𝓛𝓲𝓵𝔂.𝓮𝔁𝓮𝓮

 every time you went out in public with your husband, you earned a significant amount of stares. i mean, who wouldn't? a grouchy, silver fox with his stunning girl, who seemed a little young for him, but still clung onto him regardless.

you never asked for anything outrageously lavish. sure, there were small things like overpriced hair appointments, boutique dresses, and new makeup drops. but that’s just how it was in your relationship! and of course, dex never cared. he would spend endlessly on his girl without hesitation.

you paused in front of the new boutique that had just opened downtown. your soft fingers that laced through dex’s calloused ones slipped through for just a moment to move towards the glass display. a mannequin wearing a soft, pearl slip dress that would be perfect for a night on the bayou. the straps were thin, and no padding was in sight.

you could imagine dex’s hands masquerading all over your figure before he shed the winded silk. you peeked at the price tag and turned back to dex, lacing your hand back together with his. 

you kept walking, but dex did not. 

“go try it on,” he urged.

“it’s okay, dex, ‘s too much.”

“you ain’t the one buying it, doll,” he simply said before gently pulling you towards the entrance. 

you bit the flesh of your cheek to hold back your cheeky grin. 

the dress looked like it was sculpted around you, fabric spilling in all the right places. when you came out of the dressing room, dex was sitting on the chaise with arms crossed, legs spread wide, and curved lips. 

“spin for me, princess.”

you did a little twirl, looking behind you in the mirror. the posterior side of the dress was open-backed and quite low-cut. thank goodness you wore a thong.

“do you like it, dex?”

“looks beautiful on you, baby. c’mon.”

you silently squealed, rushing back inside the dressing room to change back.

once you came out, dex took the dress from you and pulled out his card. you held onto his bicep with a bright smile, pressing a quick kiss to it. dex handed the cashier his card without looking at the white plastic tag.

on the way home, your legs were propped up with a gift bag and the sparkliest tissue paper possible. you leaned across the center console to lay a kiss on dex’s cheek, leaving a little shine of pink lip gloss.

🗡*ೃ༄ 𖣠

sunday mornings may have been your favorite part of the week. everyone was gone for church in the neighborhood, so it was just you, dex, and the sunrise of the south. golden light came through the bay window where you sat, reading a new romance novel your friend had recommended to you. the record player was spinning Tanya Tucker at a low hum.

your hair was loose, not bothering to style it until later, when you went to the farmer’s market. around you, dex’s shirt draped over, as well as a pair of his old boxers. 

dex came into the kitchen and put down his cup of coffee before making his way to you. he sat at the edge of the window seat. he was still in his sweatpants and an old shirt from quantico that he wore last night. 

dex stared at you like you hung the moon, never getting tired of you. his beautiful north star.

you looked up and smiled, seeing dex stare shamelessly at you. “what?” a giggle escaped.

his cheeks warm, “nothing.”

dex now put his legs up, facing across from you.

you looked up from your novel, “whatcha thinking about?”

“just you.”

you put your thumb between the pages you were between and climbed into dex’s lap, resuming your slow sunday morning.

🗡*ೃ༄ 𖣠

you had a decent amount of followers on your instagram, mainly because of your old sorority sisters and your aesthetic. you never posted anything too dramatic, just lifestyle, some things you found cute, and your husband. last night, you posted a photo of you two at dinner. you were leaning into dex’s arm, with his other hand on the back of your chair. it was candlelit and golden, just like the natural glow of your town. 

dex had instagram, but it was the most plain and boring account you’ve seen since you stalked your professor from your freshman year. he had a profile picture that consisted of you and him, no posts, like a hundred followers at most, and a bio that consisted of your handle with a heart next to it.

you read him the comments on your post, lying your bare legs across his lap on the couch.

“this one says, ‘the age gap is a need’.”

a pause, “what does that mean?”

“it means she wants a relationship like ours!”

“here,” you said, showing him. “thus one says ‘he definitely carries all her shopping and grocery bags.’”

“i do carry all your bags.”

“that’s why i love you. anyways, this one says ‘my roman empire.’ aw, karen commented that!”

“why?”

“‘cause we’re cute and i guess matt isn't from her roman empire, i don’t know,” you laughed with no ill intent. 

he looked down at you with raised brow, but he wasn’t displeased by the comments on your posts. his old man self just didn’t understand the new slang. 

realizing you never showed dex the original post, you faced your phone towards him. he took the phone and squinted, yet looked at it from far away, something you noticed older people did a lot. 

“you look gorgeous, angel.”

“we both look good.”

“you do,” he doubled down, stroking your thigh.

🗡*ೃ༄ 𖣠

you knew it was summer in the south when it started raining while the sun was still shining brighter than ever. you didn’t look at the weather beforehand, causing you and dex to stand under the awning of the shop. you also decided to make dex park all the way at the end of the street, even though he advised against it.

you frowned, upset that you did a full face today and now it was going to be ruined. dex removed his coat before you could even look up at him and put it around your body.

“dexy, you’re going to get soaked!” you whined, pulling the coat tighter anyway. it smelt so much like him, like stained mahogany wood and engine oil.

“don’t worry about it, princess. you got all dolled up. don’t wanna ruin your look.” 

you smiled, silently thanking him with the flutter of your eyes. 

you both walked to the car as quickly as possible. you looked up at him, and he was gazing ahead, completely undisturbed. you grabbed onto his hand, but soon let the jacket just fall onto your shoulders.

he immediately reached to put it back over your head to avoid your hair getting wet, but you jerked back. 

“it’s okay, honey, gonna shower anyway. and, the rain feels good.”

dex nodded, understanding that you wanted to let loose a little. the cold rain washed the sticky sweat and cream that clung to your body. you held onto his hand and skipped along the sidewalk, splashing your kitten heels into puddles.

your husband was just happy you were having a fun time, not minding a little water either.

both of you got into the car, soaked as can be, but laughing joyfully. your hair was damp and starting to stick up as dex’s graying strands flattened. your mascara was slightly running, and your lip gloss was mixed with rainwater, but neither of you cared.

dex looked at you and said you were still beautiful anyway, and drove you home.

you walked onto the driveway holding your face in his coat lapel to avoid the nosy old ladies next door.

🗡*ೃ༄ 𖣠

the bullfrogs croaked on the logs and fireflies soared as the night settled. you were tucked into bed with dex, your head on his chest and his arm around you. his strong legs tangled with your soft ones. you were drifting off to sleep, tired from a long day of shopping.

he stroked your head and pressed a kiss on your forehead. his voice slightly above a whisper, “you know you’re the best thing i’ve got, right?”

although you were already whisked away in wonderland, you leaned into dex more and found his hand in the darkness of your room and held it. he exhaled slowly and said no more.

🗡*ೃ༄ 𖣠

memorial day weekend was always a pleasure in your town. grandkids of the old ladies next door visited, causing the yearly ruckus that you forced dex to ignore. you were invited to a multitude of barbecues and bar nights. parades down the town hall and holding babies that you had no relation to.

you dragged an old cushion from a chair on the patio and fluffed it out before lying flatly against it on the porch swing. you were lying across it with your hair fanned out, sunglasses on, and dress pooling across your lower thighs. one arm was folded behind your head as the other dangled off the side of the swing. 

down the street, someone was mowing the lawn, creating a distant white noise. 

dex was sitting straight up against the swing, legs stretched out. his eyes were half closed, sipping on a sweet tea you made him. your legs were laid out across his lap, feeling the soft fabric of his linen pants.

you felt his hand loosely around your ankle, resting there. you didn’t open your eyes to study his fidgeting behind your oversized sunglasses. 

dex then lifted your ankle and pressed his mouth to it. his soft lips on your silky skin made you coo. he brought it back down and rubbed circles into your feet.

you softly spoke, “dex.”

he hummed in reply, and neither of you said anything, because there wasn’t anything to say. he then leaned over and kissed the curve of your knee that was propped up, feeling the soft stubble on you. 

you lifted your sunglasses for a moment to look at your husband and smiled, whispering a soft ‘love you.’

“love you more, doll.”

you pushed the shades back on and leaned your head back, basking in the domesticity of your life. 

Garrett grins, the corners of his lips tugging up in what looks to be a mix of amusement and pleasure at your easy obedience. "Good girl," he murmurs, fingers slipping off your waist, only to intertwine with your loose ones by your side. "Up," he says in the softest voice possible.

You blink up at him through your lashes. He tilts his head at you, resembling a bit of a golden retriever with those brown eyes fixed on you, solely on you. You're warm under his attention.

"Didn't anyone tell you it's rude to stare, baby?" Garrett says softly, a teasing chide to his words.

It's your turn to let out a scoff now, mirroring his, and his eyebrows soften in appreciation of the soft sound from your lips. "You're my boyfriend, I think I'm allowed to admire you."

His grin widens. "Oh, is that what you're doing? Admiring me?"

"Mhm."

"Huh," Garrett murmurs, lifting his free hand to cup your cheek, watching the way you melt in real time with adoring eyes. "When did you get so smooth?"

You smile prettily up at him, your best smile, and his breath catches in his throat. "Learned from the best."

"Did you?" he brushes your cheek with a calloused thumb, so gentle it makes something in your heart splinter and crack in two.

"Come on, sweetheart," he gentles his voice even further, giving your cheek a gentle pat. "Let's take a nap. You look exhausted."

You frown up at him, lips jutting out in a pout. "That's so mean, do I not look pretty?"

Garrett curls his arms around you, picking you up with an ease that still surprises you. Your legs naturally wind around his waist, head lolling forward to find rest on his shoulder. "You always look pretty, baby," he hums, kissing the side of your head. "My gorgeous girl, hm?"

Letting out a pleased sound of acknowledgement, you let Garrett climb the rest of the stairs and make his way down the hallway. You pass Dean's room on the way, and the door is wide open.

You don't bother lifting your head from Garrett's shoulder, you're already sure what's going on in there. Your boyfriend wrinkles his nose above you. "Dean, how many fucking times! Close the door, yeah?"

Dean lets out a sound to the affirmative, but makes no move to get up from where he's got a pretty girl perched on top of him.

Garrett pinches the bridge of his nose and lets out an annoyed sigh, shifting you on his hip to close the door with one hand. "Idiot," he mutters under his breath. He hitches you higher against his chest, and you go willingly, boneless and warm under his affections.

The floorboards creak under Garrett's weight as he moves to cover the distance from Dean's room to his. "Tired, sweetheart?" He asks, voice soft again, a low rumble to the timbre of his words.

"No," you mumble against his neck, pressing your nose against the space between his jaw and shoulder.

He lets out a laugh, opening his door with his foot, shifting you in his arms a little so he can flop onto his bed, back against the headrest, with you in his lap. "You're lying."

"Am not."

"Are too," he grins, watching you peer up at him with half-lidded, obviously sleepy eyes. "You're barely awake, pretty."

