final. The door leading into the house sat unassuming ahead, an ordinary wood panel hiding what waited beyond. I paused to listen, but there was nothing. No footsteps or chatter. It was too still.

Pushing inside, the foyer hit me with dead silence, only broken by the faint crackle of a few candles flickering along the hallway floor. Rose petals were scattered along the floor, leading deeper into the house in a carefully arranged trail. Candles were lined on either side, their flames steady and golden, casting an intimate glow that danced along the walls.

The scent of gardenia and wax curled heavy in the air, cloying now, mocking. I scoffed under my breath, lips twisting as domestic warmth soured in my gut. How romantic, all this for a kill shot.

But it did exactly look like what it was meant to be. Romantic and thoughtful. Very on brand for Matt. The effort, the detail, and the timing. It would have worked. It had worked, countless times before.

But now… now all I could see was the precision behind it. The intent. The setup.

My gaze traced the path slowly, taking in every detail with a different lens. The placement of the candles, the spacing, and the clear line of direction, leading me exactly where he wanted me. A trap dressed as romance.

My jaw tightened slightly, something cold settling into place beneath my ribs. How long had he known? The thought pressed in quietly, uninvited. How many of those nights, those touches, and those moments had been real? Or had they all been part of this? A performance. A cover.

My grip flexed faintly at my side. No. That didn’t make sense. Because I knew him. Didn’t I?

A flicker of something sharper cut through the thought. Annoyance, maybe, or something closer to pride. He’d fooled me completely. And that… that almost earned him something. Almost.

My steps were slow as I moved forward, not following the path so much as circling it, careful and alert. My eyes tracked everything, the shadows, the angles, and the places someone could be waiting.

Because he would be waiting.

Matt wasn’t sloppy or careless. If he was here… he was definitely watching.

The realization settled over me like a second skin, sharpening every sense. My breathing stayed even, measured, and controlled. But beneath it, something else coiled quietly in my chest. Not fear, it was never that. But something far more dangerous... anticipation.

My gaze lifted towards the deeper part of the house, where the candlelight pooled thicker, and where the path disappeared into shadow. My voice broke the silence, soft but steady.

“Cute.” I called out, the word edged with something that hadn’t been there before. Not warmth, but not quite anger either. “I almost believed it.”

The words lingered in the air between us as I waited. Still there was no sound or movement. But I could feel the weight of being watched, raising goosebumps on my skin.

The candles posed a hazard now, an inferno chaos waiting to happen. I leaned towards the first candle, as I blew it out, wax pluming smoky and sharp in my nostrils, plunging that corner into darkness. One by one, methodically, the hallway darkened. Suspense coiled tighter with each puff, the house breathing heavier in the dimness. 

The silence sharpened as the light faded, pressing in around me, heavy and expectant. Every movement felt louder now, the soft brush of fabric, the quiet shift of my breath, and even my near-silent steps against the floor.

Still nothing from Matt. No movement or sound. But I could feel it. That awareness crawled along the back of my neck, settling into my spine. He was here. Watching… waiting.

My hand hovered briefly near my side, close enough to my gun to reach it, but I didn’t draw it yet. Not yet.

Only one candle remained now. It flickered softly on the mantle, its flame steady, casting just enough light to illuminate the wall above it. I approached it slowly, and my gaze lifted towards the nearby photograph that caught the light just right.

Our wedding photo.

For a moment everything else faded. The tension, the assignment, and the quiet threat humming in the air.

It was just us. Frozen in time.

Matt stood beside me, his hand resting at my waist, his expression softer than I’d ever seen it anywhere else. Not guarded in the slightest. Just… him. The version of him that I knew and loved. Still loved.

A small, involuntary smile touched my lips, faint but real, pulled from somewhere deeper than I could stop. Five years. Five years of that. Of us.

A silenced shot cracked right then, a muffled thwip exploding inches from my ear, a pressure wave ruffling my hair as the bullet punched into the wall behind the photo. Glass shattered in the frame, tipping it forward with a clatter onto the mantel. Instincts ignited like a switch, as the firearm was whipped from the holster at my back, both hands steady as I spun low towards the sound, eyes piercing the sudden dark.

“You missed.” I called out in the dark, as it fell silent again. But a smirk tugged at my lips through the tension. “Not like you at all.”

My eyes adjusted quickly, scanning what little I could see of outlines, shadows, and negative space. The familiar had turned unfamiliar in seconds. Every corner of the house now held potential. Every inch of it felt occupied.

But he didn’t answer right away. Matt had always been patient. Calculated, even.

I could almost picture him somewhere just out of sight, leaning back slightly, watching me with that same quiet confidence he carried into everything. The same ease that used to make me relax. But not anymore.

Then came a soft sound. A breath. Followed by his voice, smooth and far too calm. “You turned out the lights.”

It came from somewhere to my left. Not close, but also not far enough.

“Didn’t want your big surprise going up in flames.” I replied evenly, adjusting my grip just slightly, angling my stance a fraction towards the sound without committing fully.

A quiet huff of amusement came. He was smiling. I could hear it. “Thought you liked my surprises.”

The familiarity of it almost hit harder than the gunshot. That tone. That ease. Like this was just another conversation, another night, and another version of us standing in this same room, except it wasn’t.

“Depends.” I said, my voice just as steady. “Usually they don’t involve attempted murder.”

Another beat of silence passed.

“You’re still standing.” Matt said finally. He seemed closer now. The shift was subtle, almost imperceptible, but I caught it.

My finger rested lightly against the trigger, not tense or rushed. Just waiting. “Disappointed?” I asked.

There was a faint sound, barely there. The brush of fabric and the adjustment of weight. He was on the move. Slowly, carefully, and circling.

“Not at all. I’d be worried if it were that easy.”

Something sharp flickered through me at that. Of course he wouldn’t want it easy. Where was the fun in that?

My lips curved slightly in the dark, though there was nothing soft about it. “Good.” I said, shifting just enough to keep my angles open, my attention split between where he was and where he could be. “Would’ve been a little insulting.”

“And here I thought you’d be happy to see me.” he chuckled. He sounded closer. Too close.

I stilled completely. I could feel it. The space between us felt… thin. Dangerously thin.

My grip tightened just slightly, but not enough to give anything away. “You shot at me.” I deadpanned.

“Mm.” That low hum again. It sounded too casual for my liking. “Didn’t hit you though. Important distinction.”

The corner of my mouth twitched despite myself, something sharp and unwilling pulling at the edge of my control. “You always did like technicalities.” I replied.

“And you always liked being right.”

“You know,” I said, my voice calm again. “This is a terrible anniversary gift.”

“I don’t know… feels memorable, don’t you think?”

The word memorable barely had time to settle before everything snapped. I felt him shift closer, causing me to move. I dropped my center of gravity and twisted sharply, pivoting on my heel as my arm came up in one clean motion. My finger squeezed the trigger without hesitation, and a suppressed shot cracked through the dark.

But he was already gone. A blur of movement to my right, fast and precise. The bullet sank into the wall where he’d been a fraction of a second before, splintering wood as I ducked low, instinct driving every motion.

Another shot came, this time his. It clipped past my shoulder, close enough to feel the disturbance in the air, and I rolled behind the nearest piece of cover, a coffee table that had once held decorative books and a vase now shattered across the floor. Glass crunched beneath my palm as I steadied myself.

“Starting to think you are disappointed, sweetheart.” his voice came, somewhere ahead now, smooth despite the movement.

I didn’t answer though. Instead, I fired again. Two quick shots, angled towards the sound of his voice. But he was already on the move.

A shadow slipped between shadows, fluidly. But I caught the edge of him this time, a glimpse of dark fabric, the outline of his shoulder as he ducked behind the wall separating the living space from the hallway.

“Careful.” he called out, in a teasing tone. “You’re going to ruin the house.”

A dry breath left me, something almost like a laugh, though there was no humour in it. “You started it, babe.”

I pushed up from the floor in one smooth motion, shifting position before he could track me, moving along the edge of the room instead of straight through it. Predictability was how you got killed.

Another shot rang out. This one was too close. The edge of a picture frame exploded beside me, shards scattering as I ducked instinctively, my shoulder grazing the wall as I moved.

Matt was adjusting and closing the distance. Good, so was I.

I rounded the corner sharply, and there he was. Just for a split second, I got my first glimpse of him ever since I came home.

He had a dark button down shirt on, with rolled up sleeves, and his posture was relaxed in a way that was anything but careless. His gun was already raised, his blue eyes locked onto mine with a focus that sent something electric down my spine.

Recognition flashed between us. And we fired at the same time. The shots cracked through the narrow space, both of us shifting just enough to avoid impact.

Matt stepped in, closing the distance instead of retreating. He was always one to push and test limits. “Missed again.” he said, voice threading with something that felt almost like approval.

My lips curved, sharp and fleeting as I twisted away from him, using the wall for leverage as I redirected, forcing space between us. “Keep talking.” I shot back. “It’s making this easier.”

“Is it?”

Shots rang out in rapid succession, echoing through the house as we tore through what remained of the carefully arranged space. Furniture splintered, glass shattered, and walls took impact where neither of us stood long enough to be hit.

It was controlled chaos. Every movement was intentional and calculated. And every near miss was closer than it should have been.

The realization hit between breaths, sharp and undeniable. We were equal in skill, and Matt knew it. I could see it in the way he moved now. He held less restraint, but more interest.

A flicker of something almost like a grin pulled at his mouth as he ducked behind the arm chair, using it as brief cover before shifting again. “You always did hate losing.” he called out.

I fired towards the edge of the furniture, stuffing exploding in a feathery burst, forcing him to move again. “I don’t lose.”

I heard a quiet laugh. “Yeah,” he said, voice carrying easily through the wreckage. “Neither do I.”

The rhythm of our crossfire shifted. What had started as measured turned relentless within seconds. The house became a maze. We moved through it like we knew it, which we did. Every corner, every doorway, and every line of sight already mapped in our heads from years of living here… but just not like this. Never like this.

I slid behind the edge of the kitchen island as another shot cracked past me, the impact splintering wood just above where my head had been a second earlier. Marble chipped and a glass shattered somewhere behind me, the sound sharp and loud in the chaos.

“Careful!” I called out, my breath controlled despite the pace, shifting my weight as I tracked his movement through the opposite side of the room. “That counter was expensive.”

“I’ll replace it.” he replied, his voice moving with him, somewhere just out of sight. “Assuming you don’t kill me first.”

“Bold assumption.” I shot back, already moving again, refusing to stay in one place long enough for him to predict. I squeezed off a shot mid-stride, and a bullet grazed his left arm clean, tearing fabric and flesh with a wet rip.

Matt staggered, hissing a curse. “Fuck!” He dropped to one knee behind the fridge, his hand clamping the wound.

Triumph surged me, but conflict knifed deeper. Matt was bleeding, my Matt. Hesitation flickered within me, my gun wavering slightly in my grasp as I ducked into the pantry doorway, my heart twisting painfully.

I could hear him groan in pain, but it was edged with grit. “Nice shot. Was that foreplay?”

I shook it off, reloading from my ankle holster mag. The house fell eerily quiet besides our heavy breaths echoing off the walls.

Hiding in the pantry's shadows, I palmed the concealed panel behind the spice rack. It was one of my custom interior jobs, with a seamless walnut veneer popping silent with a hidden magnet release. Out slid a compact railgun prototype, sleek matte black and pre-loaded. It hummed faintly as my fingers closed around its ergonomic grip.

I spent years blending cover with craft. Shelving units with false backs and mantel cubbies rigged for drops. Our home sweet home was a fortress disguised as an assassin’s haven. Matt's injury throbbed in my mind, but my mission steeled my resolve even though my love for him clawed through undeniably.

I burst out low, the railgun barking subsonically, the bullets slamming into the fridge door where Matt's shadow hunkered. The metal crumpled inwards with a resonant gong that vibrated the air in the room.

He pulled away from the appliance, his bloodied bicep slowing him a fraction as he crashed through the breakfast bar stools. “Hidden toys in the pantry? That’s new. You're too good at your job.” Matt got up on his feet, a cocky smirk flashing through pain-grimace, as his blue eyes locked onto mine as he snapped a fresh mag into his piece.

I advanced firing, bullets chewing the stools to splinters around him, as he returned fire. I hurled a nearby artisanal vase at him, disguised as flashbangs. It burst mid-air with a retina-searing pop, as the magnesium flare bleached the kitchen white.

“Shit!” I heard him scream, blinding us both momentarily amid the sulfur reek.

I blinked hard through tearing eyes, as my railgun swept arcs that scorched the white cabinetry black. But Matt caught me by surprise, when he surged from the debris, and tackled me mid-stride into the living room wall with a shoulder-jarring force.

Air flushed from my lungs, as the firearm clattered to the floor and Matt’s arm pinned my throat, not enough to crush but firm. His body crowded mine full-length, his hips grinding possessively into my pelvis. I could feel him thick and insistent even now, as his stubble rasped my temple. His sharp eyes bored close, wild with triumph and hunger.

“Gotchu.” he husked, his voice gravel over ragged breaths. His free hand wrenched my wrists up overhead, as the cold concrete pressed at my back contrasting his fevered skin against my front. Gunpowder and his musky scent enveloped me, making my pulse hammer. “You hesitated back there.” he added, his gaze flicking briefly to my lips before returning to my eyes.

My expression hardened slightly, as something sharper settled in place. “You’re still talking.” I shot back. “Which means I didn’t hesitate enough.”

A low breath left him, almost a laugh but not quite. His head tilted slightly, studying me like he was seeing something new. “Careful,” he murmured. “You’re starting to sound like you mean it.”

My pulse kicked again, slower this time and heavier. Because I did. Didn’t I?

The silence stretched between us, charged in a way that had nothing to do with the fight anymore. Instead it was everything to do with what we were, what we’d always been, and what this was turning into.

My voice dropped, quieter now. “Let me go.” I said.

“No. Not happening.” he smirked.

“You always were bad at taking directions.” I muttered.

“And you always did like being pinned.” he returned smoothly. Oh.

A flicker of something dangerous sparked low in my chest, unwanted and undeniable, cutting clean through the tension of the moment. Not now. Definitely not now. But the way he was looking at me… The way he hadn’t let go… The way neither of us had reached for another weapon… 

I scoffed, before headbutting him sharply, causing him to slightly stagger back and loosen his grip on my wrists. My hand slipped free just enough to reach the blade concealed at my side, fingers closing around it in one smooth motion as I twisted sharply into him, driving forward with intent. But Matt caught it.

His hand snapped around my wrist mid-strike, stopping the motion inches from him, the blade glinting briefly in the low light before he forced my arm back, redirecting the angle away from both of us. “Still going for the kill?” he murmured, as his grip tightened.

I didn’t answer. I pivoted instead, using the resistance to my advantage as I twisted my body sharply, trying to break his hold. But of course, he anticipated it. His other hand came down, striking my wrist just hard enough to have the blade slip free, as it clattered uselessly across the floor.

For a split second, neither of us reached for anything else. No guns, no blades, and no weapons. It was just him, me, and we were standing too close.

My chest rose sharply as I drove forward again, this time with nothing but momentum and intent, my hand snapping up towards his shoulder, aiming to destabilize him. He blocked, turned, and then redirected.

Our bodies collided in a sharp, controlled impact, the force of it sending us both off balance just enough to break whatever structure had been left in the fight. This wasn’t precision anymore. This was raw contact.

I swung, but he caught it, his hand closing around my wrist again. But this time I didn’t try to break away, instead I stepped in, closing the distance completely as I drove my shoulder into him, forcing him back a step. Then another.

Matt adjusted instantly, shifting his weight, regaining control as his grip tightened and he twisted my arm just enough to force me to pivot, and I used it to my advantage. Spun with the motion instead of resisting, my free hand snapped up, catching him across the jaw in a clean, sharp strike.

His head turned slightly with the impact. For a breath, he stilled. And then I saw a smile creep up his lips. God, he was so annoying. “You’ve been holding back.” he said, almost sounding impressed.

I didn’t dignify that with a response. I went for him again, this time faster, more aggressively. My movements were sharp, closing space before he could fully reset as I drove another strike towards him.

The fight carried us out of the ruined living space, through the broken remnants of the decor, past the overturned table, and scattered debris. Our movements were fast and fluid despite the obstacles. The house barely resembled itself anymore. What had once been clean lines and carefully chosen textures was now reduced to fragments of splintered wood and shattered glass, across every surface. The soft glow of earlier had long since disappeared, replaced by dim, uneven shadows and the faint haze of dust still hanging in the air.

Our home was completely ruined. And we were standing in the middle of it. Both breathing hard and still very much alive..

I rolled my shoulder once, wincing slightly as a dull ache settled deeper into the muscle. I slipped my blazer off, discarding it onto the floor, leaving me in a thin white tank that clung just slightly to my skin. It was marked now with streaks of dust and a faint smear of blood where a strike had landed harder than the rest. Bruises were already forming and I could feel them.

Across from me, Matt didn’t look much better. His shirt, once crisp and perfectly put together, was disheveled now. The fabric was wrinkled, and marked with a slow, spreading stain where the bullet had grazed his arm. Blood had soaked through just enough to darken the material, the sleeve sticking slightly to his skin as he flexed his hand once, testing it. His jaw was set, a faint mark already forming where I’d caught him earlier, and there were scratches along his neck… from me. The sight of them did something to me. But I ignored the feeling.

My chest rose and fell slowly as I adjusted my stance, weight shifting just enough to stay ready, even now, even in this brief stillness. Because this wasn’t over. Not even close.

Our eyes met across the wreckage, and for a moment neither of us moved. Not out of hesitation, but out of awareness. Of what this had become and what we were.

“Five years.” I said finally, voice quieter now, but no less sharp as it cut through the silence between us. My gaze flicked briefly over him, taking in the damage, the blood, and the way he still held himself like none of it mattered, before returning to his eyes. “You really committed to the bit.”

One corner of his mouth lifted, faint despite everything, something almost amused threading through the tension. “You married me.” he replied smoothly. “I’d say we both did.”

A breath of something that might have been a laugh left me, short and dry. “Yeah.” I murmured. “Guess we did.”

Silence stretched again, heavier this time. My gaze dropped briefly to the blood on his shirt, and to the way it spread slowly through the fabric. Something sharp twisted low in my chest. Annoyance. At myself, at him, and at the fact that I noticed at all.

“You’re bleeding.” I said.

His eyes flicked down briefly, then back up, unconcerned. “Occupational hazard.”

My jaw tightened faintly. Of course. Everything was.

My fingers flexed once at my side, the absence of a weapon suddenly more noticeable than before. Not gone. No, never gone. Just… not in my hand.

The space between us felt smaller now. More contained. Like the fight hadn’t ended… just shifted.

“You hit harder than I expected.” he added after a moment, studying me in a way that felt entirely too familiar.

I raised a brow slightly. “Don’t sound so surprised.”

“I’m not.” he said. “I’m impressed.” That landed. And I hated that it did.

My lips pressed together faintly, something flickering beneath the surface before I forced it down, burying it where it belonged. Because this wasn’t a conversation. This wasn’t us. This was still a job.

And the second I forgot that, I’d already seen what happened. My gaze hardened slightly, focus snapping back into place. “Don’t get comfortable.” I said evenly.

“Wasn’t planning on it.” But he didn’t move. Neither did I. The tension between us just tightened.

“How long?” I asked. The words came out quieter than before. But it cut through the silence in the room. 

He didn’t answer immediately. Matt had always been like that. Taking his time, choosing his words like they mattered. Which meant whatever he said next, would.

His gaze held mine, steady and unreadable, for a moment longer than necessary, like he was measuring something. Or deciding what I deserved to know. “Long enough.”

The words landed flat. It was simple and final. But just like that, everything clicked.

My lips pressed together faintly, a quiet exhale slipping past them as the meaning settled in, unmistakably. Of course he had. The near misses, the compromised routes, and the intel that had gone just slightly wrong, never enough to get me killed or to raise alarms. Just enough to throw me off. To keep me guessing and alive.

My jaw tightened, something sharp and complicated twisting low in my chest. “Right.” I clipped, more to myself than him. Because it made sense now. All of it. I lifted my gaze back to him slowly, something colder settling into place behind my eyes. “You’ve been tracking me.”

His expression didn’t change. “I’ve been watching you.” he corrected. That was worse.

My fingers curled slightly at my side, the difference settling in heavier than it should have. “You could’ve taken the shot.” I said, voice tightening just enough to betray the edge beneath it. “More than once.”

“I didn’t.” Somehow, that hit harder than anything else tonight.

My gaze dropped briefly, shaking my head once under my breath, something almost like a bitter laugh catching before it could fully form. “No. You didn’t.”

Because if he had… I wouldn’t be standing here. The silence that followed felt different. Less like a standoff and more like something was unraveling, slowly and dangerously.

I lifted my head again, meeting his gaze fully now, something sharper threading through the calm. “So what, you were just going to keep missing until I figured it out?”

A flicker of something passed through his expression. But it disappeared just as quickly. “Wasn’t missing.”

My brows drew together slightly. “What?”

His gaze held mine, unwavering now. “Wasn’t missing.” he repeated. “I was aiming around you.”

The words settled between us. It was heavy. Every near miss didn’t feel like luck. It felt like control.

My breath caught, just slightly, before I forced it steady again. My pulse kicked once, hard enough to be noticeable. “Careful.” I muttered, something sharp curling at the edge of my voice. “That almost sounds like you care.”

His head tilted just slightly, studying me the same way he always did when I said something he found interesting. “Do you?” he asked.

And just like that, the question turned and landed squarely back on me.

My jaw tightened faintly, my gaze holding his, refusing to give anything away. It was all becoming too much. Too many pieces were falling into place too fast, too many answers I hadn’t asked for, and too many things suddenly made sense in ways I didn’t want them to.

The room felt smaller and the air heavier. And Matt, he was standing there like this was still manageable. Like this was still something we could talk through.

The tension snapped back into place, sharp and immediate, coiling tight between us again. Because whatever this was, whatever we were, didn’t change the fact that we were still standing here. Bruised, bleeding, and neither of us had finished the job.

I exhaled sharply, shaking my head once, more to clear it than anything else. “No.”

My hand moved before the thought fully formed, slipping beneath the edge of my tank, fingers finding the compact weight concealed against my side. I drew it in one clean motion and stepped forward, closing the distance between us before he could react, the barrel of the gun aligning flat against his chest… right over his heart.

My gaze locked onto his, sharp and unflinching. “End of the line, Matt.” I said. The words felt colder than I expected.

Across from me, he didn’t flinch or take a step back. His eyes flicked briefly down to the gun pressed against him and then back up to my face, something unreadable settling behind them.

Then, he moved. Not fast or aggressive. Instead, very much controlled. His much larger weapon came up from where it had been resting at his side, lifting smoothly until it was aimed directly at me, the distance between us so small it barely mattered.

Barrel to barrel. Chest to chest. Two steady hands. And two loaded guns. There was no room to miss.

My finger rested against the trigger, tension coiling tight through my hand, through my arm, and through my chest. Do it. End it. Finish the job. That’s what I did. That’s what I always did.

“Go on.” I said, pushing through the noise in my head. “Pull the trigger.”

His gaze didn’t waver or shift. For a long beat, nothing happened. But then, something changed. It was subtle, but I saw it. The tension in his shoulders eased. Just slightly. His grip loosened, not enough to drop the weapon, but enough to relax.

My brows pulled together, confusion flickering sharp and immediate. “What are you doing?”

A quiet breath left him. Almost a laugh, but softer. It sounded more tired than amused. “I can’t.”

My grip tightened instantly, frustration spiking fast and hot. “What?!”

“I’m not doing it.”