You let out an annoyed whine, hands finding home on his chest. "I'm awake, thank you very much. And I want a kiss."

Garrett's smile widens. "Do you now?"

"Don't be a jerk," you reply, narrowing your eyes at him. "I'm allowed to ask for a kiss."

"You are," he hums, tugging you closer, one big hand lifting from your waist for your neck, brushing idly at the tender skin of your jaw. "You do have to say please, though, honey. Manners."

Groaning frustratedly, you add, "please can I have kiss?"

Your boyfriend smiles, thumbing at your cheekbone. "You can, baby," he murmurs, leaning down to meet you halfway. Your hand slides up to the nape of his neck, thumbing at the baby hairs there, and he sighs against your mouth, deepening the kiss.

It's lazy, the kind of kiss that isn't going anywhere, and doesn't need to, either. His tongue brushes your lower lip, seeking entry, and you open for him. He tastes like mint, the gum he's always chewing.

"Garrett," you breathe when he pulls away for a second to get air.

"Shh." His lips trail to the corner of your mouth, your jaw, the soft spot below your ear. "Just relax, sweetheart."

Also, he’ll be closer to nature that way and can be his inner Snow White in peace.

No zoos, definitely no zoos. But you both do end up visiting a couple of wildlife sanctuaries. By the end, you’ve successfully gotten 200 pictures of Damian getting his cheeks pulled at by a monkey.

Definitely see Damian as the type of guy that dresses like a local to the point where people know you’re tourists only because of you. Also because you’ve dragged him through hundreds of local shops and now he’s got his hands full of bags.

Damian is the type of man on vacation that doesn’t bother leaving space in his suitcase because he knows he’s only bringing back MAX 3 souvenirs.

He keeps his second suitcase empty for you.

Vacations with Damian quickly turn passionate because he enjoys the fact that no one is here to bother or interrupt the two of you. No work, no saving Gotham, just uninterrupted time with you in a a foreign bed.

He’ll give you the night of your life and leave you limping but still expect you to be up and running by 5:30am sharp because you guys have a hike that needs doing.

Damian pretends like he didn’t plan much when whole time he was hunched up on the Batcomputer night and day trying to plan the best vacation for you.

He’s had to fight his family not to intrude your trip, but he doesn’t tell you that much because then you’d feel bad and in turn it’ll make him feel bad. You already know the end, and next thing you know, the whole family would be there cramping up your cabin.

Vacation with Damian Wayne includes feeling bummed out on your beach chair because every woman in the vicinity is staring at him since the second he slipped his shirt off.

You can’t blame them, setting sun rays shinning on those delicious abs, there’s even drops of water dripping down to his v-line and you lowkey have to restrain yourself not to bone him in front of all these women.

Queue a confused Damian as to why you’re sulking at him for ‘being too hot’. He rolls his eyes at first but then he starts thinking that he’s actually ruining your trip and pulls you to his lap.

In front of…everyone.

You’re ashamed that Damian had to go out of his comfort zone just to appease your childish sulking but there’s something so satisfying in the way the women roll their eyes at the sight.

Also, your back against his brick-wall of a chest feels amazing and you’re not sure you care about anything else at that moment.

Damian’s utterly embarrassed when you ask some grandma passing by to take a picture of you both along the shore with your digital camera, but the sight of you so giddy makes up for it.

She did take killer pictures though.

He does everything. From surfing, to jet skiing, to parasailing. You’ve got to have a strong heart to date someone like Damian.

Vacation with Damian means seeing that side of him that he rarely shows, even to you. He’s relaxed and offguard and it makes your heart swell all the most.

He definitely ends up befriending the local cat and HAS to end up saving one animal while he’s there.

Also, you have to fight him not to bring back every damn stray he sees back to the manor.

You’re not sure how you’re supposed to fit 6 dogs, 2 cats and one huge fuckass iguana back in the jet, but apparently that’s something you’re supposed to figure out.

“Don’t worry about it” becomes your favorite line on vacation. There’s nothing too expensive for Damian Wayne, and nothing too heavy that those beautiful muscles you’re currently drooling over can’t carry back to the room for you.

Damian opted out of a tour guide so you both could take all your time exploring. Also, so he could stop at every single point of interest to sketch them out.

He definitely sketches you secretly every time your eyes are lost on the horizon. He even writes little notes at the bottom like “She’s entranced by a toucan, might have to get her one back home” or “ Fell in a river slipping on a mossy rock after i told her 15 times to be careful. Still looks beautiful as ever, even with algae in her hair.”

If you two aren’t already married yet then Damian would definitely consider proposing to you on holiday. He doesn’t want to do anything half-assed though, so when you do end up going back home, he’ll spend the next months planning the best trip for you and start looking into rings.

Don’t expect to spent the whole day lazing about though. Even if Damian means to be relaxing, his routine makes it so that he’s never idle for too long.

If you want to spend one day resting up in your rental, don’t be surprised when he’s gone by 5am to go hiking or at the closest gym.

Anyways…just make the mental image of Damian with one hand on the wheel and the other on your thigh. He’s got sunglasses on and the sunsets’ hitting his complexion perfectly. You’re surrounded by greenery and you’re absolutely in love.

-

On the fourth floor of the latest hotel they’d been sent to, the room Garrett and Dean were sharing was quiet except for the low hum of the air conditioning and the occasional sound of traffic far below. It was a standard away-game setup, two queen beds separated by a nightstand, soft lighting from the lamps, and the curtains half-drawn over the city view. Garrett was lying down on the bed closest to the window with his eyes closed, shirtless in just a pair of black sweats, one arm tucked behind his head. Dean lounged on the other bed, scrolling through his phone in a hoodie and gym shorts he’d changed into without showering the sweat off.

“Bro, that hit in the second period? I swear the guy saw his life flash before his eyes,” Dean laughed, still riding the high.

Garrett grinned, stretching, and opened his eyes. “Had to remind them who runs this league. You weren’t exactly subtle either with that last assist. Show-off.”

“Me? Never,” Dean shot back with a smirk. “Just doing my job. Someone’s gotta make you look good out there.”

She smiled to herself hearing the conversation and rolled her eyes at the useless testosterone display as she finished freshening up in the bathroom. The hot shower had felt amazing after a long night at the arena. She changed into her soft silk pajama set, a little navy camisole and matching shorts, and stepped out, towel-drying the ends of her damp hair.

Dean looked up first and grinned. “Finally. I thought you drowned in there or something,” he said, his tone light and teasing. “You were in that bathroom for like twenty minutes.”

She rolled her eyes with a smile. “Some of us actually wash ourselves. Sorry I didn’t want to smell like popcorn and beer.”

Garrett turned his head toward her, and his expression softened instantly. A small pout formed on his lips as he took her in. “You changed,” he said, voice quieter than Dean’s, almost disappointed. “You were wearing my shirt earlier.”

She walked over to his bed, the carpet soft under her bare feet. “As much as I love wearing your hoodie, it isn’t exactly what I would sleep in.”

Garrett reached out and gently caught her hand, tugging her closer until she was standing between his knees. His thumb brushed softly over her knuckles affectionately. “But I like you in my clothes,” he murmured, looking up at her with that familiar, gentle gaze he saved only for her. “Especially after a win. You looked like a cute little cheerleader.”

She smiled and ran her fingers through his messy hair. “You’re such a baby sometimes.”

He leaned forward and pressed a slow, soft kiss to her stomach through the thin silk, his hands settling warmly on her hips. “I’m your baby,” he corrected, voice low and sweet. He rested his forehead against her for a moment, breathing her in. “Come here.”

She climbed onto the bed and settled beside him. Garrett immediately wrapped a strong arm around her waist, pulling her close so her head rested on his chest. His skin was warm, and she could feel the steady beat of his heart under her cheek. He pressed a gentle kiss to the top of her head, his fingers tracing lazy circles on her lower back.

Dean cringed visibly and watched them from the other bed with an amused smirk, but there was no mockery in it. “You two are disgusting you know that?” he said, shaking his head. “Absolutely no pity for me.”

Garrett didn’t even look at him, just held her a little tighter. “Jealous?”

“A little,” Dean admitted with a laugh. “But mostly nauseous. Get a room, guys… wait, you already have one. And I’m stuck in it.”

She giggled softly against Garrett’s chest. His hand slid up to cradle the back of her neck, thumb stroking tenderly along her hairline. The room felt warm and comfortable, the post-game adrenaline slowly shifting into something softer and more intimate.

Garrett tilted her chin up gently and kissed her slowly. His soft lips were just expressing how much he loved her without any words needed. When he pulled back, his voice was barely above a whisper against her lips. “Missed you during the game,” he said. “Kept thinking about coming back here to you.”

One of her eyebrows shot up. “Garrett… I was literally in the stands.”

“Not close enough,” he shrugged.

She nestled closer into Garrett’s side, her cheek pressed against the solid warmth of his bare chest. His arm stayed wrapped securely around her, fingers tracing slow, soothing patterns along her spine through the thin silk of her camisole.

Dean let out a long, dramatic sigh from the other bed. “Jesus Christ,” he groaned, throwing an arm over his eyes. “Remind me again why I switched room with Logan?”

Garrett chuckled softly, the sound rumbling under her ear. He didn’t loosen his hold on her. “Cry harder,” Garrett teased. “Maybe next game they’ll finally give you your own room.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean muttered, rolling off his bed. “I’m gonna go take a shower before I throw up from how sweet you two are. Try not to fuck while I’m in there, alright? These walls are thin.” He grabbed a towel and headed into the bathroom, closing the door behind him with a loud click.

The moment the door shut, the energy in the room shifted. Garrett’s hand slid lower on her back, slipping just under the hem of her camisole to touch bare skin. His closeness felt more… intentional, somehow. His touch was still gentle, but there was heat behind it now.

He tilted her chin up with two fingers, his blue eyes soft but darkening with want as he looked at her. “I meant what I said earlier,” he murmured, voice low. “I was thinking about you the whole game. Every time I got hit, all I wanted was to come back here and feel you.”

He kissed her deeply, his lips warm and unhurried. One big hand cradled the side of her face as his tongue gently teased hers. She melted into it, her fingers tracing the hard lines of his chest and abs, feeling the faint ridges of old bruises.

When he pulled back, his forehead rested against hers. “I love when you wear these little pajamas,” he whispered, his hand sliding down to cup her ass through the silk shorts. “But I still wish you were in my shirt. Nothing looks better on you than my name.”

She smiled, brushing her nose against his. “You’re really stuck on that, huh?”

“Mhm.” He kissed her again, slower this time, then trailed his lips along her jaw to her neck. His breath was warm against her skin as he gently sucked on the sensitive spot just below her ear, making her shiver.

His hand moved between them, slipping under her camisole to cup her breast, thumb brushing lazily over her nipple until it hardened under his touch. The touch was soft, but his breathing was getting heavier.

“Garrett…” she whispered slightly worried, pressing closer.

“I know Dean’s right there,” he murmured against her throat, voice husky. “But I need you, baby. Been thinking about being inside you since the final buzzer.”

He rolled them slightly so she was half underneath him, one thick thigh pressing between hers. His hand continued its gentle exploration, sliding down her stomach and dipping just under the waistband of her silk shorts. His fingers brushed lightly over her, teasing, feeling how warm and soft she was. “I’ll be quiet,” he breathed, kissing her again, deeper this time. “Just let me touch you… let me make you feel good. You know this ‘s gonna be quick.” He winked.

He kissed her again languidly, swallowing her soft sigh as his middle finger gently traced along her slit. “Shh, baby,” he whispered against her lips, voice low and husky. “You have to stay quiet for me. Dean’s right in the bathroom… we can’t let him hear.”

She nodded, biting her lip as his finger slowly parted her folds. He took his time, stroking her with feather-light touches, spreading the slickness that had already gathered. The pad of his finger circled her clit lazily, drawing gentle, teasing patterns that made her hips twitch. “Good girl,” he murmured, pressing a soft kiss to her temple. “Just breathe through it. Let me take care of you.”

He dipped lower and slowly pushed one thick finger inside her. The stretch was delicious, just what she needed. He curled it gently, stroking along her inner walls with sensual precision, feeling every flutter and clench around him. His palm pressed against her clit as he worked her slowly, pumping in and out with unhurried strokes.

She buried her face into his neck, muffling a whimper against his skin. The sensation of his thick finger moving inside her, combined with the heat of his body pressed against hers, made her tremble.

“Fuck, you’re so wet already,” Garrett breathed, barely audible. He added a second finger, stretching her a little more. The slow drag of both fingers sliding in and out of her soaked pussy was torture. He scissored them gently, exploring her, curling them upward to press against that sensitive spot inside her with every careful thrust.

Her breathing grew shaky. She gripped his shoulder tightly, nails digging into his skin as she fought to stay quiet. A tiny, broken sound escaped her anyway.

Garrett’s free hand came up to cradle the back of her head, pressing her face more firmly into the crook of his neck. “Quiet, baby,” he soothed, voice rough with arousal even as his fingers kept their slow rhythm. “I know it feels good… I can feel how tight you’re getting around my fingers. But you can’t moan like that. Not yet.”

He angled his hand slightly, pressing deeper while his thumb found her clit again, rubbing slow, firm circles in time with the thrusting of his fingers. The dual sensation, his thick fingers stroking inside her while his thumb worked her clit, sent warm waves of pleasure rolling through her body.

She panted softly against his neck, her hips rolling subtly against his hand, chasing the pleasure he was giving her. Every slow thrust of his fingers made wet, quiet sounds beneath the silk of her shorts. Her thighs trembled, clenching around his wrist as the pressure built.

“That’s it,” Garrett whispered, kissing the top of her head tenderly even as his fingers continued their never-ending teasing. “Just let go, yeah? I’ve got you.”

The wet sounds of his thick fingers moving through her slickness were barely audible under the hum of the air conditioner. He kept her face tucked into his neck, one hand gently stroking her hair while the other worked between her thighs. “You’re getting soooo tight, baby,” he whispered lovingly against her ear. “Does that feel good? Just my fingers stretching this pretty pussy?”

She nodded frantically against his skin, biting down on her lip to stay quiet. Her hips rolled in tiny, desperate circles, chasing the slow pleasure he was giving her.

Just then, the bathroom door clicked open. Her eyes shot open.

Dean stepped out wearing nothing but a white towel slung low around his hips. He froze mid-step when he saw them, her pressed against Garrett’s chest, Garrett’s hand clearly moving under her silk shorts. “Woah, okay!” Dean exclaimed, immediately slapping a hand over his eyes. “My bad, my bad! I definitely just walked in on something I shouldn’t have.” He peeked through his fingers, a playful grin spreading across his face. “Jesus, Graham. Couldn’t even wait ‘till I was asleep?“

At the exact moment her eyes landed on Dean, something shifted unequivocally.

Water still clung to his broad shoulders and chest, slowly tracing glistening paths down the defined ridges of his abs. The white towel hung dangerously low on his hips, revealing the sharp V-lines that disappeared beneath the fabric. His hair was damp and tousled, a few droplets sliding down the side of his neck. Her body betrayed her instantly.

Her pussy clenched hard around Garrett’s thick fingers, a deep, involuntary spasm that made her inner walls flutter and squeeze greedily. A fresh rush of warm wetness flooded around his knuckles, coating his hand as her slick heat pulsed rhythmically.

Garrett noticed immediately.

He let out a low, amused breath against her neck, his fingers still buried deep inside her. “Whoa… what was that, baby?” he whispered, voice soft and teasing, though she could hear the dark delight underneath. He curled his fingers slowly, pressing against that sensitive spot as he felt her continue to throb around him. “Your pussy just told me something very interesting.”

She buried her flushed face into the crook of his neck again, embarrassed heat blooming across her cheeks, but her hips gave a tiny, helpless roll against his hand.

Garrett chuckled quietly, pressing a gentle kiss to her temple while his fingers continued their slow, sensual strokes. “Shh, it’s okay,” he murmured lovingly, clearly enjoying her reaction. “You don’t have to hide it from me. I felt every little pulse. You got so much wetter just looking at him fresh out of the shower.”

Dean, still with his hand over his eyes, laughed quietly. “Well damn,” he said, voice light but growing huskier. “Did I just cause a reaction over there? Is that what’s happening over there? I can’t see, but I must say that’s a little flattering, princess.”

Garrett’s fingers kept moving, drawing quiet, wet sounds from between her thighs as he kept her tucked against his chest. “Tell him the truth, baby,” Garrett whispered teasingly against her ear, nipping gently at her lobe. “Tell Dean what your pussy just did when you saw him.”

The blonde slowly lowered his hand from his eyes, the playful smirk on his face deepening as he watched them. Droplets of water still rolled lazily down his chest, catching the low lamplight before disappearing into the edge of the towel.

She finally met Dean’s gaze, embarrassed but unbearably aroused. Her walls fluttered again around his fingers as another rush of wetness coated his hand. “I… I couldn’t help it,” she breathed, voice shaky. “You looked so… slutty. The towel. I just…”

Dean let out a low, amused chuckle, stepping closer to the edge of the bed. The towel clung to his hips, doing very little to hide the growing bulge beneath it. “Aw, princess,” he said, tone playful but his eyes darkening with heat. “You really liked the view that much? That’s cute as hell.”

Garrett smiled against her temple and slowly withdrew his fingers from her dripping heat. She felt empty for a moment, her pussy clenching around nothing. He brought his glistening fingers up to her lips. “Open,” he whispered.

She obeyed, tasting herself on his fingers as he slid them into her mouth. The sweet, musky flavor coated her tongue while Garrett watched her with hooded eyes.

Dean’s gaze was locked on her as well, the smirk fading into something more intense. Garrett pulled his fingers from her mouth and kissed her deeply, tasting her arousal on her tongue. When he pulled back, his voice had grown rougher. “Get up, baby.”

She slid off the bed on slightly unsteady legs. Garrett stood behind her, tall and solid, his hands settling on her waist. He guided her forward until she stood right in front of Dean.

She looked up at Dean, heart pounding. The scent of his fresh shower gel mixed with the clean, masculine smell of his skin filled her senses. Without thinking, she rose onto her toes, placed her hands on his warm, damp chest, and kissed him.

The first touch was tentative, soft lips brushing, testing. Then Dean exhaled against her mouth and tilted his head, deepening the kiss with unhurried curiosity. His lips were thinner and slightly warmer than Garrett’s, moving with the confidence of a man who knew what he was doing, but was trying to rein himself in. He tasted faintly of mint and something uniquely him.

He kissed her like he was discovering her, gently sucking on her bottom lip, then teasing it with the tip of his tongue before sliding inside. His tongue moved differently, more playful and curious, stroking against hers in long caresses, retreating only to return with a gentle flick or a teasing swirl. One of his hands cupped the side of her face, thumb brushing her cheekbone, while the other rested on her lower back, pulling her closer until her body pressed against his mostly-naked, heated skin.

It felt new. Different. Exciting in its unfamiliarity. Every slow movement of his mouth and tongue felt like a question, learning how she liked to be kissed, savoring her reactions. When she let out a tiny, involuntary sound, Dean smiled against her lips and kissed her deeper.

While she was still lost in the newness of Dean’s kiss, Garrett moved in closer from behind.

His tall, muscular body pressed flush against her back, the heat of his bare chest searing through the thin silk of her camisole. She felt the hard ridge of his erection nestling firmly between her ass cheeks, his strong hands gripping her hips as he kissed the side of her neck with slow, open-mouthed kisses.

She was deliciously caught between them.

Dean’s warm, still-damp chest pressed against her front, while Garrett’s hotter body molded against her back. The contrast in their scents, their heat, and their touch made her head spin. Dean’s fresh shower smell mixed with Garrett’s deeper, more familiar, masculine scent, surrounded her completely.

Dean slowly pulled back from her lips, his eyes dark with lust. Without breaking eye contact, he leaned down and began kissing her chest. His warm lips trailed along the swell of her breasts, visible above the neckline of her camisole. He kissed the soft skin tenderly at first, then used his tongue, tasting her as he slowly dragged it along the curve of one breast.

She gasped softly, arching into his mouth.

Garrett’s grip on her hips tightened from behind, his voice low and rough against her ear.

“On your knees, baby.”

His words sent a fresh wave of heat through her. He gave her hips a light but firm squeeze, guiding her down. She slowly sank to her knees on the soft carpet between them. Both men towered over her now. Garrett shirtless in his sweats, eyes dark with lust, and Dean in nothing but a towel that was doing a poor job of hiding how hard he already was.

Garrett reached down and gently stroked her hair, his voice softer again but still carrying that edge of dominance. “She’s a good girl, isn’t she?”

Her boyfriend was the first to move. He pushed his sweats down just enough to free his thick cock, already leaking at the tip. He wrapped a hand around the base and guided it toward her mouth.

“Open,” he said, voice low and commanding.

She parted her lips obediently and he pushed forward, sliding his cock deep into her mouth in one smooth motion. Garrett didn’t ease her into it. He held the back of her head firmly and started fucking her mouth with slow, deliberate thrusts, pushing toward the back of her throat.

“Fuck… that’s it,” Garrett groaned, eyes half-lidded. “Take it deeper, baby. Let me feel that throat.”

She moaned around him, eyes watering slightly as she tried to relax her throat. The velvety weight of him stretched her lips wide, and the salty taste of his precum coated her tongue with every thrust.

Dean watched for a moment, then let out a low whistle.“Damn, Garrett. You’re not playing around tonight,” he said with a amused chuckle. He tugged his towel off, letting it drop to the floor. His cock sprang free, curving slightly upward.

Dean stepped closer and gently tapped his cock against her cheek. “My turn, princess. Don’t forget about me.”