A sharp, disbelieving sound left me, something between a scoff and a laugh as I pushed the gun harder into his chest, enough to feel the solid resistance beneath it. “This isn’t optional.” I snapped. “You know that.”

“So do you.” The calm in his voice only made it worse.

“Then act like it, dammit!” I shot back, anger bleeding through my tone now. “You’ve had opportunities, Matt. You said it yourself, ‘long enough’.”

His jaw tightened slightly at that, but he didn’t lift the gun again. Neither did he re-engage or move. And that was worse than the fight.

“You want me to do it?” I pressed, my voice edged with something dangerously close to unraveling. “Fine. Give me a reason not to.” I was met with silence. My pulse pounded once, hard enough to feel in my throat. “Because I’m not missing this time.”

Matt’s gaze held mine, and for the first time tonight, there was no strategy in it. It was just… him. “Yeah,” he said softly. “I know.”

The words hit harder than the punch I took to my jaw earlier. But still, he didn’t raise the gun again. Didn’t take the shot or even pretend to.

My frustration snapped tighter, breath catching sharp as I shook my head once. The pressure was building again, making it overwhelming and suffocating. “Then do it.” I demanded, the words louder now, cutting through the space between us. “Or get out of my way.”

I couldn’t stand here like this forever. Something had to give or end. My finger tightened slightly on the trigger, waiting… and daring… for him to move. To choose. To make this easier.

But he didn’t. Matt just stood there, gun lowered just enough, looking at me like I was something he still refused to lose. And that was the problem.

“I’m not doing it.” he repeated.

Frustration surged up so quickly it almost choked me. It burned through everything else, through the confusion, and through the sharp edge of realization that hadn’t dulled since I saw his face on that screen. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. He was supposed to fight back and make it easier to pull the trigger, to give me something to push against.

“God, you’re—” I cut myself off, the rest of the words dissolving into something useless, something that didn’t matter. None of it mattered if he wasn’t going to finish this.

My grip tightened for a second longer, just long enough to feel the weight of what I was about to do, and then, abruptly, I lowered the gun. Not all the way, not safely, but enough to break the line between us, and enough to let the moment slip just slightly out of that razor-thin edge.

“Fine.” I muttered, the word tight with frustration and something dangerously close to surrender. “Be difficult.”

It was the smallest shift. Barely anything at all. But it was enough.

Matt moved immediately. Not away or to defend, but towards me, closing the distance in a single, decisive step. His hand came up to catch my wrist, firm but not forceful this time, guiding the weapon down and out of the space between us as his other hand slid to the back of my neck. The grip was steady and grounding, and before I could even fully register the motion, he pulled me in and kissed me.

There was nothing careful about it. It was everything that had been building up since the moment this night unraveled, from every near miss, every word, and every look that had lingered too long and meant too much. It hit all at once, sharp and overwhelming, driven by adrenaline and something deeper that hadn’t disappeared no matter how much it should have.

I didn’t hesitate. I kissed him back just as hard and desperate, the gun slipping from my hand without a second thought as my fingers found his shirt instead, pulling him closer. I needed to prove he was still there, still real, and still mine in some way that didn’t make sense anymore.

His hand tightened at the back of my neck, holding me in place as the kiss deepened, slower now but no less intense, like he was anchoring himself to me in the middle of everything we had just torn apart. He tasted so achingly familiar, beneath the adrenaline and the tension, and it hit harder than anything else tonight.

My hand slid up to his jaw, brushing over the slight swelling where I had hit him earlier. The warmth of his skin grounded me further, to something that felt dangerously close to normal, even though nothing about this was.

The tension that had been building, tightening, and snapping between us all night didn’t disappear… it instead shifted. Changed shape. Turned into something just as volatile and consuming, but no longer aimed at destruction.

Matt’s hands moved without hesitation, one sliding down to my waist and the other still anchored at my neck as he shifted us both with a sudden, decisive motion. The world tilted briefly as he lifted me, my breath catching in surprise as I instinctively tightened my hold on him, legs bracing as he carried me past the room’s threshold.

The dining table. Somehow it was still standing. It remained untouched in the middle of everything else we had destroyed.

He set me down against it, not gently but not carelessly either, the impact enough to jolt through me as my hands instinctively found purchase against the edge. Its dark polished oak surface that was once set for our anniversary meal, now had crystal glasses tipped over and fine china plates scattered from our earlier violent impact. With a sweep of his arm, Matt knocked it all aside, plates shattering to the floor in a cascade of porcelain shards, silverware clattering loudly, and a wine bottle tumbling and spilling red across the hardwood, but he didn’t care. He stepped in immediately after, closing the space between us before it could even exist. Matt’s body pressed into mine, overwhelming me in the best way possible.

The kiss resumed just as quickly and intensely. My fingers slid from his shirt to his shoulders, then up along his neck, feeling the heat of his skin. His breathing was uneven now, matching mine, both of us caught somewhere between adrenaline and arousal.

Matt’s forehead brushed mine for a brief second, a pause that felt heavier than it should have. His lips curved faintly, something warm flickering through his expression despite everything, and for a moment the chaos outside of us didn’t matter. The fight, the assignment, and the fact that we were supposed to be enemies. None of it changed this. It didn’t erase five years of knowing exactly how the other felt, how the other moved, and how the other fit.

Whatever fragile restraint that had been holding us back, was snapped clean the moment I reached for the hem of my tank top, and pulled it over my head in one quick motion. The cool air hit my heated skin, pebbling my nipples against the thin lace of my black bra, and for a moment Matt’s gaze dropped. It wasn’t casual or idle, but with intent. Like he was taking me in for the first time all over again.

My breath hitched, but I didn’t stop. My hands moved to his shirt next, fingers working quickly and impatiently at the buttons, unsteady with unadulterated need. But he didn’t make it easy, as his hands were already on me again, sliding along my waist and back, pulling me closer as I fumbled through the last of the fabric. When his chest emerged from beneath my hands, broad and heaving, I could see it marked with blooming purple bruises from the punches we had traded.

“Why the rush, sweetheart?” he husked smilingly against my lips.

“Shut up.” I shot back softly, before finally pushing his shirt open and shoving it off his shoulders. “I need you to touch me, now.

There was no pause after that. He stepped in again, closer than before, his hands finding my hips and steadying me. He then guided me back just enough to settle me fully against the table’s surface, the cool oak pressing against me in contrast to the heat building everywhere else. My heart hammered wild, adrenaline twisting into a thicker hunger as his mouth claimed mine once more. His tongue delved deep and possessive, as the scrape of his stubble against my chin sent shivers down my spine. My hands found him again without thinking, tracing over warm skin that I knew far too well.

One hand cupped my breast through the bra, his thumb circling the hardened nipple with firm pressure that sent jolts straight to my core. The lace rasped teasingly against my sensitive skin while his other hand was tangled in my hair, tilting my head back to expose my throat. Matt kissed down my neck slowly, lips hot and open-mouthed, as his tongue traced the line of my pulse where it raced wildly. Teeth grazed just enough to draw a soft moan from me, causing him to satisfyingly hum against my skin.

Moving lower, his kisses trailed fire across my collarbone, then to the swell of my chest. He nuzzled into the lace as he sucked gently at the skin above my heart, marking me with a faint red mark that would definitely linger the next day. My fingers threaded into his soft hair, gripping the short strands, as I arched into him. Matt continued down, lips brushing featherlight over my sternum, then my navel, tongue dipping into the shallow dip there with a swirl that made my stomach clench. His warm breath fanned across my abdomen as his hands simultaneously slid to the waistband of my pants.

He tugged them down slowly, inch by inch, exposing the matching lace thong underneath. The scant fabric was already damp with arousal, causing him to let out a soft groan. “Fuck, look at you. Already so wet for me.”

“Please, baby. I need you so bad.”

Matt dropped to his knees between my legs, the motion so graceful, predatory, and immediate. His broad shoulders nudged my thighs apart wider, as callused hands slid up my calves to knead the tense muscles there.

I braced back on the table, elbows locked against the surface, watching him through half-lidded eyes as he hooked my underwear aside with two fingers. His breath ghosted hot over my clit first, making me twitch, as a soft whine escaped from my throat.

Matt looked up then, eyes locking on mine with that intense gaze that always undid me. “God, you're beautiful like this. Always so ready for me.” Then his mouth descended, lips sealing soft around my clit with a firm suck that pulled a gasp from deep in my chest, tongue flicking precise and loving, circling the swollen nub before flattening to lap broad strokes up my slit to savour every inch.

"Matt—fuck!" I moaned, as my head fell back. 

The wet heat of him enveloped me, as obscene sounds replaced the silence in the house. I could feel his stubble scrape my tender folds in a delicious burn that made my hips buck. My fingers dove into his hair again, gripping tight as pleasure built steadily and overwhelmingly. 

Matt’s hands steadied my thighs, holding me open while one slid higher to circle my entrance teasingly before pressing two thick fingers inside, curling perfectly against that spot that made me see stars. The stretch burned sweet, as my walls fluttered around the intrusion as he pumped me slow and deep. His mouth worked in tandem, sucking me more gently now.

Tension coiled low in my belly, hot and insistent, every nerve lit up from the fight's rush still thrumming in my veins. His tongue circled my clit with devoted precision and his fingers curled deep inside me, stroking that perfect spot that unraveled me completely. His free hand moved upwards, shoving my bra up roughly to bare my breasts, as his callused palm began kneading. I arched into his touch, as I shamelessly grinded myself against his mouth.

“Cum for me.” I heard him muffle against me, as he gently tapped the side of my ribs.

My thighs clamped around his head, heels digging into his back as my orgasm ripped through me. My walls clenched around his long fingers in pulsing waves. White arousal gushed, coating his chin, but his tongue lapped it up greedily as I rode it out. Matt drew out every aftershock until I was trembling and oversensitive, lying boneless against the table.

Matt pulled back finally, his lips glistening and eyes locked on mine as he rose slowly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. His pants were now visibly strained against the bulge of his cock, the outline thick and insistent. But he didn't rush, as he instead leaned in, capturing my mouth in a kiss letting me taste myself on his tongue. His hands gently framed my face like he was memorizing it all over again.

I sat up shakily on the table's edge, thighs quivering from the intensity, as my chest heaved from the aftershocks rippling through my limbs. But fuck, I still needed more of him. I needed him buried deep within to chase away the hollow ache that was still pulsing inside me. I almost lost him tonight and that wound demanded to be sealed in the most intimate way possible.

“Matt…” I breathed, my voice sounding wrecked and raw, as my hands reached for his belt buckle with trembling fingers. “I need you. Please—fuck, I need you.”

His eyes darkened at my whines, as a low groan rumbled deep in his chest. He caught my hands gently in one of his, batting them aside tenderly before taking over, as he unzipped fully and shoved his pants and boxers down in one swift motion.

His cock sprang free, thick and heavy with veins prominent along the shaft. The bulbous head was flushed a deep red and already leaking pre-cum that glistened in the low light filtering through the bullet-torn curtains. He gripped himself at the base with a slow pump of his fist, sliding up over the crown with a slick sound that made my walls clench emptily. His abs tensed with each stroke, his bruises standing out stark against the flexing muscle, making the heat in my belly wound tighter.

“Like this?” he rasped, his voice laced with need.

His thumb swiped over the tip to spread the white bead in a shiny trail down the shaft while his free hand gripped my thigh, hitching my leg higher around his hip to open me wider for him. The table creaked under the shift as I leaned back on my elbows. My bra had been shoved up carelessly, causing my breasts to heave with each ragged inhale.

“Yes—God, yes.” I gasped, mesmerized by the sight of him stroking himself, as he lined the blunt head up with my soaked entrance.

He nudged my folds apart with a teasing pressure before rocking forward slowly, inch by thick inch stretching me open around his girth. The exquisite stretch of it made my walls flutter as they accommodated every ridge and vein that dragged against my oversensitive nerves. A breathy moan slipped from my lips at the fullness, when he bottomed out with a final push, as his hips were now flushed against mine.

“Shit—You feel so perfect.” he grunted, stilling for a beat to let us both adjust.

Matt’s forehead was pressed to mine as his breath fanned hot across my lips. Then he started moving, pulling back almost to the tip with my folds clinging desperately before slamming home again. The table jolted with a sharp thud against the floorboards, each thrust punching the air from my lungs as his cock hit deep and unyielding, the wet slap of skin on skin echoing off the ruined walls.

I wrapped both legs around him fully, heels locking at the small of his back to urge him on harder and faster. My hands roamed his chest, nails raking lightly down to his hips to feel the powerful snap of muscle as he fucked into me thoroughly and relentlessly.

“Harder—don't stop.” I begged between gasps, as my head tipped back against the wood, hair sticking to my sweat-damp neck.

I felt Matt’s mouth latch onto my breast, sucking the nipple deep with his teeth grazing the peak just enough to spark fire within me. One hand was braced beside my head on the table, while the other was pinned at my hip to control the angle perfectly.

He angled even sharper on the next thrust, grinding relentlessly against that devastating spot inside me until my vision blurred at the edges. Friction was building fast and mercilessly as his cock dragged slick out only to plunge back in deep, with an obscene rhythm that synced perfectly with my racing pulse. 

Tension crested viciously in my core again, as I clamped around his length, milking him. As we chased the edge together, our faces drew closer with our noses brushing against each other. We inhaled each other's frantic breaths in desperate gasps while trying to kiss through the chaos, lips brushing messily and uncoordinated. Our moans mingled together, as eyes locked in on each other passionately, pulling us deeper into coordinated orgasms.

“I love you so much.” Matt declared, frantic against my mouth, having me uselessly mewl in reply.

Our breaths were mingled hot and ragged, as foreheads joined. Our eyes locked one final time as he thrusted deep, causing us to shatter in a mutual release. My walls spasmed around him as I cried his name out, as he painted my insides white, filling me completely with overflowing warmth.

We stayed put, our foreheads pressed close together as our breaths slowed from frantic gasps to heavy, sated pants. Matt was still buried deep inside me, his cock softening but not pulling out yet. The gentle pulsing of it against my sensitive walls was a comforting throb that kept us connected in the most intimate way possible.

Finally, my breath steadied enough for words, and I lifted my head slightly, gazing at him with soft adoration. “They're gonna come for us, you know.” I murmured, my voice quiet but heavy with the reality crashing back now that the haze of pleasure began to lift. Our incomplete assignments meant executions looming on the horizon, as the agencies we served were not known for generosity.

“I know, sweetheart.” Matt kissed my forehead tenderly, his lips warm against my damp skin as his hand stroked soothing circles along my back. The gesture was reassuring in its familiarity despite everything we had just been through. “But don't worry. I have a plan. I've prepared everything we need. New identities, passports, a clean slate waiting. We can go off the grid tonight.”

My heart skipped a beat at his words, hope flickering tentative through the chaos still swirling in my mind. The idea of escape feeling both impossible and desperately wanted after years of shadows and secrets. “Where?” I asked, my fingers tracing lightly over the bruises on his chest, feeling the steady thump of his heart beneath them.

“Vermont.” A warm smile curved his lips, and his eyes lit up with something like excitement as he held my gaze. “There's a house deep in the woods up there, waiting just for us. No neighbours, no signals, nothing but trees and quiet. We start the life we've always wanted to share. No more missions, no more targets. Just you and me, building something real, something ours.”

Suddenly tears pricked at the corners of my eyes. The picture he painted so vividly and achingly simple after the complexity and violence of our world, the weight of his plan settled warm in my chest as I imagined it: mornings with coffee on a porch overlooking endless green, nights tangled without fear, a family maybe, and years stolen back from the lies we had lived.

Matt’s hand cupped my cheek, his thumb brushing away the single tear that had slipped free. “Hey, everything okay?”

I nodded, leaning into his touch, our bodies still joined as the decision was sealed between us. “Yes.” I whispered, kissing him soft and sure, the future unfolding in that single word. “Take me there.”

A/N: Finallyyyy I posted this after teasing it back in February holy shit!! 😭 I hope you all like it as much as I enjoyed writing it (even though I went through hell and back trying to get this up lmaoo) :')

taglist 1: @sturncoast @ariestrxsh @n3vers4tisfied @chrisssiren @sturniolo-szn2 @xo-gabs @spookysturnz @lyingonchris @privatelyowned-t @matt0bsessed @httpssturns @courta13 @hannahsturns @cuntiolotriplets @sabprincess @mattspillowprincess @mamaagirlbehindu123 @grace-sturnz @whore4chris @mwahmatt @chickenundercover-09 @snowprincessleopard @eeyore-of-100-acre-wood @angel-sturn1 @sturniloxwz @sturnskiss @viviansturns @hannahsturniolo @salemsturniolo @challengers4ev @izzysturn @anisturniolox @gracedbysturns @mattsleftball @norahsturns @ilovematthewsturniolo1 @devotedlyteenagemusic @abiiialt @billscherries @iknowyouhave20dolllars @bernwentonio @lycheeolo @sturni-olii @sturntiolo @sleepinourtears @nbhdmatt @dearxcherry @chriss-slutt @may-bee-lovers @obx-hp-fan @rollingintheglitter

Your fifth anniversary had been mid-June, but his shooting schedule kept the celebration limited to you visiting him abroad and sharing room service. He knew you hadn’t minded, you’d said countless times that you just were happy to be celebrating together, but he wanted to acknowledge this milestone the right way. 

This trip was the best way to celebrate that while also finally pushing him to gather the courage to ask you to marry him. As you enjoyed this final meal of the trip, a ring box has been buried in his pocket and his nerves have frayed. It’s not that he’s worried you’ll say no, he knows what you two have is forever, but it’s still such a monumental moment and he doesn't want to bungle it. 

“Honey, dolphins!” Your excited gasp pulls him from his thoughts and while he glances to see the pod swimming just offshore, his gaze quickly returns to your face. Golden hour is almost here and the slowly setting sun makes your skin glow and reflects the joy in your eyes.

“There you have it, your favorite animal bidding you farewell” he replies and you nod, frowning slightly at the end of your getaway rapidly approaching. 

“I’ve really had the best time” you say, finally pulling your eyes from the water. 

“Me too, darling” he assures you, squeezing your hand as your server cleared the table. Matt pays the tab before standing, pulling you into his side as you two make your way out of the restaurant.

“Can we lay on the beach for a bit when we’re back at the house?” you request and he smiles, envisioning the scene he already has set up for you there.

“Of course, what a brilliant idea.” 

A comfortable silence settles as you both take in the beauty around you on the brief walk back to the small beach house you’d rented for the last week. He follows you through the house, pausing as you both remove your shoes at the backdoor.

“Matty!” you gasp as he slides the glass doors open. “It’s beautiful, when did you do this?” 

He grins, pleased at your excitement. He places a hand on your back to guide you through the sand before helping you sit on the large blanket he’s laid out for you both that’s surrounded by petals from your favorite flower. “I snuck out while you were getting ready before dinner. Now, champagne?” he asks, lifting the chilled bottle from the ice bucket holding down a corner. 

“Yes, please!” you reply eagerly, holding out a glass. He fills it and his own before holding his flute up for the toast he’s prepared.

“My love” he begins, surprised by the emotion clogging his throat. He takes a moment to collect himself and you squeeze his hand encouragingly. “First and foremost, I want to thank you for the last five years. They’ve been the most joyous, love-filled ones of my life. I can hardly believe it’s been half a decade yet at the same time, it’s difficult to remember life without you being by my side. You’re my rock, my biggest cheerleader, and most importantly, my best friend. You’re the love of my life, darling.”

He places his glass carefully in the sand before shifting onto one knee, his shaking hands removing the ring box from his pocket, opening it to reveal the ring he’d spent countless months searching for, “Would you do me the honor of sharing the rest of our lives together as husband and wife?”

“Yes, yes, of course! Oh my god” you burst out, holding out your hand for him to slide the ring on. He grins at the sight, dropping his lips to place a long kiss to the spot where the diamonds meet your soft skin. “Oh honey, it’s perfect, I love it. I love you so fucking much. That’s far less elegant than your speech but it’s true nonetheless. I’m so lucky you’re mine.” 

“I had more time to prepare” he laughs and you roll your eyes before wrapping your arms around his neck, pulling you flush to him. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, breathing in the familiar, comforting scent of your skin mixed with the salty sea breeze. You stay like that a moment before he pulls away to look into your eyes. 

“My beautiful boy,” you whisper, tracing his jawline with your fingers. He leans down, connecting your lips just as the sun slides beneath the ocean. Your hands quickly tangle in his hair and he gently pushes you onto your back, settling on top of you. His hands find the hem of your dress, fingers lightly brushing where your skin meets the fabric. 

He loses himself in the feel of your soft, pliant body beneath him as you greedily suck his tongue into your mouth. He feels himself beginning to harden as you moan, your hands shifting from his hair down to his backside, pulling his hips against yours. He gasps at the friction, desperate for more, pleased to feel you bucking beneath him already. “So impatient” he teases, placing kisses down your neck, leaving small bruises as he goes.

“You're one to talk” you reply, grinding your leg into his erection, drawing a groan from him. “As hot as this would be in theory, can we move this inside? I’d rather not be finding sand in different crevices for the next week.” 

He laughs deeply, carefully standing before offering you his hand to draw you up, as well. You lose your footing in the sand and he quickly scoops you into his arms, carrying you bridal style up the beach. “I thought this would wait until the wedding night?” you tease and he nips playfully at your shoulder. 

“I’ll put you down if you’d like” he retorts and you tighten your grip on his shoulders, shaking your head. He goes to place you on the bed but you insist on being set on your feet. “Lay down” you command and he tilts his head, curious as to what you have planned for him, but eagerly doing as directed. 

Once he’s settled, leaning back on his elbows, you slowly reach around to unzip your dress. “I have a confession to make.”

“Oh?”

“Billy brought me the ring box a month ago.”

“He didn’t” Matt replies, jaw dropping at the thought of your dog eagerly delivering this gift to you. “What a rascal, he ruined the surprise!” 

“He did,” you agree, laughing. “But that let me plan a little surprise of my own.” 

“Well go on then” he smirks, watching as your dress pools around your feet. “Good god, love” he bites out, eyes hungrily taking in the sight of you. 

“Do you like it?” you ask cheekily, making your way tantalizingly slowly to him. 

“I fucking love it” he breathes out. Your legs are covered in lacy black stockings attached to a garter secured above your sheer black panties. Your torso’s wrapped in a black leather corset and he’s struggling to keep his hands to himself as you crawl up the bed to him. “You remembered.”

“Your obsession with garters even though they’re an absolute pain in the ass to get on? Yes, I remembered” you joke and he chuckles at the mischief in your eyes. 

“My sexy fiancée” he breathes out as you hover above him and grin at the compliment before slowly unbuttoning his shirt, kissing each inch of newly exposed skin. He watches impatiently as you slowly unbuckle his belt, tauntingly taking your time removing it from around his hips. “Be careful, I may have to use that if you tease me much longer.”

“If only I’d be so lucky” you reply, pointedly leaving it on the pillow beside his bed before making quick work of the rest of his clothes. “You’re so hard for me and I haven’t even done anything yet” you goad, wrapping your hand around his already throbbing cock, causing him to throw his head back in pleasure. 

“Look at me, Matthew” you demand and his head whips back up at the command in your tone. “Much better” you praise, dipping your head down to lick a stripe from the base of his cock to his tip, eyes boring into his the entire time.

“Fuck” he breaths out, wrapping a fistful of your hair around his hand before resting it on the back of your head. “More, please.” 

“Since you asked so politely” you agree, immediately taking all of him into your mouth, his tip hitting the back of your throat as your lips wrap around the base of his dick. 

“Holy shit, Y/N” he gasps, hips desperate to buck but not wanting to hurt you. You painstakingly pull back after a few minutes of working him with your mouth, pumping him with your hand as you smirk up at him. 