Garrett reluctantly pulled out of her mouth, a string of spit connecting her lips to his glistening cock. She turned her head and took Dean into her mouth next. He was slightly thicker, but not longer than Garrett’s, and she had to stretch her jaw wider to accommodate him.

Dean groaned. “There we go… fuck, look at those pretty lips wrapped around me. You’re doing so good, princess.”

He let her set the pace at first, gently rocking his hips while she bobbed on his cock, sucking and swirling her tongue around the head. But then he grinned down at her. “C’mon, don’t be shy. Take a little more for me,” he teased, pushing just a bit deeper. “That’s my girl. You look so cute with your mouth full.”

Garrett stroked himself slowly as he watched her suck Dean. Then he grabbed her hair and guided her back to his cock.“Back to me,” he ordered, voice rougher. He pushed back into her mouth and immediately started thrusting deeper, more intensely than before. “Good fucking girl. Suck harder.”

She alternated between them, saliva dripping down her chin as she worked both cocks. When she was on Garrett, he was possessive and intense, holding her head steady, fucking her throat with deep, controlled strokes while praising her in a low, gravelly voice.

“That’s it. Choke on it, baby. You can take me.”

When she switched to Dean, he was more… wicked and teasing, lightly tapping her cheek with his cock when she pulled off to breathe, grinning down at her.

“Aw, look at you gasping for air. Too much cock for you, princess?” he teased, then groaned as she sucked him back in. “Yeahhh, just like that. You’re such a greedy little thing tonight.”

Garrett looked down at her with hungry eyes, thumb brushing her stretched lips. “She’s perfect,” he murmured, almost to himself. Then louder, “Keep going, baby. Show Dean how well you take care of us.”

At one point she had both of them close together, licking and sucking the heads of their cocks at the same time, her tongue swirling around them messily. Garrett’s hand tightened in her hair while Dean let out a breathy laugh.

“Fuck, man… your girl really knows what she’s doing,” Dean said, voice strained with pleasure but still amused.

“Mmm… you’re so thick,” she murmured breathlessly when she came up for air, still pumping Garrett’s cock with her hand. “Both of you… I can barely fit you.”

Dean chuckled, gently threading his fingers through her hair. “Flattery’s gonna get you everywhere, princess. Keep talking like that and I might cum down that pretty throat.”

Garrett finally pulled her up to her feet. Without warning, his mouth crashed down on hers in a deep, hungry kiss, his tongue claiming hers as one hand gripped the back of her neck. Then he spun her around and bent her over the edge of the bed.

“Stay right there,” he ordered, voice low and rough.

She braced her hands on the soft mattress, arching her back and pushing her ass up for him. Garrett hooked his fingers into the waistband of her silk shorts and slowly dragged them down her thighs, letting the fabric pool around her ankles. Cool air kissed her exposed, dripping pussy as he kicked her feet wider apart.

Dean climbed onto the bed, kneeling in front of her on the mattress so his thick cock bobbed heavily right in front of her face. “Open up again, princess,” Dean said with a wicked grin. “Don’t neglect me while your boyfriend fucks that pretty pussy.”

She parted her lips obediently and took him into her mouth just as Garrett rubbed the thick head of his cock up and down her soaked slit, coating himself in her wetness.

In one powerful thrust, Garrett buried himself deep inside her. A muffled cry tore from her throat around Dean’s cock as Garrett stretched her open. The sudden, burning fullness made her toes curl against the carpet.

“Fuck” she gasped breathlessly when she pulled off Dean for a second, voice trembling. “Garrett… you’re so deep. I can feel you everywhere.”

Garrett let out a low, guttural groan, his fingers digging hard into her hips as he started fucking her with heavy strokes. Each thrust slammed into her with force, the wet slap of his hips meeting her ass echoing through the suite. The sensation of his thick cock dragging against her sensitive walls, still slick from earlier, made her eyes flutter.

“That’s it, baby,” Garrett growled, voice dark and strained. “Take every fucking inch while you suck his cock.”

She moaned loudly around Dean’s length as Garrett picked up speed, pounding into her harder. The force of his thrusts pushed her forward, forcing Dean’s cock deeper into her throat with every stroke.

Dean stroked her hair tenderly, groaning with pleasure. “Holy shit, listen to how sloppy she sounds. You’re taking him so well, princess. Such a greedy little slut.”

She pulled off Dean’s cock with a wet gasp, strings of spit connecting her lips to his glistening shaft. Her voice came out shaky and desperate. “Harder, Garrett,” she begged, pushing back against his thrusts. “Please… fuck me harder. I need it.”

Garrett’s grip on her hips turned almost bruising. “You want it harder?” He slammed into her with a brutal thrust that made her cry out. “Like this?”

“Yes! Fuck, yes,” she moaned, before eagerly sucking Dean back into her mouth, bobbing her head sloppily while Garrett railed her from behind.

Dean let out a breathy laugh, gently guiding her head. “Goddamn, she’s loving this. Your girl is soaked and shaking, man. I can see why you can’t get enough of her.”

While Garrett fucked her with punishing strokes, she focused on Dean’s cock in front of her. She took him deeper into her mouth, hollowing her cheeks as she sucked him with wet, eager pulls. Her tongue swirled around the thick head every time she pulled back, teasing the sensitive underside before sliding down his shaft again.

She pulled off just enough to speak, her voice breathy and filthy between moans. “You taste so good,” she purred, looking up at Dean with glassy eyes. “I love how thick you are… stretching my throat while Garrett fucks me.”

Dean’s breath hitched.

She dove back down, sucking him messily, saliva dripping down his shaft and onto the sheets. She moaned around his cock as Garrett slammed into her particularly hard, the vibration traveling straight through Dean’s length. “Fuck, you’re so hard for me,” she gasped during a brief moment she pulled off, stroking him fast with her hand. “I want you to use my mouth. I want to choke on this cock while my boyfriend ruins my pussy.”

Garrett groaned behind her, clearly loving her sudden confidence. His hips snapped forward harder, driving his thick cock even deeper. Without warning, his large hand landed on the back of her head. He pushed her down firmly onto Dean’s cock, forcing her to take him all the way to the back of her throat.

She gagged wetly around Dean’s length, eyes watering, but didn’t pull away. Garrett held her there for a few long seconds, buried deep on his roommate’s cock while he continued fucking her senseless from behind. Garrett looked up at Dean and winked full of amusement.

Dean was completely hypnotized.

His lips were parted, eyes wide and glassy as he stared down at her. The sight of her choking on his cock while Garrett held her head down and fucked her had him frozen in lust. His usual playful demeanor had melted away, replaced by raw, stunned arousal. “Jesus Christ…” Dean whispered hoarsely, voice barely working. “Look at her. Fuck, man… she’s actually taking all of me.”

Garrett finally released the pressure on her head, letting her pull back just enough to gasp for air, thick strings of spit connecting her swollen lips to Dean’s throbbing cock. She looked up at Dean with teary, lust-drunk eyes and smiled.

“You like that?” she asked, voice raspy. “You like watching Garrett shove your cock down my throat?”

Dean let out a shaky, broken laugh, still looking completely mesmerized. “I think I just forgot how to speak,” he admitted, gently brushing her messy hair out of her face. “You’re so fucking filt…”. His words were cut off by her going back to greedily suck his shaft.

Garrett’s thrusts grew harsher and more desperate behind her, his hips slamming against her ass with wet, punishing slaps. His breathing was rough and ragged, low growls vibrating in his chest as he drove into her harder.

“Fuck, baby… I’m so close,” he groaned, voice strained and dark. “This pussy is squeezing me so fucking tight.”

He leaned forward, one hand sliding up her back and gripping her shoulder for leverage as he pounded into her with brutal strokes. The wet sound of his thick cock driving into her pussy was filthy and loud. Every thrust pushed her further onto Dean’s cock, making her choke and moan around him.

Suddenly, Garrett’s rhythm faltered. His fingers dug painfully into her hips as he slammed in deep and stayed buried to the hilt. “Shit, I’m cumming,” he growled through clenched teeth.

She felt it instantly.

Garrett’s cock swelled and throbbed violently inside her. Then came the first hot spurt of his cum, flooding deep into her pussy. He groaned loudly, hips jerking against her ass as thick ropes of cum pulsed out of him in heavy waves. She could feel every twitch and throb of his cock as he emptied himself, pumping load after load of warm, thick seed deep inside her.

“Take it all,” he rasped, voice hoarse with pleasure. “Fuck, baby… take every drop.”

His body shuddered hard against her back as he kept grinding deep, pushing his cum further into her with slow rolls of his hips. Another thick spurt shot into her, then another, until she felt overly full, the warmth of his release spreading through her core. Some of it already began leaking out around his cock, dripping down her thighs in messy rivulets.

Garrett stayed buried inside her for a long moment, panting heavily against her shoulder as the final pulses of his orgasm faded. His cock continued to twitch inside her sensitive walls, milking the last drops of his cum into her.

“Goddamn,” he breathed, pressing a slow, open-mouthed kiss to the back of her neck. “You feel so fucking good when I fill you up.”

He finally pulled out slowly, a thick gush of his cum immediately spilling from her stretched pussy and running down her thighs. Garrett ran two fingers through the creamy mess, pushing some of it back inside her with a satisfied groan.

She moaned around Dean’s cock at the filthy sensation, then suddenly pulled her mouth off him with a wet pop. Breathing hard, she turned her head and pushed firmly against Garrett’s abs with one hand, gently but decisively moving him back. “Move,” she said, voice hoarse but commanding.

Garrett blinked in surprise but stepped back, watching her with curious eyes. Slowly straightening up, she looked up at Dean, her lips swollen and shiny with spit, strands of saliva still connecting her to his throbbing cock. Her eyes were hazy with lust. “Dean… lay down on the bed,” she told him, voice low and breathy. “I want to ride you.”

Dean froze.

For a second, he looked completely stunned, eyes wide, lips parted in shock. The usual playful smirk had vanished, replaced by pure mesmerization. He stared at her like he couldn’t believe what he’d just heard. “You… you serious?” he asked, voice rough. “Right now? After Garrett just filled you up?”

She nodded, licking her lips as she sat back on her heels. “I want to feel you,” she said, a little more softly but no less hungry. “I want to ride you while his cum is still inside me.”

Dean let out a stunned, breathless laugh, clearly hypnotized by her boldness. He quickly moved back and lay down in the center of the bed, his hard cock resting thick and heavy against his stomach, still glistening from her mouth.

“Fuck me,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair as he stared at her in awe. “I think I’m in love with you right now. Come here, princess.”

She climbed onto the bed and straddled him, knees sinking into the mattress on either side of his hips. Garrett stood beside the bed, watching with something close to possession in his eyes as she reached down, wrapped her hand around Dean’s thick cock, and lined him up with her cum-slick entrance.

Dean’s hands settled on her thighs, gripping tightly as she began to slowly lower herself onto Dean, feeling the thick head of his cock part her cum-slick folds. A long, breathy moan escaped her as she sank down, taking every inch of him. Because she was already so wet and full of Garrett’s load, Dean slid in easily, but the stretch was still intense, his slightly thicker cock forcing her walls open again.

“Fuck… princess,” Dean groaned, his head falling back against the pillow, eyes locked on where they were joined. “You’re so fucking warm. I can feel Garrett’s cum all over me.”

She braced her hands on his chest and started riding him. Slowly at first, rolling her hips in circles, savoring the way his cock stirred Garrett’s release inside her. Then she grew bolder, lifting herself up until just the tip remained inside her, before slamming back down, taking him to the hilt with a wet slap.

The obscene sound of her soaked pussy riding his cock filled the room. Dean’s hands were gripping her thighs hard, fingers digging into her flesh as she bounced on him. “Shit, look at you… you’re fucking starving for it.”

Behind her, Garrett moved onto the bed. He reached around and slowly pulled her camisole up and over her head, tossing it aside. Her breasts spilled free, nipples already hard. Garrett pressed his chest against her back, one arm wrapping around her as his large hand cupped her breast, squeezing it firmly. His fingers pinched and rolled her nipple, sending sharp sparks of pleasure straight to her clit.

“You look so good riding him, baby,” Garrett murmured hotly against her ear, voice dark with lust. He kissed and bit along her shoulder while continuing to play with her tits, kneading them, tugging her nipples until she whimpered.

She rode Dean harder, her pace turning frantic. The wet sounds of her pussy sliding up and down his thick cock grew louder as she chased her pleasure. Garrett’s other hand slid down her stomach. His fingers found her swollen clit and started rubbing slow, firm circles around it, occasionally pressing down directly on the sensitive bundle of nerves.

“Oh my god…” she cried out, her rhythm faltering as overwhelming pleasure shot through her.

Dean was breathing hard beneath her, thrusting up to meet her bounces. “Keep going, princess. Fuck, you’re squeezing me so tight. You gonna cum on my cock?”

Garrett’s fingers moved faster on her clit while he pinched her nipple hard at the same time. His voice was low and commanding in her ear. “Cum for us, baby.”

The combination was too much.

Her orgasm hit her like a wave. She slammed down hard on Dean’s cock and cried out, her walls clenching and fluttering violently around his thick length. Her entire body trembled as sharp, intense pleasure ripped through her. Garrett kept rubbing her clit through it, drawing out every pulse and spasm while Dean groaned loudly beneath her, fucking up in her, feeling her pussy milk his cock.

“Fuck, she’s cumming so hard,” Dean gasped, his hands gripping her hips as her body shook on top of him. “I can feel her squeezing me… holy shit.”

She kept grinding down on him through her orgasm, riding out every wave until her thighs were shaking and her breath came in broken sobs, but Dean was not content with her just riding it out by herself. With a low groan, he tightened his grip on her hips and started thrusting up into her hard and fast, fucking her through her climax. His thick cock drove deep into her spasming pussy with powerful strokes, prolonging her pleasure.

“Fuck, princess, you feel so fucking good.” Dean growled, voice strained.

Her orgasm intensified, her walls fluttering and squeezing violently around him as sharp waves of pleasure ripped through her body. Broken moans fell from her lips while Dean continued railing her from below.

Then Dean’s rhythm started to falter. “Shit, I’m so close,” he gasped desperately, hips snapping up harder. “I’m gonna cum…”

“Pull out,” Garrett ordered sharply, his voice dark and commanding.

Dean blinked, his thrusts stuttering as confusion clouded his face. “Huh?” he panted, still buried deep inside her, clearly dazed and struggling to process the command. “What?”

“Pull out,” Garrett repeated firmly. “Don’t cum inside her.”

Dean let out a tortured, frustrated groan, his expression torn between pleasure and disbelief. With obvious reluctance, he lifted her hips and yanked his throbbing cock out of her still-spasming pussy at the very last second. “Jesus Christ!” he hissed through clenched teeth.

He quickly moved up onto his knees in front of her, stroking his slick, swollen cock furiously. His face was flushed, eyes wild with lust and lingering confusion as he aimed at her face and chest. “Open your mouth, princess,” he rasped.

The first thick rope of cum shot across her cheek and lips. He then painted her tits, dripping down her nipples, and landing on her tongue as she obediently opened wide for him. Dean groaned loudly, his cock twitching hard with every spurt as he unloaded onto her flushed skin.

When he finally finished, he stared down at her cum-covered face and chest, still breathing heavily, looking both satisfied and slightly dazed. Dean let out a low, exhausted chuckle, watching them with hooded eyes, wiping the sweat off his forehead.

She’s a nursing student. She has clinical placement at seven on Monday morning and three half-finished flashcards on cardiac meds shoved into her bag and a lab partner who keeps texting her about their assessment. 

She understands symptoms. She understands pattern recognition. She understands that if a man who doesn’t do girlfriends makes you feel like a girlfriend for three to six hours a week, and then smiles at you after like he hasn’t just rearranged your entire nervous system, that’s not necessarily pathology. Sometimes that’s just Garrett.

His hand is warm around hers, and she’s a little drunk, and the game had been brutal, and he’d scored twice, and there are girls downstairs wearing Briar colours and looking at him like he’s something they could win if they stood in the right place long enough. And she’s the one he’s taking upstairs.

So. Normal. Definitely. Totally. 

Garrett pushes his bedroom door open with his shoulder, tugging her inside after him, and the noise of the party drops at once to a muffled, bass-heavy pulse through the floorboards.

His room smells like clean laundry, cold air from the cracked window, and him underneath it, that warm boyish mix of soap and deodorant and whatever he uses in his hair when he pretends he doesn’t use anything. 

There are textbooks stacked badly on the desk, a hoodie thrown over the chair, tape and a half-empty Gatorade bottle on the dresser. Evidence of a life being lived at full speed and cleaned only when Tucker threatens violence.

She gets half a second to take it in before Garrett closes the door behind her. Then he turns, catches her by the waist, and backs her against it.

The breath leaves her in a soft, embarrassing little rush. Garrett, for all his size and all the speed he carries on the ice, is annoyingly good at knowing exactly where someone’s body is in space.

He presses her back into the door with just enough weight, one hand braced near her head and the other sliding to her hip, his mouth already curving like he knows the sound she just made has ruined any chance of her acting composed.

“Hi,” he says, close enough that the word brushes her lips.

She looks up at him. “Hi.”

His grin deepens. “You’ve said that, like, six times tonight.”

“You keep appearing near me.”

“I live here.”

She tilts her head. “That’s probably part of the problem.”

He laughs under his breath, and then he kisses her before she can decide whether that was too honest to have been funny.

It starts the way it always starts, like he’s going to be patient just to prove he can. His mouth settles over hers slowly, warm and confident, one hand still at her waist, thumb slipping over the soft fabric of her dress.

She can taste beer on him, faint and bitter, and the peppermint gum he’d been chewing earlier because Dean had made some deeply unnecessary comment about post-game mouth and Garrett had thrown a bottle cap at his head. 

His lips are soft in a way that always feels vaguely unfair, especially against the rest of him, the broadness of his shoulders and the hard line of his body still wired from the game, and when she opens for him he makes a small sound in his throat that goes straight through her like heat.

Her fingers climb into his hair before she can pretend restraint was ever on the table. His curls are a little damp at the roots from the party, from the shower he must have taken after the game, from whatever warmth still clings to him after the crush of bodies downstairs. She tugs, just lightly, and Garrett’s hand tightens at her waist.

“There she is,” he murmurs against her mouth.

She would like to say something clever to that. Something dry and immune. Instead she sucks his bottom lip between hers and feels him go briefly still. Then he groans. It lands low and rough in the small space between them, and something in her stomach tips clean over.

Garrett’s hand slides from her waist to her back and pulls her in harder, until there’s very little room left between the door and him and her body has to make several immediate decisions about survival. Her hands stay in his hair. His mouth opens over hers, deeper now, less patient, and the kiss turns messy in that private familiar way it gets when they are both pretending this is simple.

His tongue against hers. His thumb at her jaw. The scrape of his teeth, quick and careful, when she nips at his lip again because he’s rewarded it once already and she likes the sounds he makes against her mouth.

He kisses down her jaw, and her head tips back into the door before she can help it. His mouth moves warm over the hinge of it, then lower, to the line of her throat where her pulse is doing something medically ridiculous. He finds it with the kind of precision that feels almost insulting. His lips press there once, then again, open-mouthed and slow enough that her fingers tighten in his hair.

“Garrett,” she breathes, and immediately hates herself a little for sounding like that.

He hums against her skin, smugness practically vibrating off him. “Yeah?”

“Don’t be annoying.”

His smile touches her throat. “Be patient.”

She laughs, which comes out unstable because he chooses that exact second to kiss back up her neck, along her jaw, to the corner of her mouth. He catches her there before she can fully get the breath back, and this kiss is less patient from the start. His hand moves up to her jaw, fingers gentle but sure, thumb resting near the corner of her mouth in a way that makes it very hard to remember that she has bones.

She thinks he likes her.

It arrives abruptly, in the middle of his mouth on hers and his hand spread over her back and his knee sliding between her thighs like he already knows where she’ll make that soft sound for him. She thinks it, and then the thought sits there glowing, horrible and warm.

Garrett Graham does not do girlfriends. Everybody knows that.

It’s practically public information. He has hockey, classes, training, games, and the kind of attention that follows him around campus like bad weather. He’s just been made captain, which means half his life now belongs to the team in a more official capacity than it already did. He spends mornings on the ice, afternoons in class, nights pretending he’s not exhausted while some girl in a mini dress lets him drag her upstairs by the hand and tries not to care when he looks at her like this.

And she’s busy too. She is. She has lectures and placement and exams that make her want to peel her own face off. She has care plans to write and competencies to get signed and older nurses who can destroy a person with one look if they prime an IV line too slowly. She’s not wandering around with free time and delusion looking for somewhere to put both.

But Garrett’s hand’s at her throat, careful and warm, and his mouth is on hers like he has nowhere else to be, and she likes him so much that for a second it’s genuinely inconvenient to breathe.

His knee shifts higher between her thighs. The feeling catches before she can stop it. A little drag of pressure through the thin fabric of her dress and the heat already sitting low in her body, and her hips move once, almost by accident, chasing it.

Garrett’s response is immediate. His breath breaks against her mouth, not quite a laugh and not quite a groan, his fingers flexing at her jaw. “Fuck.”

The word should make her feel powerful. And it does. Unfortunately, it also makes her stupid.

She does it again, on purpose this time, and Garrett kisses her harder, his free hand sliding down her side, over the curve of her hip, to pull her closer against his thigh. The door is cool at her back. His body is hot everywhere else.

The party downstairs has become a distant, irrelevant animal. She can feel the dull beat of music through the wood, the pressure of his hand at her waist, the soft roughness of his lips when he drags his mouth from hers just long enough to breathe and comes right back like leaving was a mistake.