“Do you want to fuck my face, Matty?” you offer and he feels his eyes widen. 

“Are you sure…?”

Your only response is to move off the bed and drop to your knees, hands behind your back. He eagerly stands beside you, hands tangling in your hair as you wrap your mouth around him again. He slowly sinks into your mouth, making sure you’re ready before he begins thrusting deep into your throat. “Holy shit, love” he groans, throwing his head back briefly, before gazing down to meet your glossy eyes. Slight movement catches his eyes and he watches as your fingers dip into your underwear, fingers circling your clit in time with each of his thrusts. 

Several moments later he feels you pull back slightly and he releases his grip, removing himself from your mouth so you can catch your breath. “Are you okay?” he asks and you nod eagerly, excess spit dripping down your chin. “Jesus Christ, get on the bed” he commands and you smirk, slowly rising to your feet.

“How do you want me, love?”  

“On your back, so I can devour you” he replies and you quickly scramble onto the bed, sliding off your panties as you go. “That’s a good girl” he praises once you’re settled, thighs spread wide, pussy already glistening for him. 

He places a sloppy kiss to your mouth as he removes your corset, leaving you entirely bare before him except for your garter belt which he has every intention of leaving on. “Beautiful” he breathes out, pulling a nipple into his mouth while he teases the other in his hand. He’s rewarded with your back arching up to meet him.

“Lower, please, Matt” you beg and he smirks, nibbling gently on your breast before settling between your thighs. He traces your hips with his fingers, placing brief kisses to your inner thighs, inching up closer to your core. You’d complain about his teasing but he wanted you desperate for him before he even really began. He shifted his hands to your thighs, tracing circles along them while kissing your hip bones, eyes rising to look up at you. 

“Please” you gasp, hips bucking up, before he forcefully pins you back down to the bed. 

“Do you want me to make you feel good, love?” he asks and you nod eagerly, your chest rising and falling rapidly. “Then be patient.” 

You nod again, dropping your head onto the pillow, seemingly trying to get your breathing under control. Just as he feels your body untense below him, he licks a teasing stripe up your center drawing a loud moan from your mouth. He places a hand flat against your belly ensuring you can’t squirm or buck beneath him as he begins working you with his tongue.

As desperately as he wants to be buried inside you, he can’t stop himself from devouring you until you’re panting above him, hands wrapped painfully tight in his hair. His mouth is suctioned around your clit when you breath out, “Matt, fuck, I’m going to cum” and he immediately plunges two fingers inside you, drawing a frantic gasp from your throat as your back arches off the bed. Two pumps later he feels your walls tighten around his fingers as you call out his name, wrapping your thighs around his head as pleasure wracks your body. He gently works you through your orgasm until your twitches settle down and your legs loosen from around his neck. He smirks up at you, licking his lips, and you bite your own at the sight. 

“You look so sexy with my cum all over your mouth” you admit, drawing him up so you can taste yourself on his tongue. He opens the nightstand drawer to grab a condom, rolling it onto himself before pulling away from you. 

“Get on your knees” he orders and you eagerly flip over, ass in the air. “What a good girl you are for me, so eager to please.”

“Always” you agree, spreading yourself open for him and he groans at the sight.

He lines himself up with your entrance, “Ready, love?” he asks and in response, you sink yourself back onto him. “Jesus” he grounds out, the sensation of being fully buried in you so quickly overwhelming him for a moment. 

“Is it too much darling?” you ask, teasingly wiggling your hips back and forth. He shakes his head at you before reaching beside your head to grab his discarded belt. 

“Is this what you want?” he asks and you lick your lips, nodding enthusiastically. He wraps the leather around his hand before bringing it down sharply on your ass, drawing a gasp from your mouth. “Is it too much darling?”

“No, more please” you beg and he obliges, bringing the belt down on your other cheek. “Yes, Matt, fuck me now.” 

“Such a slut for me” he taunts, driving into you roughly. 

“Yes, yes, I’m your little whore” you gasp out and he rewards you with another slap of the belt against your backside. 

“Fuck” he mutters, overwhelmed at the sight of you bent before him, ass cheeks red, makeup smeared, mouth open wide in pleasure. “You look so sexy right now.” 

You simply whine, driving your hips back, silently demanding more. He tosses the belt aside so he can focus, gripping your hips and pressing your back down more so he can fuck you deeper, setting a ruthless pace.

“Yes, yes just like that” you gasp, hands wrapped tightly around the sheets beneath you. 

“Tell me what you want, love” he breathes out shakily. But all you can do is pant for air, your breathing mixed with moans and curses. He feels you tightening around him again and he wraps his hand around your hair, pulling you up so your back is flush to his chest. “Use your words, darling.”

“You’re fucking me so good Matt” you whine, your hand dipping between your thighs to rub your clit as you look back at him. “Please make me cum again” you whimper, the tempo of your fingers increasing as you squeeze around him even more intensely.

“Come on baby, let me have it. I can feel how close you are” he encourages and you whimper, your eyes turning glossy but never leaving his. Your lower lip quivers as your orgasm tears through you, your pussy clamping and twitching around his cock as you whine and moan beneath him. “There you go, I’ve got you, love” he assures, gently releasing you so you can rest your forehead against the pillow. He gently rocks into you until you stop pulsing around him, placing kisses to your shoulder blades. 

“Let me flip over, I want to watch you cum for me” you request and he pulls out just long enough for you to resettle on your back before reconnecting your bodies. As his pace picks up again you pull him down to you, placing a deep kiss to his mouth as you wrap your legs around his back. His mind goes pleasantly blank as he loses himself in the pleasure your body gives him.

“Can you feel how soaked you made me?” you whisper and he groans, dropping his forehead to your shoulders and nodding, words beyond him now. “I want you to cum inside me, baby, please. I want to watch you come undone for me.”

“I’m so fucking close” he gets out and you tug at his hair lightly, making him gasp in pleasure. 

“I know, baby, I know. My cunt’s squeezing you so tight, isn’t it? Show me how good I’m making you feel” you taunt, hands dropping down to squeeze his balls softly. His vision goes white as his orgasm shoots through him, frantically burying himself inside you as wave after wave of pleasure coarse through him. “There you go, I’ve got you, my love” you whisper, running your hands over his back as he catches his breath.

You two stay wrapped together for several moments longer, neither of you wanting to separate, both of you soaking in the afterglow. Eventually he lifts his head from your chest placing a gentle kiss to your mouth before slowly pulling out. You hiss at the loss of him and he agrees softly, already missing the intimacy of your joined bodies. He rises to clean himself up before returning with a warm, damp cloth. 

“Holy shit babe” he chuckles, gently wiping between your legs, shocked at how much of your pleasure is still leaking from you. 

“I’m not exaggerating when I say that was the most intense orgasm I’ve ever had” you laugh, removing your makeup with the wipe he’d brought out for you so you didn’t have to get up. 

“I can tell” he grins and you roll your eyes. 

“No need to look so fucking smug, Matthew.”

“What?” he laughs, tossing the cloth in the tub before sliding the quilt down, tucking you underneath before settling behind you. “Can’t I be happy I made my fiancée feel incredible?” 

“Sure, I bet that’s all it is. No ego swelling involved” you grumble and he pulls you flat against him. He opens his mouth to make a dirty joke but you cut him off with a quick, “Don’t you dare.”

He laughs again, joy filling his chest to the brim as he places a kiss to the back of your neck before settling onto his pillow. 

“I love you so much, darling” he whispers a few moments later, your breathing already evening out as sleep approaches. 

“And I love you” you reply, squeezing his hand. “I can’t wait to be your wife.” He feels a small smile pull on his lips at the thought before sleep drags him under.

Once on the dance floor, the entire bar fell away from you. All you knew were his hands on your hips, his lips brushing your cheek and neck, his deep rumbling laughter against your back when you cracked a joke. You couldn’t say how much time passed before Matt’s lips ghosted against your ear, “Can I take you home?”

“I’m happy to take you home but we’re not going to the hotel where all your castmates are staying” you replied and he chuckled, nodding, intertwining your fingers together. You quickly waved to the group still at the table, Olivia fist pumping after you once Matt had turned his back, making you giggle. 

“What’s that? Your cheeks are all pink” he laughed, brushing a kiss against your warmed skin. You looked up at him, drunk on the beautiful sight of his smiling face in the twinkling bar lights, scarcely believing where your day had led you. 

“Don’t worry about it, stud” you teased and he snorted his laughter, shaking his head while pulling out his phone.

“Let me order a car” he offered and before you knew it, you were closing your apartment door, back pressed against it as Matt feverishly kissed you. You were relieved that Sage was staying at her partner’s apartment with Trudy so you two had the place to yourselves. His hands were tangled in your hair, a thumb lazily brushing beneath your ear, eliciting a soft moan that his mouth greedily swallowed. 

You allowed yourself to get lost in the feel and taste of him for a moment before kicking off your heels and guiding him backwards towards your room. By the time he tossed you on the bed, you’re both barefoot and topless, your breath rapidly raising your chest as he teasingly crawled his way up the mattress to you. 

Once he reached you, his kisses turned tender as he trailed them down your neck and then your shoulders as he slid your bra straps off before unclasping it. “Beautiful” he breathed before kneading one breast, taking the other nipple into his mouth with a gentle scrap of his teeth, drawing a gasp from your throat.

A moment later, he continued his journey down, slipping your skintight jeans off your frame with some effort. “You’re really making me work for this” he joked and you chuckled, wiggling your hips to help his efforts. 

“Can’t make it too easy, you’d get the wrong impression.”

“What, that you regularly charm men you meet in your line of work?”

A laugh erupted from you as he repeated your earlier sassy words back to you. “Exactly, I have a reputation to protect after all,” you breathed out as he finally freed your legs, wasting no time removing your underwear. 

“Hopefully, you’ll allow me to wreck it just the littlest bit” he posed, placing kisses to your hips and thighs, painfully teasing you as he made his way to your throbbing core. 

“Please” you gasped out as his fingers barely brushed against your most sensitive spot.  

“Please what, darling?” 

“Please touch me.”

“I am touching you” he smirked, fingers tauntingly brushing the apex of your thighs as his breath ghosted against your core. 

“Matthew” you begged and he chuckled, finally dipping his head between your thighs, his tongue tracing your slit distressingly slowly, making you writhe beneath him. His one hand pressed your belly, forcing your hips to still, as the other began circling your clit.  

As he worked you, your thoughts narrowed to the places where his tongue and fingers expertly met your skin. You felt your climax tightening within you astonishingly quickly and you forced out, “Matt, I’m so close.” 

His only response was to delve two fingers into you, drawing a loud moan from you that froze in your throat as his lips sealed around your bud. Within seconds, your orgasm ripped through you, your legs clenching around his head as your hips bucked to meet him. He gently worked you through it before placing kisses to your thighs, silently requesting you release him. 

“Fuck, I’m sorry” you breathily chuckled, his blown out pupils rising to your own. 

“Jesus, for what? You’re so sexy” he replied, crawling up your form and kissing you, making you moan as the taste of him and your own pleasure mixed in your mouth. You felt him hard against your hip and you made quick work of his trousers and underwear, gripping his cock in your free hand.

“No” he ground out and your hands froze. You began to question what you did wrong when he continued, “I need to be inside you.” 

You sat up so quickly to find a condom that you bumped your head on his chin, “Fuck, ow, sorry” you laughed, embarrassment flooding your system. 

“Are you okay?” he questioned worriedly, his hands gently testing the top of your head where you’d connected. 

“Yeah, just mortified” you admitted, handing him the wrapper you’d plucked from your nightstand drawer. 

“You could have knocked me out and I wouldn’t have cared,” he said and you smiled, thinking he was kidding, but his eyes were serious. “I want you so desperately, Y/N.”

You two maintained eye contact as he made quick work of the condom, nudging your hips open again to line himself up with your entrance. His forehead dropped to yours, his eyes focused on where he far too slowly joined you two together. By the time he was finally buried fully inside you, you were writhing against him, desperate for friction. 

“Such a needy little thing, aren’t you?” he chuckled and you glared at him. 

“You’re a fucking tease” you accused and he shrugged, ever so slowly thrusting into you again despite your obvious frustration.

“Tell me what you want then.”

“I want you to fuck me so hard the neighbors complain tomorrow morning.” 

“One condition.”

“Anything.” 

“You need to tell me how it feels. Can you do that?” he questioned, eyes assessing your own as you nodded frantically. He smirked, nearly removing himself fully before driving back into you sharply, just as you desperately needed. 

“Fuck, yes Matt, just like that” you moaned out, head thrown back on your pillow as you surrendered to the pleasure his deep, hard thrusts were drawing from your body.

“God, you take me so good like this” he praised and you smirked, loving his vocality. For a moment, the only sounds in your apartment were skin slapping skin, your bed periodically hitting the wall, and the chorus of gasps and groans falling from both your lips. 

“Matt, I need more, please” you panted and he understood instantly, dropping a thumb to circle your clit perfectly in time with the brutal pace he’d set. You felt your climax building deep within you and you whimpered at how quickly you were approaching the edge again.

“That’s a good girl” he breathed out, his other hand pressing onto your lower stomach, somehow increasing your pleasure even further, drawing a frantic gasp from your throat. “That’s it, show me how good I’m making you feel.” 

Your hands shot to his neck, drawing him down to you again, desperate to feel him even closer despite how impossibly linked you two already were. 

“Fuck, I’m so close” you whined, eyes pressed closed, mouth open and gasping for air.

“I know, love, I can feel it. Give it to me” he commanded and his firm words pulled your climax from you, your eyes flying open in shock at the intensity of it. His forehead dropped to yours as he rode you through your orgasm before his motions became even more frenetic. 

You smirked, eager to give him a taste of his own medicine, “Come on then, tell me how good I feel wrapped around your cock.” 

A frustrated groan was all he could manage and you chuckled darkly, a thumb tracing his cheekbone as you drew his eyes to yours. “If you can’t find the words to tell me how good my cunt feels, look at me when you cum so I can see it.” 

Your words snapped something in him as a deep groan spilled from his throat, his eyes never leaving yours as his hips twitched against you. You could barely see any green in his eyes, his pleasure-blown pupils nearly taking over his irises. His motions stilled and he dropped his head to your chest, struggling to catch his breath. Your bodies were coated in sweat and you felt like puddy in his hands as he let his full weight drop onto you. You stayed like that a few moments, your hands caressing his hair as both your breathing slowed and synched together. 

The comforting weight of him paired with how relaxed your body felt post-orgasms made your eyes quickly become heavy and your hands stilled on the back of his head as you fought sleep. He raised his head and slowly pulled out, drawing a whine from your mouth at the loss of contact. You struggled to track his movement as he found his way to the ensuite bathroom, opening cabinets until he seemingly found whatever he was looking for. You sleepily began to pull your bedding down, pausing when you heard him gently tutting as he returned to the room.

“Let me clean you up first, darling” he quietly commanded and you let the quilt go as you laid back down.  He pressed a warm cloth to your sensitive skin, making you sharply exhale. “I know, I’m sorry, it’s all done now. Let me help you.” 

He guided the bedding beneath your form, gently lifting up your hips or legs to get you tucked in. You nuzzled into the sheets, comforted by how seamlessly Matt’s scent blended with the fabric softener you used. A few moments later, you felt the bed dip as he returned, tugging you into his form, his hand settling on your hip. 

“Sleep well, darling.”

“You too, Matty” you mumbled before sleep finally took over.

Matt shifts, drawing you from the memory causing new heat to pool between your legs. You’d had more intense sex before but last night was, by far, the best first sexual encounter you’d ever shared with someone. The notion that it could only get better, assuming there’d be a next time, stoked the fire in your veins further. The thought of rousing him for a second round to confirm your hunch is both terrifying and thrilling. 

You take a deep breath, reaching for your phone and seeing you had a few work emails waiting for you. You sigh, choosing instead to slowly extricate yourself from his embrace. Once free, you pull on some comfy clothes but find you’re having a hard time moving your eyes away from Matt’s peaceful, relaxed face. He looks so beautiful in the early morning light and you can’t resist snapping a photo before heading out to your makeshift desk in the living room.

part three

Thank y'all so much for your support on this story and my other Matt writing since I released the first past a couple weeks ago! I already have the next part mostly drafted so that should be out soon. I always appreciate any feedback 🫶🏻

The sharp crack of the ruler striking the desk jolted you back to reality, forcing your gaze up to meet your professor's eyes. A wave of guilt washed over you, and you bit your lip, feeling your cheeks heat up with embarrassment. “Once again, you're more interested in your phone than the lecture,” Daemon said, his voice firm yet tinged with something you couldn't quite place.

You swallowed hard, your heart racing as the weight of his gaze bore down on you. It was mortifying to be the centre of attention, every pair of eyes in the room briefly flicking toward you. Yet, the way he looked at you made it feel almost thrilling. “Sorry...” you managed to mumble, your voice barely above a whisper.

He raised an eyebrow, a slow, teasing smirk creeping onto his lips. “You always say you’re sorry, but do you really mean it?” he challenged, his tone playful but with an underlying seriousness that sent a shiver down your spine. “See me after class,” he instructed, before turning back to his lecture, the atmosphere almost electric as you processed his words.

Your heart fluttered, wetness pooling in your panties at the thought of being alone with him. You knew you were in trouble, yet the idea of what he might say when it was just the two of you filled your head with dirty thoughts.

As the last student filed out of the classroom, Daemon watched them go. He waited until the door clicked shut behind them before turning his attention to you, his eyes roaming over your body with a hunger that made your skin prickle.

He leaned back against the desk, crossing his arms over his chest as he studied you intently. "Lock the door," he commanded, his voice low and authoritative. You hesitated for a moment before doing as he asked, the click of the latch sounding unnaturally loud in the sudden silence.

As you turned back to face him, Daemon pushed off from the desk and took a step towards you, his movements slow and deliberate. "You've been distracting me all semester," he said, his tone conversational but with an undercurrent of something more intense.

He paused, letting the weight of his words hang in the air between you. "Tell me, do you make a habit of distracting your professors like this?" His voice was low and smooth, like velvet, yet there was a sharp edge to it that made your heart race. He took another step closer, now standing mere inches from you, his tall frame towering over your smaller one.

You could feel the heat radiating from his body, could see the way his eyes darkened as they flicked down to your lips before meeting your gaze once more.

"Or is it just me?" His words were a low murmur, almost a purr, sending a shiver down your spine.

Your heart pounded in your chest, threatening to beat out of your ribcage as you stood there, feeling utterly exposed under Daemon's intense scrutiny. You swallowed hard, your mouth suddenly bone-dry. "I-I'm so sorry, professor," you stammered, your voice barely above a whisper as you stared at the ground, unable to meet his piercing gaze.

Stupid, stupid, stupid, you berated yourself, cursing the day you decided to wear this stupidly short skirt. The fabric, already riding up your thighs, now felt like it was hiding absolutely nothing. You shifted uncomfortably, feeling the damp patch in your panties grow, the flimsy fabric clinging to your slick folds.

Your cunt clenched around nothing, aching and empty, as if begging to be filled. You bit your lip hard, stifling a whimper that threatened to escape you. He's your professor! Get it together! You tried to remind yourself.

Daemon's eyes narrowed as he watched you squirm, a flicker of satisfaction crossing his face at the sight of your discomfort. He took another step closer, now standing so near that you could feel the heat of his breath on your skin, could smell the intoxicating scent of his cologne.

"Sorry?" he repeated, his voice dripping with mocking amusement. "That's all you have to say for yourself?" His hand came up, his fingers brushing lightly against your cheek in an almost tender gesture, if not for the way his thumb pressed firmly against your bottom lip.

You choked, your eyes flying up to meet his as you felt the rough pad of his thumb push past your teeth to trace the inside of your lip. Your tongue darted out, wet and warm, and you heard Daemon's sharp intake of breath as it brushed against his skin.

"Such a naughty girl," he murmured, his voice low and approving. "Teasing me like this, wearing a skirt so short that it barely covers your ass, and then acting all innocent when I call you out on it."

His other hand came to rest on your hip, his long fingers splaying across the curve of your waist as he pulled you flush against him. You could feel every hard inch of his body pressed against yours, could feel the thick bulge of his cock through his slacks.

"Tell me," he said, his voice a low rasp in your ear, "should I punish you for your behaviour?" His hand slid down to cup your ass, squeezing the firm globe and pulling you harder against him. "Or should I reward you for being such a cute little tease?"

Your heart raced, Daemon's thumb still pressing insistently against your lip as you stared up at him with wide, disbelieving eyes. You couldn't believe this was happening - your gorgeous professor, the man you'd spent countless nights fantasising about, was now asking you if he should punish or reward you for distracting him. You almost let out a moan at his words.

"Punish me," you breathed out, your voice trembling with nerves and anticipation. You couldn't believe the words leaving your lips, but you knew you wanted nothing more than this.

A slow, wicked grin spread across his handsome face as he leaned in closer, his lips brushing against your ear. "Punish you?" he murmured, his hot breath sending shivers down your spine. "I thought you might say that."

His hand slid from your hip to the hem of your skirt, his fingers toying with the fabric before he suddenly yanked it up, exposing your panties to the cool air of the classroom. You gasped, feeling the damp patch that had formed on the thin material, your cheeks burning with embarrassment and arousal.

"Look at you," Daemon purred, his fingers tracing the damp outline of your slit through the fabric. "Already so wet, just from a little teasing. You really are a dirty girl, aren't you?"

He pressed his fingers harder against your clothed sex, rubbing slow, firm circles over your aching clit. Your hips bucked involuntarily, seeking more of that delicious friction, but Daemon just chuckled darkly.

"Patience, pet," he murmured, his voice a low rumble in his chest. "We have all the time in the world." His other hand slid up your body, pushing your shirt up and over your breasts. He paused for a moment, admiring the way your hardened nipples strained against the thin lace of your bra.

"Beautiful," he breathed, your breasts exposed to his hungry gaze. He cupped them in his large hands, his thumbs and forefingers pinching and rolling your nipples through the lace until you were writhing against him.

You panted, your brows knitting together as you stared down at the erotic sight of Daemon's mouth wrapped around your sensitive nipple, the damp lace of your bra a flimsy barrier between his lips and your skin. His tongue swirled and flicked, sending jolts of electric pleasure straight to your core.

This is so wrong, he's your professor! A small, desperate voice screamed in the back of your mind. But it was drowned out by the pounding of your heart and the throbbing ache between your thighs. Your head lolled back, eyes fluttering shut as you lost yourself in the sensation, your fingers tangling in his silver hair.

His hands groped and squeezed, kneading the soft flesh of your breasts like he had waited for this. The rough lace of your bra chafed against your skin, your nipples straining.

Your breath caught in your throat as Daemon suddenly spun you around, walking you over to his desk and forcing you to bend over. The cool wood pressed against your heated skin.

"Look at this," he murmured, giving your ass a sharp smack. "A matching set, just for me." He chuckled darkly, his fingers hooking into the waistband of your panties and tugging them down, baring your most intimate places to his hungry gaze.

"Such a naughty girl. Who did you wear these for, hm?" He leaned down, his lips brushing against your ear as he spoke.

He stepped back, his tie coming undone as he loosened it, the silk slipping from his neck to pool on the desk beside you. Your heart raced as he rolled up his sleeves, the crisp white fabric of his shirt stark against the tanned skin of his forearms.

"For your punishment," Daemon said, his voice low and menacing, "I think a good spanking is in order. I want you to count each smack. Do you understand?" He didn't wait for your response before bringing his hand down hard on your bare ass, the sharp crack of skin on skin echoing through the empty classroom.

"One," you gasped, your fingers scrabbling at the smooth wood of the desk as you tried to steady yourself. Before you could catch your breath, Daemon's hand came down again, striking the same spot with just as much force.