He turns them without really breaking the kiss, one hand moving to her back, walking her backward across the room. It’s smooth for approximately three steps, and then her knees hit the edge of the bed. She drops onto it with a soft, inelegant oof.

Garrett pulls back just enough to look at her. For one second, neither of them says anything. She’s sitting on the edge of his bed with her dress riding higher than she left the house intending, boots planted on his carpet, hair probably already a mess from his hands. Garrett stands between her knees, flushed and grinning down at her like this night has gone exactly where he wanted it to.

God help her, she grins back.

“Smooth,” he says.

“You shoved me.”

“I guided you.”

She has just enough time to roll her eyes before he pulls his shirt over his head, and then the entire mood changes.

The heat’s still there, because Garrett Graham shirtless is, objectively, not a situation a girl can be expected to process with clinical detachment.

His shoulders are broad and strong and his chest is exactly as unfair as she remembers from the other times she’s had the opportunity to lose her mind about it. There are abs. Obviously there are abs. Annoying, well-defined, deeply unnecessary abs that make some extremely unhelpful part of her brain go momentarily blank.

But over all of that, dark and yellowing and fresh and ugly, are bruises. A lot of them. Across his ribs. One spreading along his side in a purple smear that disappears toward his back. Another near his shoulder. Smaller marks scattered over his chest and stomach, some fading green at the edges, some new enough that the skin around them still looks angry. There’s a cut near his collarbone she hadn’t noticed downstairs and another thin scrape along his ribs, red, but not bleeding now.

She knew the game had been rough. Everyone had known. The hits had been loud enough from the stands that one of her friends had flinched into her shoulder and muttered, “Jesus, is that legal?” 

She had watched Garrett get slammed into the boards and get back up like irritation was the only possible consequence. She had seen him grin through blood on his lip after the second period and had thought, with equal parts lust and alarm, that hockey players were not right in the head. But seeing it like this, close enough to touch, is different.

“Whoa,” she says, before she can soften it. Her hands come up instinctively but stop short of his skin. “Garrett. Hey. Hold on a second.”

He glances down like he has forgotten his own torso exists, then gives a small frown. “Oh. That.” His gaze lifts back to her, careless in a way that would be more convincing if she hadn’t spent half her week learning exactly how many bad decisions people described as nothing right before they became triage paperwork. “Yeah, you get used to it.”

“Do you?”

“Yeah.”

“Because that looks insane.”

“It’s fine.” He bends toward her, one hand already coming to her jaw, under the impression that his very stupid body can simply be kissed out of the conversation. “C’mere.”

He kisses her, and she lets him for about two seconds because she’s only human and his mouth is still his mouth. Then she makes a small, involuntary squeak of disapproval against his lips.

Garrett pulls back, forehead dropping to hers, jaw tight with the particular frustration of a man who can feel the night slipping out of his control and doesn’t appreciate the medical profession’s role in it. “What?”

She blinks up at him. “Can I at least look at them?”

His eyes narrow. “At what?”

“At your ribs, Garrett.”

“Jeez. They’re ribs. They’re still there.”

“Are we sure?”

That gets the corner of his mouth, barely. “Pretty sure.”

“Are you sure you didn’t break one or some shit?”

He lets out a groan and then, with all the theatrical suffering of a man denied his constitutional rights, flops backward onto the bed beside her. The mattress bounces under his weight. “We’re not gonna fuck, are we?”

She stares at him. Garrett looks over with the aggrieved expression of someone who believes he’s asked a very fair question.

She rolls her eyes so hard it almost hurts. “Can I just look? Please?”

“This feels like a trap.”

“You took your shirt off and revealed a fucking crime scene.”

He gives her a look so flat she nearly laughs at his stupidity. “It’s hockey.”

“It’s bruising over your ribs.”

He sighs, long and dramatic, then lifts one hand and gestures vaguely down at himself like a monarch granting access to disputed land. “Fine. Nurse me.”

“I’m not a nurse yet.”

“Great. So this is amateur hour.”

She shoots him a look, eyes narrowing. “Oh. Would you like me to stop touching you?”

“No,” he says too quickly, and then has the audacity to look slightly offended when she smiles.

She shifts onto the bed properly, one knee tucked under her, trying very hard to keep her attention on the task and not on the fact that Garrett is lying shirtless under her hands with his jeans still slung low on his hips and his hair a mess from her fingers. 

The bedside lamp is on, yellowing the room softly, catching over the bruises and the lines of his stomach. Downstairs, someone yells, followed by laughter and a dull thud that neither of them bothers to investigate.

She presses two fingers gently along his lower ribs first. “How’s this?”

“Fine.”

She moves slightly higher. “Here?”

“Fine.”

She pulls her hands back and looks at him. “Garrett.”

“What?”

“Use a word that isn’t fine.”

He looks at the ceiling like she’s placed an enormous burden on him. “Manageable.”

“Wow. Thank you for your courage.” She presses again, lighter this time, watching his face. “Here?”

His mouth tightens before he can stop it.

She catches it immediately. “That hurt.”

“No.”

“Your entire face just did a thing.”

“My face does a lot of things. Girls usually love it.”

“Garrett.”

He exhales through his nose, then gives in by about one inch. “It’s… tender.”

“Tender like sore, or tender like don’t touch me there again unless I’m dying?”

He rolls his eyes. 

“Answer.”

“Sore,” he says, then adds, because he’s incapable of letting her have anything cleanly, “but if you wanna touch me there again under different circumstances, I’m totally open-minded.”

She presses her lips together, trying not to laugh, and fails. “You’re actually the worst patient I’ve ever had.”

“I’m your hottest patient.”

She tilts her head. “Mm. Unfortunately.”

His grin flashes, quick and pleased, before she moves her hand higher and finds another spot that makes the muscles in his stomach tense under her fingertips.

Her brain, horribly unprofessional, registers the abs again. A full, useless, warm-body register of the hard give of him under her hand, the smooth heat of his skin, the fact that his stomach jumps a little when her fingers pass too close to the waistband of his jeans. 

She’s touched him plenty of times. In significantly less educational contexts. But this feels different because she’s trying to be careful, and careful, with Garrett, is its own kind of intimacy.

“You’re staring,” he says.

She looks up and finds him watching her with one brow raised. “I’m assessing.”

“You’re assessing my abs?”

“They’re in the way of the bruises.”

He grins, head pressing back into the mattress as he adjusts his hips. “Tragic for you.”

“Deeply.” She drags her gaze back to the bruising near his side because if she keeps looking at his face while touching his stomach, she’s going to become useless to both medicine and feminism. “This one’s ugly.”

“Yeah, that guy was huge.”

She glares at him, one eyebrow raising in disapproval.

Garrett huffs. “What? I didn’t just let him hit me.”

“Sorry. I forgot he was supposed to ask for approval first.”

He laughs, then winces, one hand coming toward his ribs before he stops himself. “Ow. Jesus. Don’t make me laugh.”

Her face changes at once. “See?”

“I’m fine.”

She clicks her tongue once in frustration. “You just winced.”

“Because you’re funny.”

“Because your ribs hurt when you laugh,” she runs her hand across his chest again, genuinely concentrating on the damage now.

“Could be both.”

She gives him a look and reaches up to brush his hair back from his forehead, more because she wants to than because it serves any medical purpose.

His curls slip through her fingers, soft and warm, and his eyes do something quieter for half a second. Eyelids dropping halfway. Then the usual Garrett comes back over it, but not quite fast enough.

Her hand lingers. “I’m gonna get you some meds, okay?” she says, voice lower now.

He groans. “Can I get head first, or…?”

She huffs and smacks him lightly on the chest before she thinks. Garrett winces.

“Oh shit.” She jerks her hand back immediately, horror punching through the laugh. “Sorry. Sorry, my bad. My bad.”

He turns his head on the pillow and gives her a look of grave betrayal. “Jesus. Some nurse you are.”

“I said I wasn’t a nurse yet!”

“Yeah, and thank God. Accreditation board dodged a bullet.”

“I hate you.” But she’s smiling when she says it, which rather ruins the effect. She climbs off the bed, tugging her dress down as she stands because it’s migrated during the assessment with absolutely no respect for her professionalism. “Stay here.”

Garrett lifts his head slightly. “Where else would I go?”

“Knowing you? Back onto the ice to get punched again for sport.”

He opens his mouth to object. She points at him from the doorway. “Stay.”

His grin turns slow and irritating. “Bossy.”

“You like it.”

His mouth opens again, probably to say something dirty, but she slips out before he can.

The hallway is louder than his room by several degrees, music and shouting rushing back in around her. She shuts his door behind her and stands there for a second with her hand on the knob, blinking herself back into the party version of the house. Two girls come up the stairs laughing into each other, one of them barefoot, both of them carrying cups. A guy she vaguely recognises from one of Garrett’s classes is sitting on the floor by the wall, looking solemnly into a bag of chips like it might answer something for him.

The bathroom is blessedly empty when she gets there. She flips on the light and starts opening cabinets.

Condoms. More condoms. A suspiciously ancient bottle of hair gel.

“Ew,” she mutters, pushing aside something at the back of the cabinet that may once have been a protein shaker lid and may now qualify as a biohazard. “Men should not be allowed storage.”

More condoms, because this house is prepared for everything except basic first aid. A packet of painkillers finally appears behind a half-used tube of toothpaste, and then antiseptic wipes in a box that looks like it has survived three tenants and a small war. She checks the date, then grabs them along with a clean washcloth from the stack under the sink.

When she gets back, Garrett is still on the bed, thank God, though he’s propped himself against the pillows now and is holding his phone above his face. He looks up when she comes in, and the expression on him changes in a way she wishes she hadn’t noticed. 

The grin comes first, of course. It always does. But underneath it, there’s something softer. Something almost pleased. “You robbed our bathroom?”

“You own, like, ninety-three condoms and one bottle of painkillers.”

“Sounds balanced.”

“One of the condoms was in the medicine cabinet stuck to expired hair gel.”

He frowns. “That’s probably Dean’s.”

“Everything disgusting in this house cannot be Dean’s.”

“It actually can.”

She shuts the door with her hip and comes back to the bed, setting the supplies on his nightstand. “Sit up.”

He obeys, but makes it look like he’s doing her a personal favour. She hands him two tablets and the Gatorade from his dresser because hydration is hydration, even if blue sports drink feels questionable as medicine. Garrett takes them, eyes on her the whole time, then swallows with a grimace.

“See?” she says. “So brave.”

“I’ve been through a lot tonight.”

“You almost got laid and instead got ibuprofen. Devastating.”

He presses his lips together in an attempt not to laugh. “Finally, someone understands.”

She sits beside him, half-turned toward him, and tears open an antiseptic wipe. “This might sting.”

“Baby, I play hockey.”

She presses the wipe lightly to the cut near his collarbone.

Garrett hisses. “Fuck.”

She pauses, looking at him. He stares back, offended.

She smiles sweetly. “Baby, you play hockey.”

“Yeah, well, hockey doesn’t usually come in… little wet napkin form.”

She laughs despite herself and keeps going, careful now, dabbing around the scrape rather than dragging across it. He watches her while she works. She can feel it. The weight of his attention moving over her face, the line of her mouth, the way her hair keeps falling forward no matter how many times she tucks it back. The room feels warmer than it did before she left. Smaller, too, with him propped against the pillows and her sitting close enough that her knee presses against his thigh.

For a while, the party fills the places where neither of them speaks. Bass downstairs. Footsteps in the hall. A sudden burst of Dean’s voice somewhere below them, unmistakable even through the floor, followed by what sounds like Logan yelling, No, absolutely not, in a tone suggesting absolutely yes.

Garrett’s fingers touch her hair before she realises he’s lifted his hand. He brushes it back from her cheek, slow and absent, tucking it behind her ear with more care than the gesture needs. His hand doesn’t leave right away. His thumb grazes once near her temple, barely there, and when she looks at him, the grin is gone.

“You’re so pretty,” he murmurs.

The words are quiet enough that the party almost swallows them. Almost.

Heat rises immediately under her skin, stupid and quick. She looks down at the antiseptic wipe in her hand like it’s become fascinating. “You’re concussed, I think.”

Garrett shakes his head. “Mm-mm.”

“Garrett.”

“Was thinkin’ it before the game too.”

That makes something in her chest go inconveniently soft. She tries very hard not to let it show. She really does. Unfortunately, her face has chosen this exact moment to resign from service. Her mouth wants to smile. Her skin is warm. Her hands, which were perfectly capable five seconds ago, are suddenly very interested in folding the used wipe into a tiny, useless square.

“That’s probably still, like, concussion-adjacent,” she says.

He laughs, softer this time so it doesn’t hurt as much. “Why do you always do that?”

“Do what?”

“Make a joke when I say something nice.”

She looks up at him then. Her mouth opens, then closes.

Garrett’s expression shifts, not smug now. Curious, maybe. Careful in a way that sits strangely on him because he wears confidence so easily that it’s easy to forget he can be gentle without making a performance of it.

“I don’t know,” she says finally, because it’s the most honest answer she has and still only half of one.

His thumb moves once over the strand of hair between his fingers. “Okay.”

She huffs a small laugh. “Okay?”

“Yeah.” His mouth curves faintly. “I can work with I don’t know.”

“That’s very generous of you.”

“I’m a generous guy.”

“You asked for head while actively bruised.”

The smile comes back properly then, and the room unclenches around them.

She reaches for another wipe, but Garrett catches her wrist before she can open it. “Hey.”

Her pulse gives a small, irritating kick. “What?”

He doesn’t say it immediately. That’s unlike him enough that she notices. His fingers stay around her wrist. “You looked good at the game. You were… you were wearing that little Briar sweatshirt.”

She narrows her eyes. “Are you making fun of my sweatshirt?”

“No.” His eyes flicker across her face. “I liked it.”

The warmth under her skin gets worse.

“You scored twice,” she says, because deflection is now a survival tool.

His grin tilts. “I know.”

“Cocky.”

“You brought it up.”

She rolls her eyes, but her smile gives her away again. 

His fingers slide from her wrist to her hand. “You looked pretty in my colours.”

Her heart does one of those hard, stupid beats that feels less like romance and more like a medical event.

She looks down at their hands because his are big and warm and bruised at the knuckles, and because looking at his face suddenly feels like stepping too close to the edge of something. “You can’t just say things like that when I’m trying to, like, provide healthcare.”

“Why not?”

“Um, boundary confusion.”

“You’re sitting on my bed in a tiny dress.”

“And administering antiseptic.”

“Mixed signals all around.”

She laughs, and Garrett smiles at her like he meant to make that happen, like getting laughter out of her is its own private stat he’s keeping somewhere in his head.

For a second, she lets herself stay there. Lets herself sit with the warmth of his hand around hers, the lamp light over his bruised chest, the ridiculous intimacy of painkillers and antiseptic wipes and his hair still messy from her fingers. 

The whole night has gone sideways. From heat to something softer without losing the heat completely. From his knee between her thighs to her thumb brushing lightly near a bruise on his ribs. From fuck me to don’t make me laugh, it hurts.

Maybe this is what makes her like him so much. Not the obvious things, though the obvious things are doing their best. It’s that Garrett, who has every reason to stay easy and shallow and wanted by everyone, keeps accidentally becoming specific with her. Specific in rooms. Specific with his hands. Specific in the way he remembers what she wore to his game and says she looked pretty like it’s been sitting in him all night, waiting for somewhere to go.

She clears her throat and reaches for the last wipe. “I still need to clean that cut.”

Garrett’s eyes flick down to her mouth, lifting onto his elbow. “Mhm. After?”

She pushes him back down. “No, before.”

“So strict.”

“Alive men get privileges.”

He sighs and leans his head back against the pillows, exposing the line of his throat like he’s submitting to the terrible injustice of being cared for by a girl in a mini dress. “Fine. Do your worst.”

She shifts closer, half in his lap now because it’s the only angle that makes sense and absolutely not because her body has been looking for excuses since the hallway.

His hand lands at her thigh automatically, warm over the hem of her dress. He doesn’t move it higher. He doesn’t make a joke. He just rests it there, thumb slow against her skin while she dabs antiseptic over the scrape near his collarbone.

This time he doesn’t hiss.

“Good boy,” she murmurs before she can stop herself.

Garrett’s eyes open. The air changes instantly. Her hand stills. His mouth curves slowly, and the bruises, the ibuprofen, the entire attempted medical intervention lose significant ground against the expression on his face.

“Oh yeah?” he says, positively beaming.

She points the wipe at him. “Do not.”

His hand tightens lightly on her thigh, amusement low in his voice. “You’re blushing.”

“I’m warm.”

“And you’re in my lap.”

“For medical purposes.”

“Right.”

She gives him a look, but it’s hard to make it stick when he’s smiling like that and when she is, in fact, half in his lap, one hand on his chest, the other holding antiseptic.

Garrett’s gaze softens again, almost unfairly fast. “C’mere.”

“I’m right here.”

“Closer.”

She should say no on principle. She doesn’t. She lets him pull her in carefully, mindful of his ribs even when he clearly isn’t, until her forehead rests against his. The party moves under them, distant and messy and young. Someone bangs on a door down the hall. Somebody else laughs too loudly. Garrett’s room stays dim and warm around them.

His thumb brushes once over her thigh.

“Are you gonna sleep here?” he asks, quiet enough to make it sound casual and not at all like the question has changed shape in his mouth.

She pulls back a little to look at him. “What?”

He shrugs, but it’s a bad shrug. Too careful. “I mean, you can. If you want. Since you’ve already ruined the original plan.”

She stares at him.

Garrett’s brows lift. “What?”

“The original plan being sex?”

“Yeah.”

Her eyes narrow. “And now your backup plan is… a sleepover?”

“Don’t make it sound lame.”

“It’s incredibly lame.”

His eyes move over her face. “You wanna leave?”

She doesn’t. The answer is immediate and sits in her before she can make it sound prettier.

“No,” she says.

His face shifts again, the smallest flicker of satisfaction moving through it before he reins it in. “Okay.”

“Okay.”

For a moment, they just look at each other. She’s waiting for him to make a joke. He’s probably waiting for her to make one. Between them, the thing neither of them has named sits warm and too close, wearing all the shapes of what this is supposed to be and none of them fitting quite right.

Then Garrett leans in and kisses her. Softer this time. Still warm, still him, still enough to make the room narrow, but without the frantic press from the door, without the urgent slide of his knee between her thighs. 

His mouth moves over hers slowly, his hand rising to her jaw, thumb touching the corner of her face. The sweetness of it makes her chest ache in a way that’s frankly rude after everything else he’s already done to her tonight.

When he pulls back, he stays close. “You gonna keep nursing me,” he murmurs, “or am I cleared for kissing?”

She looks down at his bruised ribs, then back at his face. “Light kissing.”

He runs his thumb over her bottom lip. “Define light.”

“Um. No additional injuries.”

“So that rules out Dean joining.”

She laughs, louder now, and he smiles against her mouth before kissing her again, like the laugh is something he can catch if he moves fast enough.

Downstairs, the party gets louder. Upstairs, Garrett Graham lets her press one more cautious hand to his ribs and pretends not to notice when she leaves it there longer than she needs to.

❄︎ ❄︎ ❄︎

You're not sure what time it is anymore. Late afternoon, maybe? You'd both been awake earlier, properly awake, when you'd first arrived at the house around eleven. There'd been the usual chaos downstairs, Tucker making breakfast for what appeared to be half the hockey team, Garrett playing some sort of video game, Logan sprawled on the couch complaining about a paper he hadn't started. Dean had intercepted you at the door, his hand slipping into yours with easy familiarity, leading you upstairs before anyone could rope either of you into whatever plans were being formed.

That had been hours ago now. Or maybe just one hour. Time feels elastic up here in Dean's room, where the world has narrowed down to just the two of you and the lazy rhythm you've fallen into. Kissing, dozing, waking up to kiss some more. There's no urgency to any of it, no clear destination. Just this slow, meandering afternoon that keeps pulling you both under and back up again like a gentle tide.

Dean's hand is tracing patterns on your lower back, his fingers slipping beneath the hem of your shirt. His shirt, actually, one you'd pulled on earlier when you'd gotten too warm in your hoodie. The fabric is soft and worn, smells like him, like laundry detergent and something woodsy that might be cologne or might just be Dean. His touch is relaxed, mapping out the curve of your spine with the kind of attention that makes your breath catch even though you're half asleep.

"You awake?" he murmurs against your temple.

"Mm," you hum, which isn't really an answer but is all you can manage right now.

You feel him smile against your skin, and then his mouth is trailing down to your jaw, pressing lazy kisses there that make you shift closer to him instinctively. Your leg slides between his, and his hand moves from your back to your hip, fingers spreading wide against bare skin where your shorts have ridden up.

This has been the pattern for the past hour, maybe longer. Drowsy kissing that builds into something deeper, more heated, hands starting to wander with clear intent, before one of you pulls back and you both drift off again into a light doze. Then you wake up. Sometimes five minutes later, sometimes twenty, and it starts all over again, this comfortable cycle that neither of you seems particularly motivated to break.

It's different from your usual dynamic. Usually when you're in Dean's bed there's a clear trajectory, a straightforward progression from point A to point B. This thing between you started as purely physical, after all, built on a little chemistry and the convenience and easy attraction that doesn't require much discussion. But lately, and especially today, there's been this softness creeping in. This willingness to just exist together without any particular agenda, to be close for the sake of being close rather than as a means to an end.