"Two," you choked out, tears springing to your eyes as the pain blossomed across your skin. He continued his relentless assault, each smack harder than the last, until your ass was burning and your thighs were slick with your arousal.

You gasped, your body jolting with each sharp smack against your tender flesh. Tears streamed down your face, your mascara running in black rivulets down your cheeks. Yet, despite the pain, you could feel your pussy throbbing and aching.

"Fifteen," you whimpered, your voice hoarse and ragged. You were trembling all over, your skin flushed and hot to the touch.

He reached for the wooden ruler on his desk, tapping it lightly against your sensitive skin. "Such a pretty pink ass," he murmured, tracing the outline of your ass cheeks with the smooth wood. "I think you're ready for the next part of your punishment."

Daemon's large hands gripped your hips hard as he pulled your ass cheeks apart, exposing your sopping pussy to him.

He leaned in close, his breath hot against your dripping slit as he spoke. "I'm going to spank your needy little cunt next. Count each smack, just like before."

Without waiting for a response, he brought the ruler down hard against your exposed, glistening folds. The crack of wood against wet flesh echoed obscenely in the empty classroom.

"Ahhh!" You cried out, your body convulsing violently as the ruler struck your sensitive folds with a brutal crack. The sudden, searing agony and shock made your mind go completely blank, tears of pleasure and pain pouring down your flushed, burning cheeks. You gripped the desk with a white-knuckled desperation, your fingers digging into the unyielding wood as you tried to anchor yourself against the overwhelming sensation.

"I-I... nnhh... I- fuck" you choked out between shuddering, gasping breaths, your voice raw and broken, barely above a whisper.

Daemon shook his head, a wicked grin spreading across his face. "Forgetting already, pet? I think you need a reminder." He brought the ruler down again, harder this time, the sharp crack of wood against your dripping cunt making you see stars.

"O-one! I'm sorry!" you shrieked, writhing against the desk.

He paused, the ruler hovering inches below your burning, throbbing sex. "Sorry for what, pet? For being a dumb little girl who can't follow simple instructions?" He brought the ruler down again, the sharp crack of wood against your soaked folds making you cry out.

"Two!" you screamed, tears streaming down your face. "Please, I'll be good! I promise!" 

But Daemon just chuckled darkly. "We'll see about that. Count them all, like a good girl."

You let out a choked sob, your clit throbbing and aching to be touched. The cruel, stinging slaps to your dripping cunt were pushing you closer and closer to the edge, your thighs quaking and hips jerking involuntarily. You couldn't believe how desperately you needed to cum, just from his punishment.

It felt so dirty, like a filthy slut getting off on being abused by her professor in some cheap porno. "P-please... I n-need...nnhh it feels we-weird"

Daemon paused, the ruler hovering inches above your dripping slit. "Weird? Or good?" he asked, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. "Tell me the truth, pet. You're getting off on this, aren't you? Getting spanked like a dirty little whore, in your professor's classroom no less."

He pressed the ruler against your clit, the smooth wood grinding against the sensitive nub. "I can see how wet you are. Your cunt is dripping all over my ruler." He pressed harder, the pressure building until your hips bucked up against the ruler, desperate for more friction.

"Is this weird?" he murmured, tracing the tip of the ruler teasingly along your folds, barely touching your skin. "Or is this weird?" He pressed the smooth wood firmly against your aching clit, rubbing it in slow, deliberate circles.

"Ohh fuck", you whimpered, your voice breaking on a sob. "I... I-mhh... I think I'm getting c-close." You blushed as you panted, your body trembling with the force of your impending orgasm and feeling different from any other climax you had experienced.

Daemon laughed, a harsh, mocking sound that cut through the haze of your lust. "Getting close? Already?" He withdrew the ruler abruptly, leaving your aching, throbbing cunt exposed and empty. "You really are just a desperate little slut, aren'tyou? Getting off on being punished."

He stepped back, throwing the ruler on the desk carelessly. "I think you've earned a reward now. For being such a good little pain slut." He undid his belt, the leather slipping from the loops with a sharp hiss. His slacks and boxers followed, pooling on the floor around his feet.

You gasped as he sprang free, his thick, hard cock jutting out obscenely from his body. It was even bigger than you had imagined in your fantasies, the swollen head an angry purple, the shaft thick and veined. He gripped himself in one large hand, stroking slowly as he stepped closer to you.

"Look at it. Look at this big, fat cock you've been teasing for weeks." He pressed the leaking tip against your entrance, your slick folds parting easily to welcome him inside. "Prancing around in your little short skirts or tight jeans, showing off that pretty ass for just anyone... Well, it's mine now. And it's about time someone puts you in your place."

You gasped sharply as you felt Daemon's thick tip drag along your sopping slit, your hips twitching with anticipation. Gazing up at him through your long, sooty lashes, you bit your plump lower lip and spoke in a breathy, coquettish tone. "Please, Professor... put me in my place." 

Your eyes shimmered with desire and a hint of nervous excitement as you played the role of the innocent yet provocative student, desperate for her handsome professor's touch. "I've been such a bad girl, teasing you for so long." You arched your back slightly, pushing your stinging, reddened ass up higher, presenting yourself to Daemon's hungry gaze and throbbing cock.

Daemon smirked cruelly as he watched you writhe and whimper beneath him, your body trembling with desperate need. He loved seeing you like this - so weak, so helpless, at his mercy. It was everything he had fantasised about and more.

"Please fuck me," you whined breathily, your voice dripping with false innocence even as your hips bucked shamelessly against his teasing cock. "I can't... I need..." Your words dissolved into a choked moan as he pressed just a little harder, the swollen head of his dick catching on your entrance and making your pussy clench greedily around nothing.

"Shhh, pet. Patience," Daemon purred, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. He gripped your hips as he held you in place, preventing you from chasing your much-needed release. "You don't get to decide when you get this cock. I do."

He rolled his hips, grinding his thick shaft along your soaked slit, coating himself in your slick arousal. The sensation made your eyes roll back in your head, your mouth falling open in a silent scream of pleasure.

"Beg for it," Daemon demanded, his voice a low growl. "Beg me to fuck you like the desperate little slut you are. Beg me to ruin your tight cunt with my cock." He pressed just a little harder, the tip of his dick pushing past your entrance to stretch you open around him.

"Please, Professor," you whimpered breathlessly, your voice trembling. "I... I've wanted your cock for so long. I need you inside me. Make me your personal fucktoy. I'm yours, all yours." You clenched your dripping pussy around his tip, trying to pull him deeper, your body aching to be stretched and claimed by his thick, hard shaft.

Daemon groaned as he felt your tight walls clench desperately around his throbbing cock, trying to draw him deeper inside your needy cunt. He gritted his teeth, fighting the urge to slam forward and bury himself to the hilt in one brutal thrust. No, he wanted to savour this moment, to make it last.

"Fuck, you're so tight," he grunted, slowly sinking another inch into your gripping heat. "Such a perfect little fuckhole, made to milk my cock." He paused, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of your ass as he fought for control. "I'm going to ruin you. No one else will ever fuck you like I can."

With that, he thrust forward, sheathing himself fully inside you with one hard, deep stroke. He started fucking you with long, powerful strokes that had the desk shaking beneath you. The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the room as he pounded into you, his heavy balls slapping against your sensitive clit with each thrust.

"Yes, fuck!" you cried out, your voice raw and ragged as he used your body for his pleasure. "Harder, Professor! Fuck me harder!" You pushed your hips back to meet his thrusts, your ass jiggling with each impact of his hips against yours.

"Such a greedy little slut, begging for more," Daemon growled, punctuating his words with a particularly hard smack to your ass. He could feel your pussy clenching and fluttering around his cock, your body desperate for release. But he wasn't ready to let you cum yet. Not until he had thoroughly used and claimed every inch of you.

He gripped your hips bruisingly tight, pulling you back onto his cock as he slammed forward, burying himself to the hilt inside your tight heat. "This is what you wanted, isn't it? To be bent over and fucked like a cheap whore in your professor's classroom?" He punctuated each word with a sharp thrust, the desk creaking ominously beneath you.

You could barely form a coherent thought, let alone even answer him. Letting out gurgled noises and broken moans as he fucked you stupid in his classroom - oh, the irony.

Your eyes rolled back, drool dripping down your chin as he destroyed your insides. All you could focus on was the delicious drag of his thick cock inside your tight walls, stretching you open.

Daemon suddenly stopped moving, his cock buried deep inside your fluttering cunt. "I asked you a question, pet. Answer me," he demanded, his voice a low, dangerous rumble.

"Is this what you wanted?" 

He punctuated his words with another sharp smack to your ass, making you yelp. "Answer me," he barked impatiently when you didn't respond right away.

"I...I wanted it," you whimpered, tears streaming down your face from the sudden lack of stimulation. "I wanted you to fuck me like this, Professor. I'm sorry for being a stupid little slut." You sniffled, trying to hold back sobs as you desperately clenched around his hard cock, trying to get him to move inside you again. "Please don't stop. I'll answer your questions, I promise. I just...I need you to keep fucking me."

Daemon smirked cruelly at your desperate pleas, amused by how pathetic you sounded begging for his cock. He loved seeing you like this - completely at his mercy, tears streaming down your face as you sobbed for him to keep using you.

"Please don't stop," he repeated mockingly, rolling his hips in a slow, teasing circle. "Please keep fucking me," he said in a whiny voice. "You really are just a pathetic little slut, aren't you?"

You let out a pitiful whimper, feeling fresh tears stream down your flushed cheeks at Daemon's cruel words. It was true, you were nothing more than a desperate slut for him. You'd probably let him do absolutely anything he wanted to you, use your body however he pleased.

It was clear that you were completely addicted to the feeling of his thick meat stretching you open.

"You're learning your place," he purred, his voice dripping with mocking amusement. "Such a good girl, taking your professor's cock so well. I knew you were a natural-born slut from the moment I first saw you."

Your pussy clenched and fluttered uselessly around his thick shaft, aching for any stimulation, any friction to finally push you over the edge. But Daemon just teased you mercilessly, rolling his hips in maddeningly slow circles that left you brainless with need.

"P-please, Professor," you choked out, your voice raw and ragged from crying and moaning. "I c-can't... I n-need..." you couldn't even form a coherent sentence, your mind too fried from the endless edging and teasing.

Your legs trembled and grew weak beneath you, threatening to give out from being bent over and fucked stupid for so long.

"Mmmphh... p-please let me c-cum," you begged shamelessly, not caring how pathetic you sounded.

Daemon cooed at your desperate begging, actually sounding almost affectionate for a moment as he stroked your hair. "There now, pet. You're being such a good little girl for your professor," he murmured, his voice low and soothing.

But then his grip tightened in your hair, pulling your head back sharply as he growled in your ear. "If you want to cum you'll have to take what I give you."

He set a brutal pace, the desk shaking and creaking beneath you with each powerful thrust.

"Fuck!" Daemon groaned, his head falling back in ecstasy as he used your body for his pleasure.

You let out a high-pitched, desperate squeal as Daemon fucked into you like he wanted to rearrange your insides, each brutal thrust shaking your entire body and making your tits bounce.

Tears and drool stained your flushed cheeks, your hair a wild mess from being yanked by him. The sharp sting only heightened every sensation, pushing you closer to the edge.

"Oh god, oh fuck!" You groaned, your voice raw from the relentless pounding. You could feel the telltale burn starting deep in your core. Your whole body flushed and burning up.

"Go ahead, pet," Daemon purred, his voice a low, approving rumble. "Cum for your professor. Show me what a good girl you can be." His hand slid down your back in a surprisingly gentle caress, almost tender. "You've earned it."

You let out a loud, keening wail as the orgasm finally crashed over you, your body convulsing uncontrollably. Your eyes slammed shut, tears streaming down your flushed cheeks as you surrendered to the intense pleasure radiating through every nerve ending.

"Fuuuck! Oh god, yes!" You screamed. Your pussy clenched and spasmed around Daemon's thick shaft, gushing a flood of slick arousal that coated his cock and balls in a creamy white liquid, dripping down your trembling thighs.

Daemon groaned loudly as he felt your pussy clamp down around him like a vice, your slick walls fluttering and milking his cock. He slammed into you with a final, brutal thrust, burying himself balls-deep inside your spasming cunt.

"Fuck, yes!" he roared, his voice raw. His cock throbbed and jerked inside you as he started to cum, thick ropes of hot seed painting your insides white.

Finally, with a shuddering groan, Daemon collapsed forward, draping his sweat-slicked body over your back. He panted harshly against your neck, his cock buried deep inside your dripping pussy, making sure no cum dripped out. "Such a good girl," he murmured, his voice low and satisfied. "You took your professor's cock so well."

The force of your climax was so intense that your legs nearly gave out, threatening to collapse beneath you. "Thank you, thank you, thank you," you babbled incoherently, tears of overwhelming bliss streaking your face. Whimpering as you felt his cum sloshing around in your belly.

Daemon slowly pulled out of your dripping pussy, his softening cock slipping free with a gush of your combined fluids. He tucked himself back into his slacks and belt, looking every bit the put-together professor once more.

Turning you over, he took in your debauched appearance - hair mussed, makeup smeared, tits heaving, and cum leaking from your fucked-out cunt. A smirk played at the corners of his mouth.

"There's my good girl," he purred, wiping a smear of drool from your chin with his thumb. "Remember, this is our little secret. No one can know about this." He tapped your nose lightly. "Understand?"

You nodded eagerly, hair falling across your face as you gazed up at Daemon with wide, adoring eyes. You couldn't help but lean into his touch, craving more of his attention. Your cheeks flushed an even deeper shade of pink at his words.

"Y-yes, Professor, I understand completely," you breathed out, your voice still husky from our intense encounter. You licked your lips nervously, tasting the salt of your tears. "Our secret is safe with me. I w-would never want anyone to know about... about us."

You hesitated for a moment, then reached up to cover his hand with your own. Your fingers trembled slightly, still sensitive from the aftershocks of your earth-shattering orgasm.

Daemon's eyes narrowed slightly at your touch, but he didn't pull away. Instead, he turned his hand over beneath yours, lacing your fingers together. His skin was warm and slightly damp from the exertion of fucking you stupid.

"Good girl," he murmured, giving your hand a gentle squeeze. "Remember, you belong to me now."

He leaned in closer, his lips brushing against your ear as he spoke in a low, possessive rumble. "I expect to see you in my office tomorrow, after your last class. Wear that short skirt again. And no panties."

His phone buzzing in the cubby behind him pulled him away from his thoughts as he turned to see who was calling. Your name flashed across the screen, and a flicker of shame ran through him at the thought of you watching the game and seeing how horribly they were playing. He swiped his thumb across the screen to answer it, raising it to his ear to whisper a sullen, "Hey."

The moment your voice reached his ear through the speaker, his shoulders dropped an inch, your presence even through the phone helping to relax him. He nodded along to your words of encouragement, his eyes widening slightly at the words you spoke next. His eyes flitted across his teammates quickly before he stood to slip out of the room, mumbling a hushed, "Say that again," as they watched him leave with confused expressions.

Sonny was never the type to go on his phone during halftime, let alone answer a call. It must have been important for him to do so, and they just hoped that whatever it was wouldn't hinder his performance any more than it already was.

He returned a few minutes later with his jaw set and his gaze fixed straight ahead, a renewed air of determination clouded around him. Unbeknownst to him, the rest of the players exchanged sideways glances at his strange behavior before they all stood to make their way back out to the pitch.

—

You slammed your door shut and dived for the couch, turning the TV on just as they began the kickoff. You were able to sneak enough glances at your phone as you secretly streamed the game from your desk at work to know that something was off with the team. You just hoped that now in the second half they'd be able to pull themselves together and come back from the 1-0 loss they found themselves in before halftime, especially after the enticing pep talk you'd awarded Sonny.

It must have worked because the player you were watching on your screen could not have been the same one from the start. 

Sonny was attacking with a new vigor, weaving through the other team's defense before passing it to Kane. You gripped the pillow in your lap, your breath catching when Sonny darted forward, catching the pass back from Kane with one touch, then deftly kicking his foot back to collide with the ball. You watched with wide eyes as the ball curled past one last defender, past the outstretched hands of the keeper, and into the back of the net. 

You jumped from the couch with an excited scream, holding your hands over your mouth in disbelief as you watched Son run to the corner of the field, staring out into the crowd with a pointed look until Lucas Moura leaped on him, the rest of his teammates piling into a hug. 

Now they just needed one more to even it out, and it came exactly ten minutes later when the ball found his foot from a deflection right inside the penalty box. He knocked it clean in with his left foot, making the score 2-1.

This time he allowed himself to celebrate, running and dropping into a knee slide before popping back up to hit his iconic camera celebration. Right after the onslaught of hugs and head pats from his team, he turned to the camera with a wide smile, patting his heart with his hand before running back to the pitch. You held yourself back from screaming into your pillow, knowing that that was for you.

The game finally reached extra time, and just when you thought that was it—since all they really needed to do was tie—Sonny was going one on one with the keeper. He feinted left, turned right, and chipped it in for the third time. 

You sank back into the couch, a wide and utterly amazed smile blooming on your lips as he celebrated.

—

The locker room, compared to halftime, was electric. The sound of cheers and happy screams rang out as the team celebrated the unexpected win. Sonny, with wet hair and damp skin from the shower he took, was quickly dressing while accepting the praises and congratulations from his teammates with a dazed smile. 

Ben approached him, playfully shoving his shoulder. "How? How did you do that?"

Son only looked at him with a small smile, cocking his eyebrow up in question. "What do you mean?"

Ben rolled his eyes. "You completely switched after halftime..." He squinted his eyes at Sonny when he remembered the phone call from earlier. "What did she say to you?"

A faint blush crept up Sonny's cheeks as he ducked his head to finish tying his shoes. Ben only stared at him until he stood up and finally returned his eye contact, a smug smile now playing on his lips. Ben scoffed and shook his head in disbelief. 

Sonny gathered his bag and made his way to the door, not without interruption.

"Hey, hey, hey. You're in quite the rush," Dele called out after overhearing their conversation. "Got a surprise waiting for you at home after the hat trick?"

A round of teasing laughter echoed throughout the room. Sonny only shook his head, rolling his eyes dramatically but not denying anything. 

"You guys are welcome."

For good measure, he gave a dramatic bow and wave and slipped out the door without another word.

—

You’d barely moved from your place on the couch after the final whistle, a random TV show now playing. You weren’t really watching, your mind replaying all the goals and Sonny’s determined expression. There was something undeniably attractive about his hard stare and the way your "encouragements" actually helped him. 

The front door clicking open broke you out of your train of thought. You immediately rose from your place, turning just as he closed the door.

“There’s my winner,” you hummed through the smile spreading wide across your face. 

He returned your smile with a shyer, slightly more exhausted one of his own as he hastily dropped his bag to the floor and kicked off his shoes. His dark, starry eyes locked onto yours, trudging forward to wrap his arms around your waist, lifting you clean off your feet in a tight hug. He set you down to bury his face in the curve of your neck, inhaling deeply before pulling back.

Before you could tease him, his hands were cupping your cheeks to press his lips firmly against yours. You melted into it, your hands gripping the front of his shirt when his tongue darted across your bottom lip. You parted them for him, meeting it with your own until you were forced to pull back for a breath. 

“I couldn’t have done it without you,” he whispered.

“You mean without the reward I promised you?” You retorted breathlessly. 

He looked down to hide the blush that had formed on his cheeks, shaking his head in a quick, boyish motion that made your heat clench. When he spoke again, it was through a smile he was trying hard to hold back. “I mean without hearing your voice… but can I still have my reward?”

You scoffed at him, shoving him playfully only for him to pull you back into a smothering hug, his head returning to nuzzle into your shoulder. 

“I guess you can still have your reward after how well you did. By the way,” you pulled him back from your shoulder, fixing him with pointed eyes. “I said you only had to make one goal.”

“Well, I made three,” he said with a sly, cocky smirk that made your knees feel suddenly weak. “Does that mean triple the reward?”

You bit your lip and stepped back. Your eyes never left his as you trailed a hand down his torso, feeling the taught muscle flex beneath your touch, before stopping to hook your fingers into the waistband of his jeans, giving a firm, possessive tug. “Can you come three times?”

He let you pull him forwards, his eyes dazed and his cocky smirk softening. “After that game… anything is possible.”

You pushed him down to the couch, his burning gaze never straying from you. You braced your hands on the back cushion on either side of his head, leaning down to press one last kiss to his lips. He chased them as you pulled away, a soft groan parting his own that sent a wave of heat straight to your core. 

You sank down between his parted knees, your hands pushing at the hem of his shirt until it rode up to his chest. He took it from your hands, helping you to take it off fully without a second glance. Seeing him like this after a game, with his muscles bulging and worked over from all the exertion, was a sight you’d never grow tired of. Especially knowing how he always managed to save a bit of energy for this, for you.

Your fingers toyed with the button of his jeans before you popped it open, dragging the zipper down and tapping his thigh for him to lift his hips. He obeyed, and you slid them and his briefs down, freeing him from the constraints.

He was already hard, flushed, and heavy against his stomach. A bead of precum settled on the tip, glistening and enticing. You ran your hands along his strong thighs, nuzzling your cheek against the inside of his thigh, placing a soft, open-mouthed kiss on the sensitive skin. He shuddered out a breath, his cock giving a little jump in response.

Your finger ran over a rough patch on his otherwise smooth skin and you glanced at the area to find three angry red scratches. “What’s this?”

You glanced up the length of his body to find his head thrown back against the couch, his throat bobbing as he swallowed hard. You kissed his knee to grab his attention, his eyes fluttering open as he murmured out a shaky, “F-Foul.”

You nodded with a soft smile, kissing over the sensitive scratches and up the length of his thigh, along the crease at his hip, breathing in his after shower scent. You finally wrapped your hand around him, giving him a slow stroke from tip to base, spreading the slickness as he moaned. 

You repeated the motion a few more times before you parted your lips, sliding your tongue up his length then taking him fully in your mouth.

He groaned, his stomach tightening as you swirled your tongue over his slit, hallowing your cheeks to suck on him properly. His hips gave a small buck upwards, chasing the warm wetness of your mouth. You held his hips down with your hands, taking your time to taste and indulge in his silky skin, the weight of him on your tongue, and the way you could feel every pulse of pleasure. 

You relaxed your throat to take him properly. You removed one hand from his hip to cradle his balls, rolling them in your palm just the way you knew he liked. He whimpered at the added sensation, his fingers tangling in your hair with light pressure to guide you further down his cock.

“Yes… just like t-that…” he choked out through short, frantic pants.

You bobbed your head in a steady rhythm, your tongue gliding along him with every pass. You sank down further until his cock nudged the back of your throat, your throat tightening at his size as you gagged and came off for a breath, only to take him into your mouth a second later. 

The loud, wet noises mixed with his broken gasps filled the room as you picked up your pace. You pulled off until only the tip remained, focusing on sucking the sensitive head. You could feel the tension coiling tight within him, his thighs shaking and his back bowing off the couch.

You pulled off with a soft pop, smiling wickedly when he groaned in frustration, his eyes glassy and fixed on you with a raw adoration, his pupils dilating at the string of saliva connecting your lips to him.

“Please baby—please let me come!” he pleaded, already guiding your head back to his cock, nudging the tip against your lips.

You chuckled at how needy he was before diving back down, taking him even deeper, swallowing around him until he cried out, his back arching off the couch as he held you down onto him, his cum shooting down the back of your throat. You took as much as you could before pulling off with a gasp and cough, milking the remainder of his release with your hand as you swallowed his cum.

He collapsed back on the couch, spent and trembling as the aftershocks of his release ran through him. You rested your head back on his thigh to catch your breath, pressing soft kisses to the skin as he fully came down. 

You lifted your gaze to find him watching you with a dumb smile on his face, his eyes half-lidded and clouded with a bliss that suddenly reminded you of the slick pooling in your underwear.

You wiped your mouth with the back of your hand, a new wave of adrenaline coursing through you as you looked at the man who’d dominated the game, now completely pliant to you. If only they could see him now.

You pushed off your sore knees, seating yourself over his lap to straddle him. When you rolled your hips onto his half-hard cock, he groaned, the sensitivity lighting his sense on fire. You smirked and cupped his face, bringing his attention to you.

author's note: random headcannons for luca from the bear

warnings; none, just fluff.

*header images are from pinterest and do not belong to me*

When it comes to Luca and food, dessert always comes first. He's the type of guy who would order dessert first when he took you out to dinner. He definitely serves you dessert in bed for breakfast. He always wants your opinion on a new dish he's working on, so expect to be woken up in the middle of the night to try and spoonful of something sweet.

It won't go unnoticed that you're Luca's girl. He's not super big on public displays of affection, but he will often stand close to you, arm brushing up against you in someway. When sitting next to him, he'll place his arm on the back of your chair to let other people know you're with him—be it as a friend or something more.

Acts of service and quality time are his preferred love languages. Obviously, he can prepare a dish, but he'd much rather just spend time with you in any capacity. Be it going on a walk, staying up late to watch a movie, or talking on the phone—he just wants to be present with you.

It's a given he'll be a little particular when you're in the kitchen. If you're cooking a meal, he can't help but look over your shoulder as something sizzles on the stove. He often makes suggestions, of which you take politely, though remind him (while playfully shooing him off until you're finish) that you're not the professional chef in the relationship. He'll eat anything you cook though, appreciating taking a back seat every once in a while when it comes to being in the kitchen.

If there's one thing he obviously loves doing with you, it's definitely making desserts. While you're stirring the batter, he'll reach over your head in the cabinents for other ingredients (given his taller stature) before poking your side, making you jump and shriek. The only way to get him to stop is to threaten to flick flour in his direction—he instantly surrenders, not wanting good mixing ingredients to go to waste.

Luca calls you 'love', 'babe', and 'sweetheart'.

“No.” His response was instantaneous and very much final.

“I need to get up.”

“That sounds like a personal problem.”

His sass had one of her brows arch up, and she was sure she would've crossed her arms too had he not restricted her movement with his own—much stronger, might she add—limb. The man knew that her work schedule had been cleared for the entirety of December, and was determined to take this rare opportunity by the reigns.

Her lips parted—very much ready to have a go at him for the unwarranted attitude—when, instead of actual words, a light gasp left them; practically inaudible from how soft it was, but that didn't make what happened any less surprising.

His lips had found their way onto her neck, pressing soft, gentle kisses across the exposed area with an occasional—and very intoxicating—nip here and there. His arm, banded securely around her hip, pulled her closer to his side. The heat of it all practically flooded her vision with pink and she almost melted right in that very moment.

"Just a little longer," he muttered into her skin, lips making contact with the already hickey littered surface in a repeated pattern that shot tingles straight down her spine, "a month away from you was torture."

Work had forced her to return to Seoul for a good portion of November. She had, of course, missed Heungmin a great deal, but hadn’t been aware of how much he’d missed her until she had stepped past his threshold tonight only to be swept off her feet.

She genuinely couldn’t remember if he’d even managed to close the front door.

His hand slipped under her thin cotton t-shirt; cool palm resting against the flat of her stomach as he whispered sweet nothings into her ears in hopes of saving himself from a lecture–and she was afraid that it was very much working.

She was an absolute sucker for sweet moments like this.

But she was also recovering from a strenuous night, barely having gotten any sleep between multiple rounds of heaven sent pleasure. The man had been positively insatiable upon her return, and though this delighted her to no end, she was slick with sweat, peppered with hickeys, her legs felt like jelly and she wanted nothing more than a warm shower. The saccharine scent of sex was strong, and the air around them was stiflingly thick, despite the air conditioning being on full blast.

“Heungmin.”

“Hm?” His head tilted up, gaze focused on her with a sense of endearment only she was privy to receiving from him; the twitch of his lips showcasing his lovestruck smile in a show of vulnerability that, once again, only she had the pleasure of seeing on him.

His gaze was softened and practically swirling with that domestic love she knew he held for her; the one that would instantly ease all his muscles and have him actively seek her out just to hold her in his arms, to love on her like he always claimed she deserved.

When she didn't respond immediately, his grip tightened and he pulled her further into his side; to fit against him like she was meant to be there, like he was incomplete without her—and her, without him.

Ah, she was so stupidly weak to him when he got like this. Her hand reached up to brush cool fingers soothingly on the apple of his cheek.

“Aren’t you tired?” A valid question, seeing as though the man had only a few hours of rest between his match and her return.

“With you in my arms? Never.” His voice was soothingly calm, but when he propped an elbow on the pillow to look down at her, his eyes were blazing, pinning her to the spot. It raked over her appearance - the mussed hair, the love bites adorning the delicate curve of her neck, the rise and fall of her chest, the adorable flush of pink on her cheeks. The corner of his lips stretched to a wide grin.

When her hand dropped from his face, he was quick to catch it and press a kiss to her palm. He held it close to his heart. “Why?” He asked, knowing damn well the answer. “Are you tired?”

“…maybe.”

“Oh no! Rough night? Want to stay in bed a little while longer to recharge?”

She had to fight the urge to kiss the damn smirk off his face. He looked so damn pleased with himself.

“…okay fine,” she grumbled, “we can stay here a little longer.”

And then he was kissing her, his hands moving quickly to hook her legs around his waist and move her underneath himself. And suddenly, her arms and legs didn’t feel like jelly anymore. Instead, she’d felt as electrified—as if struck by lightning…only better. Much, much better. Because she couldn’t wrap her arms around lightning, or feel lightning’s heart skip against her own.

“Not for too long, we’ve been in bed for hours,” she protested weakly into the increasingly heated kiss. “I’m melting.”

“Mmm.”

“We have to eat.”

He pulled away to grin at her, a mischievous twinkle alight in his eyes. “Great idea,” he said. “Let’s do just that.”

Just when she was about to open her mouth to steer him clear of the inevitable course of action, he’d lunged straight for her neck to attack her with another fit of adoring kisses—ones that made her sigh in what she could only describe as contentment.

And then her t-shirt was back on the floor.

Thanks for reading!

Off to one side, a game of beer pong was underway, a crowd cheering them on. On the other, a group was doing shots. In the middle was a makeshift dancefloor with girls in the cutest outfits shaking their hips rhythmically to the music. You make note of the only other exit, a door near the pool table that someone was just heading out of.

Everyone around you was everything you wished you were: confident, excited, having fun. Instead, your brain was torturing you. The noise, the low lights, the crowd: everything was danger. You could feel your pulse spiking already, sweat beading across your forehead.

“Thanks for coming with me. Couldn’t have done this without you.” Britt offers you a smile as she tries to speak over the noise. Even though she was much more social than you, she was also introverted. But unlike you, she hated being alone. For you, being alone was solace. Comfort. Peace.

“Of course!” You force a smile back as best you can. “Do you see John?”

“Not yet.” She answers, her brown eyes searching the crowd. “Oh! He’s in the kitchen.” Dropping your hand, she waves at him until he notices. You follow Britt into the other room, trying to take some deep breaths in a way that you hope doesn’t make you look insane. Britt introduces you, and to your relief, John greets you nicely. In a way that makes you feel like he’s trying to remember your name.

Yet, the moment he starts talking to Britt, it’s like you don’t exist to either of them anymore. In a way, it’s nice. You don’t have to keep up with the conversation or pretend to be having fun. But now you need to find something to do other than disassociate and breathe manually. Grabbing a red solo cup, you it up with beer and take a small sip.

That moment is when Garrett Graham descends down the stairs of the hockey house. He’s the star hockey player, so of course people notice. Heads turn. Multiple people call out to him. And somehow it makes the house feel louder, stuffier, and more overwhelming. You shift on your feet, trying to find somewhere that feels a little less crowded, when someone slams into you.

“Shit, sorry!” The man’s voice echoes in your ear as your beer sloshes out of the cup.

“Nice job, Di Laurentis.” John deadpans.

“My bad.” The man laughs awkwardly, running a hand through his blonde hair. It’s Dean. The other hockey star. Somehow, that makes it worse. Heat rushes to your cheeks, your ears starting to ring. He says something to you that your brain won’t process, his voice sounding far away. Your only clue is him pointing at your drink. Shaking your head quickly, you mutter something about not needing another one before walking away.

Tunnel vision is your next clue things are going downhill. And then it feels like you don’t know how to swallow. Throat too tight to breathe. Hands going numb. Legs going numb. You needed to get some air. Let it pass. Not in front of all these people. The back exit is your target.

Deep breath in. Out. In. Out.

You make it outside, relief slowly blooming as the cold air hit your skin and the noise muffled when the door slams closed. No one else was out here. Just you. Crouching down on the world’s smallest deck, you keep your head low and try to breathe through it.

In. Out. In. Out.

All too quickly, the door creaks open. Your head whips around, eyes wide, heart rate picking up again.

Britt?

John?

Nope. Dean.

Shit.

“Damn, ‘s freezing out here.” He announces to no one in particular, lighting up a joint. Once he takes a drag, his blue eyes lazily scan the deck, landing on you. “Shit, it’s you. Sorry again, for spilling your drink.” The way he chuckles is so easygoing it makes you jealous. You wanted to have fun, to be casual. Your brain always had other plans.

“It’s fine.” You grit out, fists clenching so your nails dug into your palms.

“Whoa,” Dean finally takes in your demeanor. “You sick?” His attention makes your skin prickle.

“I said I’m fine.” Your voice gets harsher, hoping he’ll take the hint and leave.

“You don’t look fine.” There’s an edge of concern in his voice. That sends a new wave of panic. Dean was, based on rumors and the fact that you had eyes, the kind of person always the center of attention. The last thing you needed was someone like that focused on you.

“I’m good, I’ve got it handled.” You try to sound better than you feel.

“Sure.” Dean drawls, unconvinced.

“Don’t you want to go back to your friends?” You ask, nodding back at the door.

“I’ve got a joint to smoke. Don’t you want to go back to your friends?” He counters.

“I just need a minute.” You admit. Truthfully, he was providing the tiniest distraction. Which let feeling come back to your hands and legs. But the song playing inside changes, and the new, louder bass thump makes you flinch. Dean notices it, because of course he does.

“Too much?” He guesses. You can only nod, hoping that’s enough of an explanation to get him to drop it. He’s quit for a minute, and you think that that’s it. “Be right back.” He promises, the door slamming shut behind him.

You exhale fully now that you’re finally alone. Trying to convince yourself that you’re safe. It’s just a party. There’s no danger. But the door opens again way too quickly, and Dean’s standing next to you, one hand with a joint and the other extending a dark blue, large pair of headphones.

“Put these on.” He offers, shaking them slightly for emphasis. It felt wrong to refuse someone trying to help, and you didn’t have the strength to argue. You grab the headphones, placing them over your ears.

Immediately, the world quieted slightly. You could still feel the bass of the music. But all the noise from the party fully faded. It was a subtle change, but somehow enough to bring much needed relief. And your expression probably showed that, because Dean was smiling down at you.

“I use those before my games. Help me block out distractions and shit.” He tells you, his voice much quieter through the headphones. As he continues to smoke, looking out across campus, you let your panic pass. Your body, as it always does, starts to calm down. In the moment, it always felt catastrophic. Like you were dying. And when it passed, it felt like you were dramatic for no reason.

Once you feel steady enough, you stand slowly. Dean is tall enough that you have to look up at him. When you take off the headphones, you hand them back with a hint of a smile.

“Those are expensive, okay? Be careful with ‘em.” He chides with a grin.

“Oh, no.” You deadpan, pretending to drop them. His reflexes are quick, his warm, large hands covering yours as he takes the headphones back. You flush again, not from anxiety this time, but from how nice it felt. And how good he looked. And that he bothered to do something nice.

“What’s your name, trouble?” He winks, seeming to like that he helped you relax. You tell him, and he repeats it a few times as if to commit it to his crossfaded memory.

“Thank you.” You say honestly, ready to make your way back inside before Britt really noticed you weren’t there.

The kitchen was silent. Everyone had gone home after a long shift. Orders went out, plates came back clean, but it still wasn't enough for Amelie.

The sound of toppers opening, eggs cracking, sugar hitting metal—each movement felt like a lifeline. The scent of marzipan bloomed through the empty space, sweet and grounding. Every step mattered.

The clock had just hit 4:00 AM, and the only thing keeping Amelie sane was the Spandauer in the oven. She stood in front of it, arms crossed, heart in her throat. Once the timer beeped, her chest tightened. She needed it to be perfect.

She slid on the oven mitts, pulled out the tray, and stared down at the pastry she'd spent the last four hours crafting.

She had fought her way into this kitchen—Chef Carmen Berzatto's kitchen. People told her she had what it took to be an Executive Chef, but Amelie's love had always been pastry. From a young age, she understood that the smallest details—the flake of a crust, the balance of sugar and almond, the chill of the butter—mattered more than anything.

She'd always loved the way something fragile and delicate could transform through heat and patience into something golden, layered, complex. It was in these quiet moments—before sunrise, when the city slept and the kitchen breathed—that Amelie felt most like herself. Pastry wasn't about feeding people. It was about telling stories with sugar and butter, saying the things she couldn't put into words.

The Spandauer looked flawless—puffed layers, gleaming custard, a sheen of glaze just beginning to set. A smile tugged at her lips. But she didn't celebrate. Not yet. Marcus and Carmy always had something to say.

As if summoned by thought, she heard footsteps. Soft, deliberate. Carmy.

He appeared silently beside her, eyes narrowing just slightly as he inspected the tray.

"Looks good, Chef," he said after a beat, voice low. "But the edges could be cleaner. The marzipan—too sweet. You want balance. Complexity."

Amelie bit back the frustration rising in her throat. This was what she both dreaded and craved—the scrutiny, the pressure, the unrelenting push for more.

"I'll adjust," she murmured, already running through ratios in her head.

Carmy's gaze softened. Just a fraction. "You're getting there, Chef. But you still have a long way to go."

Her patience snapped.

"What am I supposed to do?" she burst out. "Every time I submit something for the menu, it gets rejected. It's bullshit, Carm."

Her voice cracked under the weight of exhaustion. "I've asked Marcus for help. I've stayed late, every night, working on this—on me—and I still feel like I'm stuck in a fucking boat with no direction."

Carmy was quiet, the guilt barely veiled in his expression. He knew what he was asking of her. But this was the brutal truth of fine dining. Pressure. Fire. Sacrifice.

"That's the job, Amelie," he said finally, not harsh, but firm. "No one hands you a menu slot. You carve it out. With blood, if you have to."

She let out a bitter laugh, placing the tray down with more force than necessary. "I have been carving it out, Carm. Every night. While everyone's out, I'm here. Working, failing, trying again. And nothing changes. I'm starting to think I don't belong here."

"I didn't come here to be a fucking nuisance."

"You're not," he said, softer now. "You're just... early. Ahead of your time, maybe. But if you want people to notice—really feel your work—you have to give them more than technique. Give them something to remember."

Amelie turned to him, eyes bloodshot but burning. "The food does feel like something. It's mine."

"I know." Carmy sighed. "But it's not just about you. It's about who's eating it. And right now? They're not there yet. Doesn't mean you're wrong. Just means you've gotta wait for them to catch up."

Silence. Heavy. Tense.

Then, gently, "You talked to Marcus?"

She nodded. "Yeah. He's been trying. But he's got his own stuff."

"He always does," Carmy muttered. Then paused. Thought. A glint of something sparked in his eyes.

"I've got an idea... but you'll have to throw everything you've got into it."

Amelie blinked. "What is it?"

He leaned against the Aboyeur station. "I have a friend. One of the few people who helped me when I was starting out. He's a pâtissier. Like Marcus."

Amelie frowned. "I'm a pâtissier too."

Carmy chuckled at her indignation. "Believe me, Amelie—you're not near his level."

The comment stung more than she expected. Who the hell was this guy?

"I sent Marcus to him a while back," Carmy continued. "And he came back... changed. Better. He found whatever it was he was missing and owned it. Now, it's your turn."

Carmy's gaze was steady. "You're a prodigy, yeah. That's why I gave you this position in the first place. But talent won't keep you here. Not in this industry. You need depth. Patience. Fire."

Amelie felt a shiver run down her spine. The kind that came before a storm. Or a breakthrough.

"I already talked to him," Carmy said. "Told him about your work. Showed him your pastries. He owes me some favors, so... he's agreed to take you on."

Amelie blinked. "Wait—you planned a whole trip, 4,000 miles away, with a guy I've never met—just to 'sharpen my skills'?"

"Yeah," Carmy said simply. "Denmark. Two months. Unless you're too scared."

She opened her mouth to argue—but nothing came out.

"He's been watching your work," Carmy added. "Quietly. He's got opinions. Ask questions. Challenge him. He won't sugarcoat anything, but he'll respect you. That matters."

She hated how much that last part made her chest twist.

"Fine," she said after a moment. "I'll go."

Carmy gave a faint, crooked smile—barely there, but real. "Good. Now go home before you collapse. I want your head clear tomorrow. There's a difference between desperation and hunger. Don't confuse the two."

Amelie nodded, though the fire in her chest refused to die down. As Carmy disappeared into the hallway, leaving her alone with the low hum of fridges and the fading scent of pastry, she looked down at her Spandauer one last time.

Too sweet. Too soft. Not enough edge.

"So I ran into Olivia Tucker — you remember her, right? From church? She had a son named John," she said, not looking at the camera.

You had learned years ago that it was easier to say yes, of course than to endure five minutes of your mom describing a person like she was giving a statement to the police.

"Yeah, of course. I remember Mrs. Tucker."

"She mentioned her son John is attending the same college as you." She said it like she was reading off a notecard. Matter of fact. "She said he's playing hockey now."

Oh. That John Tucker.

"Yeah, I know who he is," you said, cleaning up the mess on your middle finger.

"Isn't that a big coincidence?"

"I mean, not really — he's like a year younger than me, right?"

"Yes, but you two used to play together when you were kids. At church, remember?" You did not remember. Your family went to church maybe twice a year. "Anyway, I gave her your number so she could pass it along to him. So you two could talk."

"Mom — what, that's not really —"

"She's probably not even going to use it."

She used it. Mrs. Tucker called three days later, and with the grace of a good Southern woman, she asked you to keep an eye on John — not in so many words, of course. She said he'd moved into a house with some of the other players and she just wanted to know he was taking care of himself. She didn't want you to do much. Just stop by, take a look around, report back. She'd handle the rest by phone.

What she did not tell you was that Tucker already knew about her plan.

He opened the door looking completely unsurprised to see you, leaned against the frame with his arms crossed and a grin that said nice try. He was, it turned out, perfectly capable of taking care of himself and, annoyingly, other people too.

Which is how you ended up here, almost a year later, sitting on one of the stools at the kitchen island in the off campus house, crying into an onion.

"I'm just saying, get a dicer," you said, keeping your eyes on the knife because you had to. "This is inhumane."

"A real chef doesn't use those kinds of things," Tucker said from across the kitchen, doing significantly less chopping than you were.

"Well, good thing you're not a real chef then."

He turned around, visibly offended. "What did you just say?"

You opened your mouth to repeat it — and then Garrett wandered in from the living room, grabbed an apple from the counter, looked at Tucker's side of the kitchen and then at yours, and pointed at you. "She's doing all the work," he said, to no one in particular, and wandered back out.

"He's right," you said.

"He's a traitor," Tucker said.

You opened your mouth to agree and then the sound of footsteps came down the hallway, and Dean came around the corner fresh out of the shower, towel low on his hips and water still tracking down his chest.

You sniffed, eyes watering, nose red.

Dean stopped. Looked at you. And then let out a slow, deeply entertained laugh.

"Well," he said, "I've heard a lot of reactions from girls seeing me like this. But crying might be a first." He tilted his head. "You alright there, sweet pea?"

"It's the onion," you said flatly. "Tucker's making me cut it."

"Sure." He was already turning toward the stairs, completely unbothered. "Whatever floats your boat."

He winked at you over his shoulder as he disappeared around the corner.

You looked back down at the onion.

Tucker was very pointedly not looking at you.

"Not a word," you said.

"I didn't say anything," he said, in the tone of someone who was saying everything.

The party invitation from Tucker arrived as a single text on a Thursday night.

party saturday, be here, i made a playlist

You were in the middle of your readings and you looked at the message for a moment before typing back: do I need to bring anything?

yourself and good energy

You put your phone face down and went back to your reading. Then picked it up again.

what time

nine but come at eight so we can hang before it gets loud

That was Tucker's way of saying he wanted to cook with you beforehand, which you appreciated more than you would ever tell him out loud because he would absolutely use it against you. You sent back a thumbs up and returned to your notes, and you did not think about the fact that Dean would be there, because that was not a relevant consideration.

You thought about it the entire rest of the week.

Not in a dramatic way. Just in the quiet, persistent way of something you kept putting down and finding in your hand again. You were honest with yourself about Dean, had been from the beginning. You knew what he was. Charming in a way that looked effortless because it mostly was, easy with people, the kind of person who filled a room without trying. You'd watched him for almost a year. You knew the way he talked to people, the way he leaned in when something was funny, the way he'd come into the kitchen sometimes when you were there and open the fridge and just stand there for a full thirty seconds like the answer to whatever he was looking for might eventually appear.

You knew that he'd noticed you too. That wasn't ego, just observation. The way his eyes would find you first when he walked into a room where you already were. The way he'd aim a comment at you specifically when he had a whole group to choose from. The way he'd said I've heard a lot of reactions like your reaction was the one that mattered.

You'd been sensible about it for a year. You'd made the choice, every single time, to not do anything about it. And you were fine. You were genuinely fine with that. You knew what Dean was, knew what it would be, and you'd decided the math didn't work out in your favor so you'd left it alone.

It was just that sometimes, quietly, in the back of your head, a voice said but what if you didn't.

You got dressed Saturday night and told that voice to shut up, and went to the party anyway.

Tucker met you at the door at eight on the dot, already in a good mood, which meant either the playlist was really good or he'd already had a drink.

"You look great," he said, holding the door open.

"You say that every time."

"Because it's true every time." He handed you a beer from the counter as you came into the kitchen, already comfortable, already home in the easy way the house had started to feel over the past year. "I was thinking we do something with the leftover rice from yesterday, I got peppers —"

"Tucker."

"What."

"We're not cooking. There are already people here."

He looked genuinely confused. "So?"

You took the beer from him and looked around the kitchen. Logan was leaning against the far counter talking to someone from the team, and Garrett was already in the living room, and the house had that particular pre-party hum to it, not yet loud, still settling into itself.

Dean wasn't in the kitchen.

You noted this the way you noted a lot of things quietly, without making anything of it.

Logan glanced over when Tucker handed you the beer. "You're here early."

"She's basically a resident," Tucker said, like this was a fact.

"I'm a guest," you said.

"Guests don't know where we keep the good knives," Logan said and winked, and went back to his conversation.

You spent the next hour in that easy pre-party mode, moving between the kitchen and the living room, talking to people you knew by name now, accepting a second drink from someone who was mixing them near the back. Tucker orbited you loosely the way he always did at these things, appearing at your elbow every twenty minutes or so to say something that made you laugh and then disappearing again. This was one of your favorite things about him, he was never clingy, never needed to keep you close, just checked in like punctuation.

Dean appeared sometime around ten.

He came down the stairs and into the living room and you saw him before he saw you, which felt important. He was wearing a dark green shirt, sleeves pushed to the elbows, and he had that easy unhurried way of moving through a room like it had already arranged itself around him. He said something to Garrett near the bottom of the stairs and laughed, and you looked away before he could look up.

So. He was here. That was fine. That was completely normal and fine.

You went to find Tucker.

The next hour you spent being very deliberate about not being obvious. You talked to people on the back porch when Dean was in the living room. You came inside when he drifted toward the kitchen. You were not proud of it exactly, but you were not going to stand around waiting for him to decide whether tonight was a night he felt like paying attention to you. You'd done a lot of things in your life. That was not going to be one of them.

Your friend Anna, a sorority sister, texted at eleven: how's the party

You typed back: fine. dean's here.

Three seconds.

oh. OH. okay. call me tomorrow.

maybe

that means yes. don't do anything I wouldn't do

You locked your phone and put it in your pocket and thought about the specific, limited list of things Anna wouldn't do and found it unhelpfully short.

The thing was, and you'd been over this, you'd been reasonable about this, you knew what it would be. A night, maybe a few nights, comfortable and uncomplicated and then done. Dean DiLaurentis didn't do anything that looked like what came after. You'd watched him long enough to know that too. And you'd decided that wasn't what you wanted, so you'd kept your distance, and that had been the right call, and it remained the right call.

You were in college at a party on a Friday night and you had been sensible about this for almost an entire calendar year.

The voice in the back of your head said but you knew that going in and it doesn't have to mean anything you don't want it to mean.

You told it to shut up.

It had a point though.

You refilled your drink. Stood near the back door where the air was a little cooler and the noise slightly less consuming. Watched the party happen around you. Thought, very clearly and deliberately: you know what it is. you've always known. that doesn't have to be the reason not to.

You were still working through the logic of that when you felt someone come to stand beside you.

"(Y/N). You've been avoiding me."

Dean. Not accusing, just observing, the same way he did most things, like he was simply noting a fact about the universe. He had a drink in one hand and he wasn't looking at you yet, eyes scanning the room like he'd just happened to end up here beside you, which you both understood wasn't true.

"I've been talking to people," you said.

"You've been talking to people on the opposite side of every room I was in."

"Maybe I just like that side of the room."

He looked at you then. Really looked, in that direct way of his that felt like being assessed and appreciated at the same time. The music was loud enough that the conversation existed in its own small space, just between you.

"You've been doing that for a year," he said.

"Has it been a year?" You kept your voice light.

"Almost." He took a drink. "I've been patient."

The word landed simply, without performance. Patient. Like he'd been waiting. Like the last year had been something he'd noticed too, kept track of, decided to let run its course.

You looked at him for a long moment. The party moved around you, loud and warm, and you stood in it and made the decision clearly, with both eyes open, which felt like the important part.

"Bathroom's upstairs," you said.

Something shifted in his expression, not surprise, just confirmation. Like he'd known, and now he knew for certain.

"Yeah," he said.

He followed you up the stairs without touching you, which felt somehow more loaded than if he had. You could feel him behind you the whole way, that particular awareness of someone close, and by the time you reached the top of the stairs your heart was doing something inconvenient.

The upstairs bathroom was at the end of the hall. You went in, he came in behind you, and you turned to click the lock and found him already there, close enough that turning around put you nearly chest to chest with him, close enough that you could feel the warmth coming off him before he'd laid a hand on you.

He didn't kiss you right away.

That was the first thing. You'd expected him to, he'd been patient for a year, you'd just told him where the bathroom was, you'd expected him to close the distance immediately. Instead he just looked at you, and the looking was its own thing, slow and deliberate, like he was taking his time now that he finally had you here and he wanted you to know it.

"You made me wait a long time," he said.

"You could have said something sooner," you said.

"I said something tonight."

"Barely."

Something shifted in his expression, not quite a smile, more like he'd just decided something. He reached up slowly and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, fingers grazing your jaw, and the touch was so light it was almost nothing, which somehow made it worse.

"You're going to be like that," he said. Quiet. Certain.

"I don't know what you mean," you said, which was a lie and you both knew it.

He tilted your chin up with two fingers, not roughly, just — directing. Making you look at him. "Yeah you do," he said, and then he kissed you.

It wasn't tentative. It was a kiss from someone who had thought about this specifically, who knew what he wanted and had decided tonight was when he was going to have it, and you kissed him back and felt a year's worth of deliberate distance dissolve somewhere at the back of your mind.

He walked you backward until your hips met the bathroom counter and left you there, stepped back just enough to look at you again with that same unhurried attention, and you understood then that he wasn't in a hurry. That he'd waited this long and now he was going to enjoy it, and you were going to have to let him.

"Take your jacket off," he said.

You did.

He watched you do it. That was all — just watched, arms loosely crossed, completely at ease, like this was exactly where he'd planned to be tonight. You set the jacket on the counter and looked at him and he looked back.

"Good," he said, like that meant something.

Your heart was doing the inconvenient thing again.

He came back to you slowly, hands finding your waist, and kissed you again, deeper this time, one hand sliding into your hair and gripping, not painfully, just holding you exactly where he wanted you. You made a small sound against his mouth and felt him smile.

"There it is," he murmured.

"Shut up," you said.

"Make me," he said against your jaw, and then his mouth was on your throat and the option to respond coherently became briefly unavailable.

He took his time with your throat, your collarbone, the soft place below your ear that made your fingers curl into his shirt without your permission, and every time you moved to pull him closer he'd ease back just enough to remind you that he was running this. Not mean about it. Just clear.

"Dean —"

"I've got you," he said, against your skin. "I'm not going anywhere."

His hands moved to the hem of your top, pulling it up slowly, and he stepped back to pull it over your head and dropped it somewhere on the floor and looked at you again with that particular focus, and you had to actively resist the urge to cover yourself, because that was not what you did, but the way he was looking at you made you feel like you were already coming apart.

"You have no idea," he said quietly, more to himself than you, and then his mouth was on your collarbone and his hands were at your waist and you gave up on dignity entirely.

His hands moved to the button of your jeans, unhurried, and he looked up at you first — not asking exactly, just checking — and you nodded and he undid it and crouched down to pull the fabric down your legs with a thoroughness that felt like a point being made. He looked up at you from there, and whatever was on your face made him look deeply, quietly satisfied.

"You've been thinking about this," he said. Not a question.

"Don't," you said.

"Don't what?"

"Don't be smug about it."

"I'm not being smug." He pressed a kiss to the inside of your knee, which short-circuited something. "I'm just paying attention."

He stood back up slowly, hands trailing up the outside of your thighs, and lifted you onto the counter like it was nothing, stepping between your knees. You pulled him back in by the collar of his shirt and kissed him harder than you'd meant to and he made a low sound and kissed you back the same way, one hand flat against the small of your back pulling you closer.

"Tell me what you want," he said, against your mouth.

"You know what I want."

"I want to hear you say it."

You pulled back and looked at him. He looked back, completely unbothered, and you understood that he meant it, that he was going to stand here all night if he had to, patient as anything, until you said it out loud.

"Dean."

"I'm right here," he said pleasantly.

"You're so —"

"Tell me."

You told him.

"Please"

The expression that crossed his face was worth it. He kissed you once, hard, like a reward, and said good against your mouth, and then his hand moved and all the words you'd been planning to say next went somewhere inaccessible.

He knew what he was doing in a way that felt almost unfair, thorough, attentive, like he'd already decided exactly how this was going to go and was now simply executing. When you tried to rush it he slowed down. When you made a sound he filed it away and came back to it. The tile was cold at your back and his hands were warm on your thighs and his mouth was at your cunt and the things he said there were quiet and precise and designed specifically to ruin you.

"You've been driving me crazy," he said. Low, unhurried. "All year. You know that."

"Dean —"

"Every time you walked into a room." His hand didn't stop. "Every time you looked at Tucker instead of me. Every single time."

"That's your fault," you managed.

"I know," he said. "I know it is." Something almost rueful in it. "Doesn't change the fact."

When you finally came it was with your head hitting the mirror behind you and holding his shoulder and his name somewhere in the middle of it, and he stayed with you through the whole thing, unhurried, like he had nothing else in the world to do.

He gave you a moment. Then he pulled back and looked at you with an expression that you could only describe as thoroughly pleased with himself, which should have been annoying and wasn't.

"Don't," you said.

"I didn't say anything."

"You were about to."

"I was going to ask if you were okay," he said, which was such an obvious lie that you laughed, and the laugh broke something open in the room, and he grinned, a real one, unguarded in a way you hadn't seen before, and kissed you again before it could turn into a whole thing.

You worked his belt with hands that weren't entirely steady and he helped without comment, and then his hands were at your hips and he pressed his forehead to yours for just a second.

You watched him look for a condom on his backpocket.

"Yeah?" he said quietly. All the performance gone.

"Yeah," you said.

He pushed into you slow and you exhaled against his jaw, fingers gripping his shoulders, adjusting to the feeling of him. He gave you a moment, forehead still to yours, patient, present, and then he moved and everything else became temporarily beside the point.

It was charged the way it only gets when two people have been waiting too long. Not frantic but urgent, with a focused intensity that felt like something being resolved. His grip was firm and deliberate and you pulled him closer when he slowed down and he got the message and didn't slow down again. The mirror was fogging and somewhere below you the party was still happening and it was completely irrelevant.

"Look at me," he said.

You did. He held your gaze and something passed between you that neither of you named, and you felt it in your chest more than anywhere else.

"Months," he said again. Quieter now.

"I know," you said. "I know."

When he came he buried his face in your neck and went quiet and still, one hand flat against the small of your back holding you against him, and you held onto him too because it seemed like the thing to do, and because you wanted to, and those were the same thing tonight.

You stayed like that for a moment longer than necessary.

Then you both exhaled at roughly the same time, which broke the tension, and Dean huffed a quiet laugh into your shoulder.

You untangled carefully, straightened yourselves out. You hopped off the counter and turned to the mirror, fixing your hair, smoothing your top back into place. He leaned against the wall watching you do it, arms crossed loosely, shirt back on. His hair was a mess and he didn't appear concerned about it.

You met his eyes in the mirror.

"This doesn't have to be a thing," you said. Even, matter of fact. Not cold, just clear. You were giving him an out because you'd rather give it than have him feel like he needed to take it badly.

Something moved across his face. He pushed off the wall slightly. "What if I want it to be a thing?"

You turned around. "What kind of thing?"

He held your gaze. Didn't answer right away, which was an answer, and you'd known it would be, you'd known before you came upstairs, and still it took a small quiet moment to settle.

"Right," you said simply.

Not angry. Not hurt, or at least not visibly. You'd gone in with both eyes open and you'd meant it, and the math was what you'd always known it was. That was fine. You were fine.

You unlocked the door.

"Hey," Dean said.

You looked back.

He opened his mouth, closed it. Something in his expression that you couldn't entirely read. "Nothing," he said finally. "Never mind."

You nodded once and stepped out into the hallway.

Downstairs, the party had peaked without you. The music was louder and the living room was full and Tucker was in the kitchen, which is where Tucker always ended up at some point. He took one look at your face when you appeared in the doorway and turned to open the fridge and produced a beer, which he held out without a word.

You took it.

"Having fun?" he asked, very casually, eyes on the fridge.

"Yeah," you said. "Party's good."

"Cool." He closed the fridge. "I made queso."

"Tucker."

"It's in the pot on the back burner."

You looked at him for a second. He looked back, perfectly neutral, perfectly unbothered, and completely full of information he was choosing not to say.

"Thank you," you said.

"Don't mention it," he said. "Seriously, don't. I have a reputation."

You laughed despite yourself, and some of the tightness in your chest loosened, just a little.

Tucker handed you a chip.

You both stood at the stove and ate queso and said nothing about any of it, and that was, genuinely, one of the nicest things anyone had done for you in a while.

Dean came downstairs eleven minutes later, you weren't counting, you just noticed, and grabbed a beer from the fridge and leaned against the counter across from you, and the three of you stood in that kitchen like nothing had happened at all.

Dean looked at the pot on the stove. "Is that queso?"

"Made it myself," Tucker said.

"You absolutely did not."

Tucker looked at you. You said nothing, scooping queso onto another chip. Dean's eyes moved between you both and landed on you with something unreadable in them.

"Can I have some?" he asked.

"It's your house," you said.

He got a chip. Ate it. Looked at the pot. "That's really good."

"I know," you said.

Tucker stared directly at the wall and smiled at absolutely nothing.

It didn't have a name. That was the thing , it never got one, and neither of you tried to give it one, and somehow that made it easier to just let it exist.

It started simply enough. A week after the party, Dean texted you at eleven on a Tuesday night. Just: you up?

The second text was a trailer link. No context, no explanation, just: this.

You watched it once. Typed back: that looks pretentious.

i know. yes or no.

fine.

The house was quiet when you got there , Garrett's door closed, Tucker apparently out, and Dean was on the couch with a beer and the energy of someone who had been waiting without admitting to waiting.

You sat in the middle of the couch.

He pulled up the movie without comment.

It was pretentious and it was also actually good, and you told him so twenty minutes in when he glanced over to see what you thought. He said told you without looking back at the screen. You said you said it looked pretentious, which is not the same as saying it wasn't good. He said that's a very specific distinction. You said I'm a specific person. He didn't say anything for a moment, and then said: yeah.

Somewhere around the third act the distance between you closed. You weren't sure who moved, maybe both of you, gradually. His arm along the back of the couch and your shoulder under it and neither of you addressed it.

The movie ended and neither of you moved.

He found something else. A documentary, shorter, that turned out to be genuinely interesting. You watched most of it. Somewhere in the second half you were closer still his arm properly around you now, your feet tucked up beside you — and the lamp in the corner was the only light, and in here it was warm, and you were paying attention to about thirty percent of the documentary.

You woke up at two in the morning with a blanket over you that hadn't been there before. Dean was asleep at the other end of the couch, head back, completely unconscious. The TV was still on. You looked at him in the blue light of the screensaver, the line of his jaw, the stillness of someone actually asleep and felt the quiet weight of something you were not going to examine.

Then you got up, folded the blanket, left it on the cushion, and walked home.

You didn't text him about it. He didn't text you about it. Two days later he sent: you around tonight? and you said depends and he said on what and you said what's the plan and he said no plan and you said okay.

That was how it started.

By November it had a shape, even if it didn't have a name.

You came over two or three times a week. Sometimes it was a movie, sometimes it was just you in the kitchen making something with whatever was in the fridge while Dean sat at the counter with his phone and ate everything you put in front of him without comment except occasionally this is really good in a tone that suggested he was a little annoyed about it. Sometimes the whole house was there, Tucker loud and cheerful, Garrett and Logan drifting in and out, the TV on in the background and sometimes it was just the two of you and the house was quiet and those evenings had a quality to them that you tried not to examine too closely.

He texted you things that weren't questions. A link to an article about something you'd both argued about in passing. A photo of a sunset he'd apparently seen from the library roof, no caption. A voice memo once, at midnight, that was just him reading something in the flat unimpressed tone he used when something was genuinely getting on his nerves — listen to this, the message said, and you did, and you laughed, and he sent back a single: right?

You sent him things back. A recipe you thought he'd actually like. A clip of something that reminded you of a conversation you'd had. He always answered. Not immediately, not performatively, just he answered.

Garrett had noticed, in his way. He'd stopped doing double-takes when you were in the kitchen on a Tuesday night, had started just saying hey and opening the fridge like your presence was a given. Logan was less subtle, he'd caught your eye once across the living room when Dean laughed at something you'd said, and raised an eyebrow, and you'd looked away and he'd had the decency not to push it.

You talked to Anna about it on a Sunday afternoon in November, feet up on her bed, staring at the ceiling while she did her readings across from you.

"So it's a situationship," she said, not looking up.

"I didn't say that."

"You described a situationship."

"I described two people who spend time together."

"With benefits."

"Occasionally."

She finally looked up. "How often is occasionally?"

You said nothing.

"That's what I thought." She went back to her reading. "Are you okay with it?"

You thought about it honestly, the way you tried to think about most things. "Yeah," you said. "I went in knowing what it was."

"That's not what I asked."

You looked at the ceiling. "I'm fine," you said. "It's fine. I know what it is."

Anna made a small noncommittal sound that you chose not to interpret.

The physical part of it was easy in a way you hadn't entirely expected. Comfortable in a way that felt like it should have taken longer to get to. He knew what you liked with an attentiveness that might have been alarming if you'd let yourself think about it, and you knew what worked for him, and there was none of the awkwardness of newness anymore.

The only thing you were consistent about was the condom. Every time, without exception. Until one night in late November when Dean caught your wrist gently before you could reach for the nightstand.

"Why do you always —" He stopped. Nodded toward it. "Every time."

"Because I'm not stupid," you said. "You were getting around a lot before this and I don't know what this is and I'm not asking but I'm also not —"

"I haven't," he said. "Since the party. I haven't slept with anyone else."

The room went quiet.

"Oh," you said. A beat. "Me neither."

Something moved across his face that he didn't entirely manage to control. His thumb traced a slow absent line against the inside of your wrist.

"Okay," he said quietly.

"Okay," you said.

The air in the room changed into something neither of you was going to name. Then he kissed you, and it was different, slower, more careful, like something had been confirmed that he hadn't known he was waiting to confirm, and you let yourself feel it without examining it too closely, because that felt fair.

The first sign was the texts.

Not that they stopped completely, that would have been obvious, and Dean was too smart for obvious. They just slowed. A reply that came four hours later instead of forty minutes. A shorter answer where there used to be a real one. The voice memos stopped. The links stopped. You'd send something and get back a single word where there used to be a sentence, and you'd look at it and feel the shape of what was happening without being able to name it yet.

You told yourself it was school. Exams were coming, everyone was disappearing into the library, that was normal. You told yourself he was busy, stressed, in his head about the end of semester and the hockey team. You were busy too. You had your own readings, your own papers, your own life that existed completely separately from the off campus house and always had.

You kept coming over. Tucker needed someone to watch the game with and you'd promised him a recipe you'd been meaning to show him and you were not going to rearrange your life over a shift in text frequency.

But you noticed.

You noticed the way Dean would come into the kitchen when you were there and open the fridge and not look at you the way he used to. Not hostile, just absent. Like you were furniture. Like the awareness he'd always had of you in a room had been switched off at a source you couldn't locate. He ate the food you made without commenting on it. He answered direct questions. He didn't start anything.

You didn't push. That wasn't who you were.

But by the second week of December you were lying in your room at night doing the math and the math was not coming out well, and you were tired of pretending it wasn't.

You went over on a Thursday.

Tucker was at a class. You'd known that, you'd checked, because you wanted the house quiet, because you wanted five minutes of honesty without an audience. Garrett's truck wasn't in the driveway either. You knocked on Dean's door and he opened it in sweats and a Briar hoodie, textbook open on his desk, and the look on his face when he saw you was almost nothing, which was its own answer.

"Hey," you said.

"Hey." He stepped back to let you in, which you took as an invitation, and you came in and stood in the middle of his room and he closed the door and leaned against his desk with his arms crossed. Not aggressive. Just closed.

You looked at him for a moment.

"What's going on with you?" you asked. Quiet, direct. No accusation in it, just the question.

He shrugged one shoulder. "Nothing. Finals."

"Okay," you said. "That's not what I mean and you know it."

A beat. Something moved behind his eyes and then went still.

"I don't know what you want me to say," he said.

"I want you to say what's actually happening."

He looked at you. Then he looked away, jaw tightening slightly, and you recognized the particular quality of someone deciding something, not discovering it, deciding it, and some quiet part of you braced.

"I think this has run its course," he said. Flat. Careful.

You kept your face even. "Okay. What does that mean."

"It means —" He stopped. Started again. "I don't want this anymore. Whatever this is. I don't want it."

"Okay," you said.

He looked at you, and something in your steadiness seemed to irritate him, which you hadn't expected, and that was maybe the thing that cracked something open in him that should have stayed closed.

"I don't know what you thought this was," he said, and his voice had an edge now, "but it wasn't — I wasn't —" He made a short, almost contemptuous gesture. "You've been coming over here for months like you live here. Cooking, watching movies, acting like this is some kind of —"

"I never called it anything," you said.

"No, but you acted like it was something. You act like everything is fine and nothing bothers you and you're so —" He stopped, and the word he landed on was quiet and precise and clearly chosen to land: "You're so comfortable here. Like you belong here. And you don't."

The room was very quiet.

You looked at him. He looked back, and you could see the moment he heard what he'd just said, saw something flicker across his face that might have been regret but came too late to matter.

"You're right," you said. Your voice was completely level. "I don't."

He opened his mouth.

"I'm not going to make this into something," you said. "You don't want it, that's fine. I went in knowing what it was." You picked up your jacket from where you'd set it on the edge of his bed. "I hope finals go okay."

"Hey —"

"Good night, Dean."

You left. You closed the door behind you, not hard, just closed, and you walked down the stairs and through the front door and out into the December cold and you kept your shoulders straight the whole way home.

You didn't cry until you were in your own room with the door locked, and even then it wasn't for very long, because you'd known, you'd always known, and knowing didn't make it nothing but it made it survivable.

You texted Anna: you were right.

She called immediately. You let it ring twice, then picked up.

"I'm okay," you said, before she could ask.

"I know you are," she said. "Tell me anyway."

The hard part came later, at midnight.

You were lying in bed and you saw a link, a restaurant that had just opened, a tasting menu you'd been meaning to mention and you had his name pulled up in your contacts before you caught yourself. Thumb over send. The restaurant unremarkable and the gesture everything.

You put your phone face down on the mattress and looked at the ceiling for a while.

You'd known. You'd always known. That didn't make it nothing. It made it survivable, which was what you'd agreed to, and you were keeping that agreement.

The next afternoon you went to the off campus house.

Not because of Dean. Tucker had texted you at noon — i made something and i think i made it wrong, come look at it — and you'd said what did you make and he'd sent a photo that made you genuinely concerned for his wellbeing, and you'd said I'm coming over because that was what you did.

You showed up at three in the afternoon in your good boots and your coat, hair done, bag over your shoulder, because you had a study session after and you were not rearranging your life. You walked into the kitchen and Tucker was standing over something on the stove that smelled questionable and turned around with the expression of a man who needed saving.

"What is that," you said.

"I was trying to do the thing you showed me with the —"

"Tucker."

"I know."

You put your bag down and took your coat off and hung it over the stool and rolled up your sleeves and looked at whatever was happening in the pot, and Tucker stood next to you like a man watching a surgeon assess a patient.

"It's salvageable," you said.

He exhaled. "I knew it."

"Get me the garlic."

You cooked. Tucker hovered and passed things when you asked and made commentary that you ignored selectively and the kitchen filled up with something that smelled the way the kitchen was supposed to smell, and it was normal. It was completely normal. You were fine.

Logan came through at some point, stopped in the doorway, looked at the pot. "That smells good." Then he looked at Tucker. "Did you make that?"

"We're collaborating," Tucker said.

Logan looked at you. You said nothing. He grabbed a water from the fridge and left, which was exactly the right thing to do.

Dean came downstairs at some point, and you heard him stop at the bottom of the stairs, and you stirred the pot and didn't turn around.

"Hey," Tucker said, in the careful voice of someone being very casual.

"Hey." Dean's voice from the doorway. A pause. "What are you making?"

"She's fixing what I made," Tucker said.

You felt Dean's eyes on your back. You reached past the stove for the spice rack.

"Smells good," Dean said.

You said nothing. Not pointedly — just nothing. Tucker handed you the paprika.

Dean didn't leave. You could feel him still standing there, which told you something you set aside for later. You plated what you'd made, put Tucker's portion in front of him, put the extra in a container that you labeled with a piece of tape and a marker the way you always did, and started washing the pan.

"There's extra," Tucker said, to the room.

"I can see that," Dean said.

Tucker ate a bite. Made a sound of profound relief. "You're genuinely talented, you know that?"

"I know," you said, drying the pan.

You stayed another forty minutes, finishing your tea, going over the recipe with Tucker so he could try again, answering a text from Anna. Normal. Easy. The house the same as it had always been, Tucker the same as he'd always been, you the same as you'd always been.

When you left you said, "Bye Tuck, don't touch the leftovers until tomorrow, they're better the next day."

"Noted," Tucker said.

You pulled on your coat. Picked up your bag. "Later," you said, generally, to the room, and you walked out.

Dean stood in the kitchen after the front door closed.

Tucker was eating. Not looking at him. The kitchen smelled incredible and there was a labeled container in the fridge and the pan you'd used was clean and back on the rack like you'd never been there.

"She labeled it," Dean said.

"She always labels it," Tucker said.

Dean looked at the fridge. "For who."

"I don't know, Dean." Tucker turned a page in whatever he was reading. "Whoever wants it, I guess."

He couldn't focus in class the next morning.

The professor was talking and Dean had his laptop open and his notes half-started and none of it was going in because he kept coming back to the same thing, the same image, which was you standing at his stove with your back to him like nothing had happened.

Not performing like nothing had happened. Actually fine. The difference between those two things was something he understood logically and couldn't reconcile emotionally and it was making him insane.

He'd expected — he didn't know what he'd expected. Something. Some sign that what he'd said had mattered, that he had mattered, that the months of you being in his space and in his kitchen and in his bed and knowing how he took his coffee and showing up when Tucker texted you and falling asleep on his couch and leaving your chapstick on his nightstand —

You'd taken the chapstick. He'd noticed.

You'd taken it and labeled the leftovers and said later to the room and walked out and that was it, apparently. That was the whole thing. He'd said you don't belong here and you'd said you're right and you'd meant it, and that was the part he couldn't get past. You'd meant it not because you believed it but because you weren't going to fight him on it. Because you didn't need to.

You act like you belong here. And you don't.

He'd said that. He'd actually said that.

He stared at his laptop screen.

You'd been coming to that house since before he'd ever spoken a full sentence to you. Tucker's mom had called you, you'd shown up, you'd been folded into the house slowly and completely the way only people who actually fit somewhere ever are, Tucker texting you unprompted, Garrett knowing your coffee order, Logan moving over on the couch without being asked, and Dean had stood in his own room and told you that you didn't belong there and you'd looked at him like you were giving him the chance to hear what he was saying and he hadn't taken it and you'd left.

And then you'd come back the next day and cooked Tucker's disaster and labeled the leftovers and said later.

Later. Like you'd see them around. Like the house was still just a place you came to, unconnected to Dean, existing independently of whatever he'd decided.

Because it was. Because Tucker was your friend. Because you'd built something there that had nothing to do with Dean DiLaurentis and apparently had no intention of dismantling it on his account.

He wrote something down without reading it.

The thing was and this was the part that was sitting in his chest like something he couldn't shift, he'd ended it because it was getting too real. That was the honest answer, the one he hadn't said out loud to anyone including himself until approximately right now, which was not ideal timing. He'd felt it getting heavier and closer and more like something that had a name and he'd panicked, and when Dean DiLaurentis panicked he went cold, and when he went cold long enough he said things he couldn't take back.

You don't belong here.

He closed his laptop. Opened it again.

You hadn't fought for it. He'd said something genuinely cruel and you'd said you're right and you'd left, and the version of events he'd been running in his head where you'd be upset, where you'd pull back from the house, where he'd see the evidence of having mattered somewhere in your behavior, none of that had happened. You'd come back with your boots and your coat and your labeled container and your later and you were fine.

He was not fine.

That felt deeply, profoundly unfair, and he was self-aware enough to recognize that he had no one to blame for it but himself, which made it worse.

Wait, said something in the back of his head, quiet and inconvenient.

He picked up his pen. Put it down.

Wait.

He didn't finish the thought. He stared at his notes until they stopped meaning anything, and outside the window the Briar campus went on being cold and grey and completely indifferent to the fact that Dean DiLaurentis was sitting in class slowly understanding something he wasn't ready to understand yet.

The problem with ending things, Dean was discovering, was that it only worked if the other person let it end.

You hadn't made a scene. Hadn't texted him anything he had to respond to, hadn't shown up at his door, hadn't done a single thing that gave him something to push against. You'd just continued. Existing in the house, in the kitchen, in Tucker's orbit, completely unchanged, like Dean's opinion of the situation was one data point you'd received and filed appropriately and moved on from.

He ate everything you made. That was the humiliating part. Every single time you left something in the fridge he ate it, sometimes within the hour, standing at the counter in the kitchen alone like some kind of punishment he was administering to himself. Tucker never commented on this. Tucker never commented on anything, which was its own form of commentary.

You'd left soup once. Labeled, like always — back burner, twenty minutes, don't let Tucker have more than one bowl he'll eat the whole thing. Dean had read the label four times. Eaten two bowls. Stood at the sink washing the pot afterward feeling like a man losing an argument he wasn't allowed to be having.

Garrett had found him standing there once, staring at nothing, and said "you good?" and Dean had said "yeah" and Garrett had looked at the labeled container still on the counter and said nothing further, which somehow made it worse.

He started noticing everything.

The way you'd laugh at something on your phone and not share it with the room, just smile to yourself and put it face down. The way you always took your shoes off at the door and lined them up neatly to the left, always the left, and he'd started checking for them when he came downstairs, the presence or absence of your boots telling him things about the afternoon before he'd even gotten to the kitchen. The way you said Tucker's name — comfortable, fond, like a shorthand — and the way you had, at some point, stopped saying Dean's name at all. Not pointedly. Just it didn't come up. He wasn't who you were talking to.

He'd done that. He understood that he'd done that.

He just hadn't understood what it would feel like to have done it.

He tried, for a while, to be reasonable about it.

He made a list, mentally, of all the reasons this was fine. He didn't do relationships. He'd never done relationships. He had a plan for his life that had been in place since he was sixteen, and that plan had no room in it for whatever you were. Whatever you'd been. The comfortable weight of your presence, the evenings when you were in the house versus evenings when you weren't, the way he'd started coming across things during the week and thinking you'd have something to say about this —

That was the problem right there. That was the thing he kept running into.

He'd been having conversations with you in his head for weeks. Full conversations, with your actual responses, because he knew how you thought well enough to fill both sides, and that was, that was not the behavior of someone who was fine.

He talked to Garrett on a Tuesday night, which he never did, and talked around the subject for twenty minutes before Garrett said, flatly: "Just tell me what she did."

"She didn't do anything," Dean said.

A pause. "Then tell me what you did."

Dean stared at his ceiling. "I ended it."

"And?"

"And she's fine."

"That's it? She's fine and you are like this?"

"She's too fine," Dean said, and hated how that sounded.

Garrett was quiet for a moment. Then: "Dean."

"What."

"You absolute idiot."

January settled over Briar cold and grey and Dean settled into a particular kind of misery that he was too proud to name properly. He went to class. He did his readings. He played well enough at practice that Coach didn't get on him, which required more effort than it should have because his head was not where it was supposed to be.

You came over on Saturdays, usually. Sometimes Thursdays. Tucker had apparently taken to texting you about things that had nothing to do with cooking, Dean had seen the thread once, accidentally, and it was just the two of you sending each other increasingly unhinged videos with no context, a friendship that existed completely on its own terms, owed nothing to Dean, and was apparently thriving.

Logan had said, once, carefully, over breakfast: "She was here yesterday."

"I know," Dean said.

Logan looked at him. "Just saying."

"I know," Dean said again.

Logan went back to his cereal and didn't push it, which was the right call, and Dean appreciated it and resented it in equal measure.

He watched you from across rooms and told himself he wasn't doing that.

You never looked uncomfortable. That was the thing that was going to actually kill him. You'd come in, take your boots off, left side of the door, say hey to whoever was around, drift toward the kitchen with the ease of someone in a place they belonged, and it would be normal. Warm. Real. And Dean would be somewhere in the same house eating himself alive and you would be completely, genuinely fine.

He thought about the things he'd said. You act like you belong here. And you don't.

He thought about those words with a frequency that was becoming a problem.

It was a random Wednesday in late January.

Dean came home from a late class tired and cold and in the specific bad mood that came from hours with a professor who seemed to find his suffering amusing. The house was lit up when he got there, which meant people were home, and he could hear voices from the kitchen before he'd gotten his coat off.

Tucker's laugh. And then yours.

He stood in the hallway for a second with his coat half off.

"—absolutely not, that's not how that works—" Tucker, indignant.

"I'm telling you, Tucker, I watched you do it, that's exactly how you did it—"

"I was recovering, there's a difference—"

"There is no difference, the result was the same—"

Tucker said something Dean didn't catch and you laughed, full and real, the kind of laugh that meant you'd actually been caught off guard by it, and the sound of it hit Dean somewhere undefended and just stayed there.

He finished taking his coat off. Hung it up. Walked to the kitchen doorway.

You were at the island, Tucker leaning on his elbows across from you, some kind of card game between you that Dean didn't recognize. You had a mug of something and your hair was down and you were still smiling from whatever Tucker had just said, and Tucker was looking at you with the expression of someone who had won a point. Garrett was on the couch in the next room, feet up, barely paying attention, the way Garrett existed in the house like ambient weather.

"Dean," Tucker said. "Tell her that recovering from a bad move is a valid strategy."

"Depends on the move," Dean said, automatically.

"See," Tucker said to you.

"That's not what he said," you said, and glanced at Dean briefly,not long, not loaded, just a glance, the kind you'd give anyone and looked back at Tucker. "Your move."

Dean got a glass of water. Stood at the counter. The card game continued. Tucker accused you of cheating, you denied it with the specific serenity of someone who was absolutely cheating, Dean watched and said nothing and felt the sensation of standing outside something warm.

An hour later you started putting your coat on.

"Okay," you said, gathering your things. "Tucker. Rematch Thursday."

"Thursday," Tucker confirmed. "I'll win."

"You won't." You pulled your bag onto your shoulder. Looked at Tucker with something genuine and warm. "Bye, Tuck."

"Bye." Tucker was already looking back at his phone.

"Later, Garrett," you called toward the living room.

"Later," Garrett called back, not looking up.

You walked toward the door. Past Dean, close enough that he could have said something, close enough that the window was right there, and he stood at the counter with his glass of water and said nothing, and you pulled the door open and walked out, and the door closed, and that was it.

Tucker looked up from his phone.

The two of them sat in the quiet kitchen, the card game still spread out on the island, your mug still on the counter.

"She forgot her mug," Dean said.

"She'll get it Thursday," Tucker said.

Dean put his glass down. Picked it back up.

"She said bye to you first," he said.

Tucker looked at him for a long moment. Set his phone down. "Yeah," he said. "She did."

The kitchen was very quiet.

"Tucker —"

"I'm not doing this, Dean."

"I'm not asking you to do anything."

"Good." Tucker picked his phone back up. "Because I really, genuinely, am not getting involved."

From the living room, Garrett said nothing, which meant he was listening to every word.

Dean looked at the door.

"She left her mug," he said again, quieter, to no one in particular.

Tucker said nothing. Which was, as always, its own kind of answer.

He lasted four days.

Four days of your mug on the counter — Tucker had washed it and left it there — four days of picking up his phone and putting it down, four days of being a reasonable adult who had made a decision and was living with it, and then on Sunday night at eleven p.m. he put on his shoes and his coat and walked across campus to the Kappa house like a man who had exhausted every other option.

He stood outside in the cold and looked up at the second floor windows and felt genuinely insane.

He found a handful of small rocks from the landscaping border. Looked at them. Looked up at the windows.

He threw one.

It hit the wrong window. A light came on and someone looked out — not you, someone he didn't recognize — and he stepped back into the shadow of the tree until the light went off again.

He tried the next window. Nothing. The one after that.

The window opened.

You leaned out, hair messy, clearly pulled from sleep or close to it, and looked down at him in the dark with an expression that moved through several phases: confusion, recognition, disbelief. Before settling on something that was almost exasperated and almost amused and fully of course.

"Dean," you said, not loud. "What are you doing."

"I need to talk to you."

"It's eleven o'clock."

"I know. You weren't answering my texts."

You stared at him. "You texted me twenty minutes ago."

"You didn't answer."

"I was asleep."

"Can I come up?"

The expression on your face did something complicated. "You want to climb the sorority house."

"There's a trellis."

You looked to the left, apparently confirming the existence of the trellis, then looked back down at him. "Dean."

"Five minutes," he said. "I just — five minutes. Then I'll go."

You looked at him for a long moment, and he stood in the cold and let you look, because he'd run out of ways to manage how this went. You could close the window. That was a real option and he'd accept it.

You didn't close the window.

"The trellis is on the left," you said. "Don't break anything."

He made it up without incident, which he felt was frankly more than he deserved. You'd stepped back from the window to let him climb through, and he came in trying not to knock anything over and stood in the middle of your room feeling the full absurdity of the situation settle over him.

Your room was small and warm. Books on every surface, a desk lamp on low, a quilt on the bed that looked like it had been in your family for a while. It smelled like you, something warm, something that had been living in the back of his brain for months without his permission.

You sat on the edge of your bed and looked at him with your arms loosely crossed, not hostile, just waiting. Giving him the floor.

"I need to say something," he said.

"Okay."

"And I need you to let me say it without — I need to actually get through it."

"I'm not stopping you," you said.

He looked at you. You looked back, and there was something in your expression: patient, steady, not giving him anything, and he understood suddenly that you were going to make him do this himself. All the way. No half measures.

He took a breath.

"I said things to you that I can't take back," he started. "That night in my room. And I knew when I said them that they weren't — I knew they weren't true. I said them because I was scared and I was trying to make you leave and I wanted it to work so I made it as —" He stopped. Tried again. "I wanted you gone and I made sure you'd go and then you went and I've been —" He stopped again.

You waited.

"I've been losing my mind," he said. "For weeks. You keep coming over and cooking Tucker's food and laughing at his jokes and you left your mug on the counter and you said bye, Tuck and walked out like I wasn't standing right there and I —" He stopped. The words that needed to come next were the ones he'd been circling for weeks and he was done circling. "I'm in love with you."

The room was quiet.

"I'm in love with you," he said again, because it had come out steadier the second time and it was true and he was done with it living only in his head. "I have been for a while. I didn't know what to do with it so I — I did what I did. And I know that's not an excuse. I know what I said. But I needed you to know that it wasn't because you didn't matter. It was because you mattered too much and I didn't know how to —"

"Dean," you said.

He stopped.

You looked at him for a long moment. Something in your expression that was careful and real and not entirely closed.

"I know," you said quietly.

He blinked. "You —"

"I knew." You said it simply, without cruelty. "I've known for a while. I needed you to know it too." A pause. "And I needed you to say it. Out loud. To me. Without me making it easy for you."

He held your gaze. "Because you're not going to make it easy for me."

"No," you said. Not meanly. Just honestly. "I'm not."

He nodded slowly. That was fair. That was completely fair.

"I'm sorry," he said. "For what I said. You don't belong here — I knew that wasn't true when I said it. That's the worst part. I knew and I said it anyway."

You looked at him. And he watched something in your expression shift, not all the way, but enough, a small careful opening.

"I know," you said again. Softer this time.

"Can we —" He stopped. Tried to find the right shape for the question. "Is there a way back from this. Is that something that exists."

You were quiet for a moment that felt very long.

"Come here," you said.

He crossed the room and you stood from the bed to meet him and he kissed you carefully, like he was asking, and you kissed him back like you were answering, and it was nothing like the first time and nothing like any of the times in between, because those had all been about desire and this was about something that didn't have the same kind of ceiling.

His hands came to your face, gentle, and you let him, and he kissed you like he was trying to say the things that words hadn't been sufficient for the weeks of watching you from across rooms, the soup, the mug, the way your boots on the left side of the door had started to feel like something he needed, all of it, moving through the kiss like it had somewhere to go now.

You pulled back after a moment and looked at him.

"Say it again," you said quietly. Not a test. Just you wanted to hear it again.

"I'm in love with you," he said, without hesitating.

You looked at him for one more second. Then you kissed him again and this time you meant it differently, your hands in his collar pulling him in, and the tenor of the whole thing shifted from careful to something warmer and more certain.

He walked you back to the bed gently, and you sat and pulled him down with you, and he went willingly, propping himself above you, and looked at you for a moment. Your hair on the pillow, your expression open in a way he hadn't been allowed to see in weeks.

"Hi," he said, quietly.

The corner of your mouth moved. "Hi."

He kissed you again, slower this time, and his hands moved over you with a deliberateness that was different from anything before not performing, not proving anything, just present. Your shirt came off and his followed, and he pressed his mouth to your collarbone, your shoulder, the soft curve of your throat, taking his time in the way of someone who wasn't going anywhere.

"Dean," you said softly, fingers in his hair.

"I know," he said, against your skin. "I've got you."

You exhaled like something releasing.

It was slow and close and almost unbearably tender, the kind of thing that didn't have anything to hide anymore. He was attentive in a way that felt different now not just knowing what worked but wanting you to feel it, wanting you to know he was there, all the way there, not halfway out the door. You made soft sounds against his jaw and pulled him closer and he went, and you moved together in the small warm room with the desk lamp still on low and neither of you suggested turning it off.

When you came it was quiet and deep and you said his name and he held you through it with his face pressed to your temple, and afterward he stayed close, closer than strictly necessary, and you didn't move away.

When he followed he was holding your hand, fingers laced, which hadn't been planned and was completely true, and you held on.

Afterward you lay in the small bed in the quiet and the lamp was still on.

Your head was on his chest. He had his arm around you. Neither of you had suggested otherwise.

"You really threw rocks at my window," you said, to the ceiling.

"Small rocks."

"You hit Anna's window first."

"She didn't see me."

"She definitely saw you." A pause. "She texted me twenty minutes ago asking if I had a 'nighttime visitor.'"

Dean closed his eyes briefly. "Great."

You laughed, quiet, against his chest, and he felt it more than heard it and thought: there it is. there's the thing I've been missing.

He pressed his mouth to your hair.

"For the record," he said, "you do belong there. In the house. That was — I need you to know that was the opposite of true."

You were quiet for a moment. "I know," you said. "I always knew."

"You're annoyingly self-possessed, you know that?"

"You've mentioned it."

"Not a complaint."

You tilted your head to look up at him. Something in your expression that was warm and a little careful still, not closed, just real. This was going to take time, he knew that. He'd put something between you that didn't disappear overnight and you weren't going to pretend it had, because you didn't do that.

"Tucker's going to be insufferable about this," you said.

Dean thought about Tucker, who had said absolutely nothing for weeks and washed your mug and left it on the counter. "He already knows," Dean said.

"He's known for months."

"I know."

"He texted me two weeks ago," you said, "and said 'just for the record I think he's an idiot.' I asked who and he said 'you know who.'"

Dean stared at the ceiling. "I'm going to kill him."

"You're not."

"No," he agreed. "I'm not."

A beat.

"Garrett's going to say I told you so," you said.

Dean closed his eyes. "Did he tell you so?"

"He texted me a single thumbs up the morning after the speech. No context."

"I'm going to kill Garrett too."

"You're really not."

"No," he said. "I'm really not."

You settled back against him and the room was quiet and warm and your hand was resting on his chest and outside the world was doing whatever the world was doing and in here it was just this, finally, with a name on it.

"Hey," he said.

"Hey," you said.

Shaking your head, fingers threading through his hair. "Tickles a little," you pant out as he switches up his movements, causing the sheets to crinkle.

Garrett chuckles against your pussy, the low vibration sending a fresh shiver up your spine. “Then I’ll just have to be more careful with my tongue, won’t I?” His green eyes sparkle with mischief as he pulls back just enough to speak, lips shiny. “Can’t have my girl laughing when I’m trying to make her come.”

Before you can fire back a witty reply, he flattens his tongue and curling it up to meet your clit with a soft flick. After a few minutes, he changes his method, as he seals his mouth around your clit and sucks gently, two thick fingers sliding into you without warning, curling just right against that spot that makes your back arch off the bed.

“G—,” you moan, your laugh melting into a needy whimper. Your fingers tighten in his hair, pulling just hard enough to make him grunt.

“Uh huh, that’s better,” he murmurs, the words half-muffled as he keeps working you. “Love when you say my name like that. All sweet..” He pumps his fingers steadily, matching the rhythm of his tongue flicking over your swollen clit. Every time you squirm or let out a breathy giggle from an accidental tickle, he doubles down, turning it into deeper pleasure.

As you pant, Garrett looks up at you the whole time, eyes locked on your face not missing a single reaction. His free hand slides up your body, palming one of your breasts, thumb teasing your nipple; enjoying the sensation of the bud hardening for him. And he knows that only he can give you that pleasure.

“God, you’re so fucking pretty,” he rasps, with a scratchy throat from yelling at the game before. “Spread out for me, dripping down my fingers. Hmm..my own personal cherry pie.”

You manage a breathless laugh despite the building pressure. Looking down at him, back against his pillow. “You’re such a big sap even when you’re between my legs.”

He grins, “sap who’s about to make you come all over my face.” He adds a third finger, stretching you deliciously, and curls them harder while his tongue works your clit over again.

You feel a tight coil, instantly causing your hips buck against his mouth, chasing the pleasure as you muffle the sounds with your hands. “Garrett—shit—I’m close—”

“Come for me, baby,” he growls, the command vibrating against your sensitive flesh. You come with a loud cry, thighs clamping around his head as multiple waves of pleasure crash through you. Garrett doesn’t stop, licking you through every ebb n' flow, drawing it out until you’re whimpering about being oversensitive.

When you finally sag back against the pillows, chest heaving, he crawls up your body, kissing a trail along your stomach, between your breasts, and finally claiming your mouth. You taste yourself on his tongue, and it only makes you pull him closer.

“Think I earned a little reward for that performance?” he teases, grinding his hard cock against your thigh. He’s still wearing his boxers, but the thick outline is unmistakable. You reach down and palm him through the fabric, squeezing just enough to make him hiss from the contact. “Hm, well only if you sing the next chorus while you’re inside me.”

He kisses like an athlete too, which is deeply annoying information to have about him because it makes too much sense. Confident, paced, unfairly good at changing pressure right when she starts thinking she’s adjusted to him. 

One hand is braced beside her head, the other curled around her thigh, thumb pressing absent little circles into skin like he doesn't know it’s making her thoughts get weird and slippery around the edges. He’s still wearing his t-shirt, which feels rude considering she’s in a bra and skirt and whatever dignity survived the trip up the stairs is now lying somewhere dead near his laundry basket. 

His chain has slipped out from under his collar while he kisses her, warm gold catching against the side of her throat every time he grinds down into her and makes her breath come out embarrassingly thin.

“Garrett,” she gets out, though it doesn't have much purpose beyond giving her mouth something to do when his is suddenly leaving it.

He hums like he’s heard her and decided to take it under advisement at a later date. His mouth drifts to her jaw, then lower, slow and pleased and entirely too smug about the way her body moves before she can stop it. 

He kisses down her throat, over the spot where her pulse is doing something humiliating, then lower still, along the top edge of her bra, and she should probably let him. She should probably enjoy the fact that Garrett Graham, Briar hockey captain, walking campus hazard, has decided her chest deserves sustained attention. 

But the second his mouth leaves hers properly, some spoiled little part of her lights up in objection.

“No,” she whines, which is not her proudest moment, and is made worse by the fact that Garrett pauses against her skin like he’s trying not to laugh. She reaches down and gets her fingers in his hair, gentle but insistent, tugging him back up until his face appears over hers again, curls mussed, mouth shiny, eyes bright with the kind of amusement that makes her want to either kiss him harder or shove him off the bed. “Come back.”

His grin spreads slowly. “Bossy.”

“You stopped kissing me.”

“I was kissing you somewhere else.”

She pouts. “Wrong somewhere.”

He gives one of those little laughs that starts in his chest before it reaches his mouth, warm and low and stupidly pleased, and then he comes back happily, because that’s the worst part of Garrett. 

He has all this cocky-boy resistance in theory, all this mouth and attitude and captain-of-every-room energy, and then she asks for him directly and his body gives him away before his ego can file an appeal. He kisses her again, deep enough that the complaint evaporates under her tongue, and for a few seconds she forgets about the chain entirely.

Then he pulls back to sit up on his knees, one thigh planted on either side of her hips, and reaches behind his neck for his shirt.

“Oh,” she says before she can stop herself.

Garrett pauses with the hem already half up his stomach, eyebrows lifting. “Oh?”

“Shut up.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were about to.”

His teeth catch at his bottom lip. “I was about to ask if you needed a minute to process.”

She narrows her eyes at him, which would probably have more force if she were not lying under him with her skirt bunched around her waist and her hands already drifting up his exposed stomach. “You’re so annoying.”

“Yeah, but you’re still looking.”

And she is. Tragically. Openly. With no legal defence. The shirt comes off the rest of the way and lands somewhere near the chair, and Garrett is there above her in the soft lamplight, shoulders broad from hockey, stomach tight under her palms, chain resting against his chest like it’s been placed there for the express purpose of ruining her life. 

It's not even that fancy. That’s the insulting part. Just a gold chain. Simple. Warm from his skin. Sitting right at the base of his throat.

Her hands slide up his stomach, over the hard shift of muscle when he breathes, and she catches her bottom lip between her teeth without meaning to.

Garrett’s grin softens into something more dangerous because he knows. Because Garrett is many things, but oblivious is not one of them, especially not when a girl is looking at his chest like she’s discovered a new academic field.

“Baby,” he says, amused.

She doesn't answer. She hooks two fingers under the chain and pulls. Garrett comes down with it, one hand shooting to the mattress beside her head, the other catching her waist as he laughs into the space above her mouth. “Jesus. Okay.”

She smiles, breath already uneven again. “Come here.”

“I was here.”

“Closer.”

His mouth hovers over hers, his chain trapped between her fingers, the metal a little warm, a little slick where it’s been resting against his skin. “You always this demanding?”

She tugs again, smaller this time, mostly because she likes the way his eyes drop to her mouth when she does it. “Only when you’re slow.”

Garrett stares at her for one beat, and then the smile goes all bright and helpless at the edges, like she’s pleased him against his will. 

“Yeah,” he murmurs, bending until the chain brushes her collarbone and his mouth is almost on hers again. “That’s gonna be a problem.”

The second time is quieter, though quiet in the hockey house is a relative concept and mostly means no one is actively breaking furniture within their line of sight. They're downstairs on the couch after dinner, the living room dim except for the television throwing blue-white light over everyone’s faces and the standing lamp Tucker keeps insisting gives the room ambience, which Dean keeps calling divorced dad lighting. 

A movie’s on, something Logan picked with the confidence of a man who would be asleep within twenty minutes, and sure enough he’s already slumped in the armchair with his head tipped back and one socked foot on the coffee table, snoring faintly through the loudest action sequence anyone has ever failed to respect.

Garrett’s stretched out behind her on the couch, one arm tucked under her head like a pillow, the other lying heavy over her waist. She’s settled half on top of him, half against him, legs tangled beneath the old throw blanket that smells faintly like fabric softener and Garrett’s laundry detergent and whatever popcorn crime Dean committed earlier. 

The whole room has that late-night, lived-in warmth to it. Empty bowls on the coffee table, Tucker leaning on the other end of the couch with his phone in one hand and his attention somehow still half on the movie, Dean sprawled on the floor with his back against Allie’s legs while she runs her fingers lazily through his hair like she’s rewarding a large, badly behaved dog.

Garrett’s chain has worked its way out again. She doesn't mean to start fiddling with it. Her hand is just there, resting against his chest, and the chain is right under her fingertips, cool at first and then quickly warming up. 

Her thumb catches the tiny curve of one link. Then another. Then she’s sliding it back and forth lightly against his skin, not really thinking, only listening to the movie and the steady sound of his breathing under her cheek and the occasional thud of Dean kicking the coffee table because he refuses to understand where his legs end.

Garrett lets it happen for a while. Long enough that she forgets she’s doing it. Long enough for the metal to move in a tiny, repetitive drag under her fingers, a private little rhythm tucked beneath explosions and the muffled rain starting against the windows. 

His chest rises under her palm. His hand at her waist flexes once, absent, and she shifts closer without lifting her head. Then his fingers close around her wrist. Warm and sure, stopping the motion.

She glances up. “What?”

Garrett looks down at her with the deeply patient expression of a man being tortured in a way he’s not allowed to enjoy too obviously. “You’ve been doing that for ten minutes.”

“Doing what?”

His eyes flick to the chain. Then back to her. “That.”

“Oh.” She looks down at her hand, caught in his like evidence. “Was I annoying you?”

“No.”

“You stopped me.”

“Because,” he says, lowering his voice as Dean makes a disgusted noise at the movie and Allie tells him to stop talking before she smothers him with a cushion, “you keep touching my neck, and I’m trying to be a decent citizen in a communal living space.”

Her mouth twitches. “Your neck?”

“My chain is on my neck.”

She bites back a smile. “That’s very scientific of you.”

“I go to college.”

“For hockey.”

He sucks at his teeth, a grin spreading across his face. “For hockey and the pursuit of knowledge.”

She laughs into his chest, and he immediately looks pleased with himself in that quiet Garrett way, like making her laugh while half the room is asleep counts as a personal win. 

His hand slides from her wrist to her fingers, lifting them to his mouth. He kisses her knuckles once, soft and warm, then again, slower, like he can get away with it because nobody’s looking directly at them. The contact sends a stupid little wave through her, low and gentle, a sudden looseness in her ribs and the sense that her body has settled another inch into his.

“Stop playing with it,” he murmurs against her hand.

“I didn’t know it was an activity with rules.”

“It is now.”

“Sounds controlling.”

“Sounds like you’re too hot for your own good and I’m a responsible man.”

She lifts her head just enough to look at him properly. “You’re so full of shit.”

Garrett smiles like that’s his favourite thing she’s said all day. “A little, yeah.”

Then he threads his fingers through hers and brings their joined hands down to rest against his stomach, trapping her there with him. Garrett’s hand stays wrapped around hers. Firm. Warm. His thumb moves once over the side of her finger, slow enough that it feels accidental and deliberate at the same time.

The third time, she should know something’s wrong with the whole arrangement because Garrett offers it too easily. It's the morning of her exam, a big one, the kind that has lived in the back of her head for three weeks like an unpaid bill and ruined several perfectly good evenings by existing near them. 

She’s already eaten half a banana, stared at her notes until the words lost meaning, changed shirts twice, and accused Garrett of breathing too loudly while he sat on her bed watching her spiral with the sort of affectionate calm that made her want to throw a highlighter at him.

“You studied,” he says, for maybe the fourth time, lying on his side with one elbow propped under him and his curls still damp from the shower. “Like, a disgusting amount. I know because you made me quiz you last night and I learned things against my will.”

She stands in front of the mirror, smoothing her top down and then immediately undoing the smoothing because now it looks too deliberate. “That doesn’t mean I know it.”

“That’s actually exactly what studying means.”

“No, studying means I knew it at midnight in your bed while you were half asleep and kept pronouncing things wrong on purpose.”

“I was keeping morale up.”

She turns to glare at him, and he grins at her from the bed, annoyingly gorgeous and unhelpfully relaxed, his chain sitting against his bare collarbone because he hasn’t put a shirt on yet. Which is also rude. Honestly, the whole morning has been a campaign of emotional terrorism.

“I’m serious,” she says, and the words come out thinner than she wants.

His face changes then. The grin doesn't disappear entirely, because Garrett without some amount of grin would be genuinely concerning, but it settles. He sits up properly, feet hitting the floor, and reaches for her when she comes close enough. His hands land at her hips, warm through the fabric, thumbs pressing once like he’s reminding her she has a body and it's standing here, not drowning somewhere in the imagined future of a badly answered essay question.

“I know you are,” he says. “I also know you’re gonna kill it.”

“Don’t say that.”

“What, kill it?”

“Yes.”

“Fine. You’re gonna… respectfully and academically dominate.”

“Garrett.”

He laughs under his breath and tugs her closer until she’s standing between his knees. Then, with the sudden seriousness of someone remembering an ancient ritual and not a bit he came up with seven seconds ago, he reaches behind his neck and unclasps the chain.

She looks down at it. “What are you doing?”

“Good luck.”

Her eyes lift to his. “What?”

He holds it up between them, gold catching the morning light from her window. “It’s lucky.”

She stares at him. “Your chain is lucky?”

“Extremely.”

“You’ve never said that.”

He looks almost offended. “I don’t tell everyone my deeply personal athletic superstitions.”

“You told Dean you had to wear the same socks for playoffs.”

“That was different. He touched them.”

“That feels like a public health issue more than a superstition.”

Garrett ignores this, and gestures for her to turn around. She does, suspicious but too nervous to fight him properly. He stands behind her, and for a second the mirror catches both of them: her in exam clothes and stress, him shirtless and too calm, chain hanging from his fingers. 

He lifts it around her neck, his knuckles grazing the sides of her throat as he brings the clasp together. The metal lands cool against her skin, heavier than she expects, and something in her chest gives one stupid little pull.

“There,” he says, hands settling briefly on her shoulders. “Guaranteed.”

She touches the chain with two fingers. “Guaranteed?”

“Yeah.”

“If I fail, I’m blaming your jewellery.”

“If you fail, I’ll fake my death and start over somewhere chainless.”

She laughs then, finally, and it comes out shaky but real. Garrett’s eyes meet hers in the mirror, his mouth tipped in a way that’s half smug and half proud of having pulled the sound out of her. 

He bends and kisses the side of her head, quick, easy, like he doesn't know the chain suddenly feels like some ridiculous little anchor against her collarbone.

“Go,” he says. “Ace it. Then come back and be unbearable about it.”

She does ace it.

She walks out of the exam hall two hours later with the weird, floating, slightly manic clarity of someone who knows the questions landed exactly where she needed them to, who wrote until her hand cramped, who remembered the thing from the bottom of page seven that she had absolutely expected to die with no audience. 

She calls Garrett from the sidewalk and says, “I think I nailed it,” and he shouts so loudly through the phone that a girl walking past looks over in alarm.

“Tell the chain I said thank you,” she says later that night, when she’s in his room again, sitting cross-legged on his bed with takeout containers open between them and his hoodie swallowed over her exam clothes because the adrenaline crash has finally arrived and brought a mild existential fog with it.

Garrett looks up from stealing one of her fries. “What?”

“The chain.” She taps it where it still sits at her throat. “Your ancient family luck charm.”

There's a pause. It's tiny. Almost nothing. But Garrett Graham has many gifts, and hiding guilt from his girlfriend while his mouth is full of stolen fries is not one of them.

Her eyes narrow. “Garrett.”

He chews slowly.

“Garrett Graham.”

He swallows. “Okay, before you get mad–”

“Oh my God.” She sits up straighter. “It’s not lucky?”

“It’s, uh, lucky adjacent.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means I’ve worn it to some good games.”

“You told me it was extremely lucky.”

“I was trying to get you out of your head.”

“You lied!”

“I motivated.” He points at her with a fry. “And you crushed your exam, so actually, where’s my thank you?”

She stares at him for one second. Then another. The chain’s warm now from her skin, and the fact that he made it up should be annoying. It is annoying. 

It's also so Garrett that something in her gives up and goes soft around the edges despite herself, because he saw her standing in front of the mirror two seconds from vibrating through the floorboards and decided the solution was to hand her something of his and make it sound official enough for her nervous system to believe him.

“You’re unbelievable,” she says.

His grin comes back immediately, bright with relief and bad ideas. “But effective.”

“You’re never getting this back.”

“Baby, I look really good in that chain.”

“I look better.”

He studies her for a second, eyes dropping to where the gold sits against the oversized neckline of his hoodie, and his mouth does something slower. 

“Yeah,” he says, voice rougher. “You do.”

Her fingers move to the chain. His eyes track the motion. The takeout goes forgotten between them, steam thinning in the cartons, the lamp laying warm light over his bed and the stupid little lucky-not-lucky object at her throat.

She crawls toward him, slow enough to make his brows lift.

“What?” he asks, though his hands are already moving to her waist when she pushes the cartons aside with the care of someone who doesn't want to get sauce on his sheets but absolutely does want to ruin his evening in other ways.

“You want a thank you?”

Garrett’s mouth opens, then closes. He tilts his head, trying for casual and missing by a heroic distance. “I mean, I’m not gonna say no to gratitude.”

“Good,” she says, and leans in to kiss him once, soft enough that he follows when she pulls away.

His hands tighten on her hips. “Good?”

“Mhm.”

Then she slides off the bed onto her knees between his legs, and Garrett goes very, very still. For once in his life, he doesn't have a comeback ready.

She looks up at him, the chain hanging forward from her neck, gold swinging slightly in the space between them, and his eyes drop to it like he’s experiencing several personal revelations at once.

“Still think it’s lucky?” she asks.

Garrett exhales through his nose, a smile breaking helplessly at one corner of his mouth as his hand comes up to brush her hair back, careful and warm and already a little wrecked. 

“Baby,” he says, voice low with absolute reverence and zero shame, “I’m about to start fucking worshipping it.”

The fourth time is after a home game, which means the hockey house is operating at a volume level that could probably be reported to local authorities if local authorities hadn't long ago made peace with the fact that Briar hockey players were simply going to make too much noise. 

The living room is packed in that loose, post-win sprawl of bodies and beer and boys shouting over one another from distances that don’t require shouting at all. Someone has put the game highlights on the television and every single person in the room is pretending they're not watching themselves while absolutely watching themselves. 

Logan is arguing with a guy from the second line about whether his assist should have been cleaner, Tucker is sitting on the arm of the couch with a beer in hand and the calm expression of a man who played very well and doesn't need to scream about it, and Dean is stretched in the middle of the room like a Renaissance painting sponsored by bad decisions, loudly explaining to Allie that his defensive effort has layers.

Garrett’s on the couch below her, sitting with his legs spread, one arm hooked along the back cushions, hair still damp from the post-game shower and curling messily. He looks good in the obnoxious, lived-in way he always does after a win. Tired under the eyes, mouth lazy with satisfaction, hoodie pushed up at the forearms, chain glinting at his throat every time he turns his head to answer someone. 

There's a faint bruise starting near one cheekbone and stiffness in the way he holds his shoulders that he’s pretending doesn't exist because men who willingly block shots with their bodies have a complicated relationship with the concept of pain.

She’s standing behind the couch with her arms looped around his shoulders, her cheek resting against the side of his head, close enough that when he laughs she feels it before she hears it. The room smells like beer and aftershave and pizza grease and wet pavement dragged in from outside. 

Her chin is tucked near his temple, and his hand comes up every so often to touch her wrist where it crosses his chest, as if checking she’s still there even though she’s been draped over him for fifteen minutes like an affectionate scarf.

“You’re tense,” she murmurs near his ear.

Garrett tilts his head slightly toward her. “I got checked into the boards by a guy built like a refrigerator.”

“I saw.”

“You also yelled ‘get up’ at me.”

“You did get up.”

He huffs. “Supportive.”

“I’m very motivational.”

He smiles, eyes still on Logan across the room. “Yeah, Coach, you’re a real asset.”

She presses her thumb into the muscle at the top of his shoulder before he can get too smug, and his mouth shuts in the middle of whatever he was about to say. There’s a small drop in his posture, a breath leaving through his nose, his head tipping forward half an inch because the pressure hits somewhere useful.

“Oh,” she says softly, pleased. “There he is.”

“Don’t sound so happy about my suffering.”

“I’m happy about being right.”

He hums quietly. “You usually are.”

She starts working at his shoulders properly, thumbs pressing slow circles into the hard knots there, fingers sliding under the edge of his hoodie collar. Garrett tries to keep participating in the conversation around him, because Garrett Graham could be dying and still find time to chirp a teammate, but she feels him lose focus by degrees. 

His answers get shorter. His hand drops from his beer to rest loosely on his thigh. When she presses into the muscle beside his neck, he makes a low sound under his breath that is almost nothing and somehow still deeply satisfying.

Dean notices, of course. Dean would notice a private moment through drywall.

“Oh, that’s cute,” he says from the floor, voice carrying with surgical precision. “Captain’s getting a little spa treatment.”

Garrett doesn't open his eyes. “You jealous, Di Laurentis?”

“Of a shoulder rub? No. Of your girlfriend looking at you like you just returned from war? Little bit.”

Allie leans around him. “He did get slammed pretty hard.”

Dean points at her. “See? This is why I date women. Compassion.”

Tucker takes a sip of beer. “You date Allie because she tolerates you.”

“That too.”

She ignores them, and keeps working her thumbs into Garrett’s shoulders. The only problem is the chain. It keeps getting in the way, slipping under her fingers every time she moves toward the base of his neck, catching lightly against her knuckle, dragging sideways over his skin. She shifts it once. Twice. The third time, Garrett reaches up without looking, catches her wrist, and then lifts his other hand to the clasp.

“Here,” he says.

She pauses. “What?”

He takes the chain off in one smooth motion, turning his head enough to glance up at her with that soft, amused look that always feels worse when other people are around because it's not performative. It's just his face, open for one second before he remembers to make a joke. “Here, baby. Wear it before you strangle me with it.”

The room hears baby. Naturally. The room reacts with the dignity of wolves spotting an injured deer. Logan’s head snaps over. “Oh, wow.”

Dean sits up so fast Allie has to move her knees. “Did he just give her the chain?”

Tucker’s mouth twitches. “Big night.”

Garrett points vaguely at all of them without turning around. “Everybody shut up.”

No one shuts up. That would go against the entire founding philosophy of the house.

She bends down anyway, smiling despite herself, hair falling forward over one shoulder. Garrett lifts the chain around her neck from where he sits, reaching back and up, his fingers careful as they brush the sides of her throat. It's an awkward angle, and he fumbles once with the clasp.

Dean gasps. “He’s putting jewellery on her. In public. Garrett Graham has fallen.”

“I will throw this beer at you,” Garrett says.

“No, you won’t. Your girl’s wearing your chain and touching your shoulders. You’re domesticated now.”

Logan lifts his cup. “RIP to a slut.”

Garrett finally opens his eyes and looks over. “I’m still alive, asshole.”

“Physically,” Logan says. “Spiritually, you’re picking baby names.”

She laughs into Garrett’s hair before she can stop herself, and his hands settle briefly at her collarbone once the clasp is done, thumbs brushing over the chain where it sits against her skin. 

The touch is quick. Almost hidden. But his eyes stay there for a second too long, and the whole loud room blurs slightly at the edges in that private way it sometimes does around him, even when Dean is three feet away preparing to be the worst person alive.

The chain is warm from Garrett’s skin when it lands against her throat. Something about that should not matter as much as it does.

Garrett’s head tips back until he can look up at her. “Good?”

She nods, fingers touching the chain. “Good.”

“Can I have my massage now, or are we hosting a ceremony?”

“Ceremony,” Dean says immediately. “I have a speech.”

“No one wants that,” Tucker says.

“I do,” Logan contributes, raising a hand.

Garrett groans and drops his head forward again, but she can see the grin at the corner of his mouth, tucked away where the boys cannot fully get to it.

She goes back to his shoulders, the chain now resting against her instead of him, rising and falling gently with her breathing as she works the tension out from under his hoodie.

The boys keep going, because of course they do.

“Whipped,” Dean says.

“Tragically,” Logan adds.

“Clinically,” Tucker says, which makes Allie laugh so hard she almost spills her drink.

Garrett lifts one hand just enough to flip them off without opening his eyes. “Keep talking. I’m cutting all of you from the power play.”

“You can’t cut me from the power play,” Dean says. “I am the power play.”

She leans closer, thumbs pressing into Garrett’s neck, and murmurs, “They’re not wrong, you know.”

His eyes open slightly. “Careful.”

“What?” she says, voice innocent near his ear. “You gave me your chain in front of everyone.”

“You were choking me with it.”

“I was massaging your shoulders.”

“Poorly.”

She pinches him lightly.

He laughs, catching her wrist and bringing her hand down just long enough to kiss the inside of it, quick and warm and entirely too natural for a room full of men actively trying to ruin his reputation. Then he lets her go and sinks back against the couch, shoulders finally loosening under her hands.

Across the room, Logan makes a wounded noise. “Oh my God. He kissed her hand. We lost him.”

Dean presses his beer to his heart. “He was so young.”

Tucker, dry as dust, says, “He died doing what he loved. Pretending he wasn’t in love.”

Garrett’s jaw ticks once, but the smile wins. She feels it more than sees it, the small shift under her cheek when she bends down again and rests against him for a second, her arms around his shoulders, his chain warm at her throat, the whole loud, stupid house moving around them.

“Love is a strong word,” Garrett says, which is exactly the sort of thing Garrett says when everyone is looking and the truth has wandered too close to the middle of the room.

She smiles against his cheek. “Mm.”

His hand comes up and covers her forearm, fingers curling there, thumb sweeping once over her skin in a slow little pass that says more than his mouth is willing to risk with Dean waiting to pounce.

Around them, the boys keep chirping, the television keeps replaying Garrett’s goal from the second period, someone in the kitchen shouts about beer pong, and the chain rests against her collarbone like a tiny, ridiculous victory.

Garrett turns his head just enough that his mouth brushes near her temple, hidden from most of the room by the angle of her body.

“You look good in it,” he says quietly.

Her hands pause on his shoulders for half a second.

Then Dean yells, “I can see you whispering sweet nothings, Graham,” and Garrett closes his eyes like he’s begging a very unhelpful God for patience, and she laughs so hard into his hair that the chain jumps lightly at her throat.

❄︎ ❄︎ ❄︎

taglist ⋆⁺₊ ₄₄❅. @xlinxdax0704  |  @snowtargaryen  |  @goodbyetuesday  |  @staystrongsoa  |  @dadshirrt  |  @miya-111  |  @softburrow  |  @darlinglux  |  @waitingforsmartpeople  |  @seon9yeonie  |  @laceyvt3  |  @sunny747  |  @cosmoh0lic  |  @blackgurlieee  |  @matchieee  |  @loomiz  |  @corvusmorte  |  @erin-alice  |  @cloudsxcherriesx  |  @lolskunk  |  @elizabeth123456767  |  @purplerainx1  |  @pinkgiraffebeach  |  @lucyysthings  |  @outpostsworld  |  @s0ftdr1nks  |  @maybankslover  |  @instantplaiddream  |  @droppedyourhnd  |  @bsenpai  |  @urfavadi  |  @em1ly57  |  @parker-barnes-af  |  @violyn20  |  @bootyliciousbutterfly  |  @bloomingflower13  |  @rexit-mo  |  @tpwkmera  |  @cherryrry581  |  @stevesxwhore  |  @solapeachtea  |  @giuliaasstuff  |  @pamacs-macs  |  @loonylosworld  |  @alice07ea  |  @hitting-euphoria4  |  @tessf13  |  @canupourme14theroad  |  @jayda12  |  @kmc1989  |  click here to be added to the taglist!