You're not examining it too closely. That feels dangerous, like putting a name to something might change it into something else entirely. So instead you just let yourself sink into it, into the warmth of Dean's body against yours and the pleasant weight of his arm around your waist and the way his breath hitches slightly when you kiss the corner of his mouth.

"C'mere," he says quietly, even though you're already as close as two people can reasonably be while still technically clothed.

But you understand what he means. You shift upward slightly, and his hand comes up to cup your jaw, tilting your face toward his. The kiss is slow and deep, the kind that makes your toes press into the mattress and your fingers curl into the fabric of his t-shirt. His tongue slides against yours with lazy confidence, like he's got all the time in the world to explore your mouth, to figure out exactly what makes you sigh against him like that.

Your hand finds his hair, fingers threading through the blonde strands that are messy from sleep and from you running your hands through them repeatedly. He makes a low sound in the back of his throat when you tug gently, and you feel the vibration of it against your lips. His hand slides from your jaw down to your neck, thumb brushing over your pulse point, and you wonder if he can feel how fast your heart is beating.

When you finally break apart, you're both breathing heavier, and Dean's eyes are clouded when they meet yours. He looks at you for a long moment, his expression unreadable, before he leans in and presses a softer kiss to your forehead. Then your nose. Then your mouth again.

"I like you," he says against your lips, affectionate, and uncomplicated.

"Yeah?," you let out a hum before responding, your voice coming out raspier than you intended.

"Yeah," he admits easily, his hand sliding back down to your waist, fingers splaying possessively across your ribcage. 

The house is quiet around you, that particular mid afternoon lull when everyone's off doing their own thing. You can hear faint sounds from outside, someone's music playing a few houses down, a car passing on the street, but inside it's just the two of you and the soft whir of the ceiling fan above the bed. The sheets are a disaster, half kicked off, pillows everywhere except where they're supposed to be. Dean's room always looks lived-in, comfortable in its chaos, but right now it looks particularly messy in a way that makes you smile.

Dean catches the smile, his own lips curving up in response. "What?"

"Nothing," you say, but you're still smiling. "This is just nice."

Something flickers across his face. Surprise, maybe, or pleasure, before he's kissing you again, harder this time, with more intent. His hand slides under your shirt properly now, palm warm against your stomach, and you arch into the touch without thinking. The kiss deepens, grows more urgent, and you can feel the shift happening again, that slow build of heat that's been simmering all afternoon starting to intensify.

You roll onto your back and Dean follows, his body covering yours, supporting his weight on his forearms so he doesn't crush you. This position is familiar, well practiced by now, but it still sends a thrill through you when his hips settle between your thighs. He's kissing down your neck now, finding that spot just below your ear that makes you gasp, and his hand is sliding higher under your shirt.

"Dean," you breathe, and your hands find his shoulders, feeling the muscles shift under your palms as he moves.

He pulls back just enough to look at you, his hair falling into his eyes, his expression full of intensity. "Yeah?"

You're not sure what you were going to say. Maybe nothing. Maybe everything. But before you can figure it out, he's kissing you again, stealing whatever words you might have found. Your fingers dig into his shoulders, holding him close, and he makes that sound again, that low rumble of approval that you've learned means you're doing something he likes.

The afternoon stretches on, golden and hazy, and you lose yourself in it. In him. In the way his hands know exactly where to touch you, the way his mouth finds all the places that make you forget your own name. There's a languidness to it all, even as things intensify, a sense that you've got all the time in the world to figure each other out.

Eventually, though, the heat peaks and then subsides, leaving you both breathing hard, skin flushed, completely tangled together. Dean's face is buried in your neck, his breath warm against your skin, and your fingers are still in his hair, gentler now, just touching because you can. The room feels warmer than it did before, or maybe that's just the two of you.

"Jesus," Dean mutters into your shoulder, and you feel him smile against your skin.

You hum in agreement, too content to form actual words. Your body feels heavy, satisfied, and already you can feel sleep trying to pull you under again. Dean shifts slightly, enough to look at you, and there's something soft in his expression that makes your chest feel tight.

"You good?" he asks quietly.

"So good," you confirm, and you mean it in about a thousand different ways.

He presses a kiss to your shoulder, then carefully extracts himself from you, rolling onto his side and pulling you with him. You end up tucked against his chest, his arm around you, your leg thrown over his hip in a tangle of limbs that should probably be uncomfortable but somehow isn't. The sheets are even more of a disaster now, but neither of you makes any move to fix them.

"We should probably get up at some point," you say, but you make no effort to move.

"Probably," Dean agrees, also not moving. His hand is back to tracing patterns on your skin, slow circles and figure eights that make your eyes drift closed. "Eventually."

"What time is it?"

He stretches slightly to glance at his phone on the nightstand, then settles back. "Like three thirty."

Three thirty. You've been up here for four and a half hours, just existing in this bubble you've created. It should feel like too long, maybe, like you should be bored or restless or ready to do something else. But instead it just feels natural, like this is exactly where you're supposed to be on an afternoon with nowhere else to be.

"The guys are gonna give you so much shit when we finally go downstairs," you observe.

Dean snorts. "They give me shit regardless. It's like their primary function."

"Fair point."

The fan continues its rotation above you, and outside the window you can hear what sounds like kids playing in a yard somewhere nearby. Normal sounds, the world continuing on while you're suspended here in this room that smells like Dean and sex and easygoing afternoons. Your eyes are getting heavy again, and you let them close, pressing your face into Dean's chest.

"You falling asleep again?" he asks, and you can hear the amusement in his voice.

"Maybe," you mumble against his shirt. "You're comfortable."

His arm tightens around you, and you feel him press a kiss to the top of your head. "Sleep if you want. I'll wake you up in a bit."

It's such a simple statement, but it settles something in your chest anyway. The casualness of it, the ease. The implicit promise that he's content to just stay here with you, that this doesn't have to be anything more complicated than what it is right now. Two people who like each other, who are good together, who've found something that works.

You let yourself drift, lulled by the steady rhythm of Dean's breathing and the warmth of his body against yours. Sleep comes easy, pulling you under like a whisper. The last thing you're aware of is Dean's fingers still tracing those absent patterns on your back, and the thought that you could get very used to this.

When you wake up again, the light in the room has shifted, the sun lower now, the strips of gold across the bed turned to amber. Dean is still beside you, still holding you, but he's awake. You can tell by the change in his breathing, the way his hand is moving gently along your back.

"Hey," you say quietly, your voice rough with sleep.

"Hey yourself," he replies, and there's something warm in his tone that makes you smile.

You tilt your head back to look at him, and find him already looking at you. His hair is an absolute mess, his t-shirt wrinkled, and there's a crease on his cheek from the pillow. He looks perfect.

"We really destroyed your bed," you observe.

He glances around at the chaos of sheets and pillows, then back at you with a grin. "Worth it."

You laugh, the sound disrupting the quiet in the room, and lean up to kiss him, just because you want to. When you pull back, Dean is smiling, and he brushes a strand of hair away from your face with careful fingers.

"You hungry?" he asks. "We could order something. Or go downstairs and see if Tuck made too much food again."

"In a bit," you say, settling back against his chest. "Don’t wanna move."

"Mhm," Dean agrees quietly, his arms wrapping around you again. "Me either."

And so you stay, wrapped up in each other as the afternoon fades into early evening, in no particular rush to return to the real world. This thing between you might still be undefined, might still exist in some gray area between casual and serious, but right now, in this moment, it feels good.

BEN POINDEXTER AS YOUR BOYFRIEND... is obsessed with you. not the “likes your selfies” kind — more like memorized your schedule, cataloged your facial expressions, and would absolutely kill for you without a blink. no hesitation. no regret.

he has a tracker on your phone. not because he doesn’t trust you — he just doesn’t trust anyone else. he tells you it’s for your safety, and when you raise an eyebrow at him, he just shrugs and kisses your forehead. “i’d rather know where you are than bury you, baby.”

he gets jealous. so easily. and he hates it. hates how tight his jaw gets when you laugh at someone else's joke. how his fists curl when someone makes you smile. but he’s so good at holding it together — until you’re alone. then he’s pacing. spiraling. pulling you into his lap just to feel your heartbeat under his hand. “you’re mine, right?” he’ll ask, low and tight.

dex does everything for you. carries your bags. makes your coffee. walks you to class. waits outside your job. doesn’t matter if he’s had the worst day imaginable — he’ll still show up to tuck your hair behind your ear and ask if you’ve eaten.

he gets scary when he thinks you’re pulling away. it’s subtle at first — quiet stares, clenched jaw, questions masked as concern. but the second he’s sure something’s wrong he snaps. cold. sharp. wounded in that dangerous way. looks at you with that unhinged grief behind his eyes. like it’s betrayal. like it’s death.

he’s weirdly soft in private. you’re the only person who gets to see the version of him that’s quiet and needy and kind of broken. he sleeps with his head on your chest, fingers clinging to your shirt like you’ll vanish if he lets go. sometimes he just stares at you, like he’s memorizing you in case you disappear.

always brings you little things he finds throughout the day. not flowers or jewelry — no, ben’s gifts are weirder. more him. a vintage matchbook he liked the design of. a cool rock he found on the sidewalk. a bullet casing from his last mission. “made me think of you,” he says, dead serious.

his love language is acts of service — intense ones. fixes everything in your apartment before you even notice it’s broken. goes grocery shopping and memorizes your favorite brand of literally everything. remembers how you like your tea down to the exact amount of honey.

can’t sleep unless he’s touching you. even just a pinky finger brushing yours. if you roll away in the night, he subconsciously follows, pulling you back like a heat-seeking missile. “where you goin’, sweetheart?” he mumbles, half-asleep.

keeps a photo of you in his wallet. it’s old, kind of faded, maybe creased in the corner — but he looks at it constantly. you catch him doing it once, and he just shrugs. “keeps me sane.”

loves forehead kisses. won’t ask for them. won’t say a word. just leans down a little and looks at you with that tilted-head stare until you get it. and when you comply? his whole face goes soft like it’s the only thing anchoring him to earth.

has a surprisingly dark sense of humor. says the most horrifying things in the most affectionate tone. you’ll say “i’m cold” and he’s like, “want me to burn the world down for you?” you laugh. he doesn’t.

likes watching you do normal stuff. brushing your teeth. folding laundry. humming while you cook. he sits quietly, just watching — so still it’s unnerving. to him it’s peace. it’s you alive.

plays with your fingers absentmindedly. twists your rings around. traces the veins in your wrist. holds your hand even when you're just sitting on the couch doing nothing. asks what every little scar is from. “this one?” he’d question. “fell off my bike.” a pause. “want me to go back in time and kill the pavement?”

notices everything. you don’t even realize how closely he’s watching until he casually mentions things like, “you switched shampoo, didn’t you?” or “you tapped your foot three times before locking the door today. usually it’s four.” and it’s not judgment — he just keeps mental notes on everything that makes you you. so if something changes, he knows. and if something’s wrong, he really knows.

he’s extremely routine-oriented — and he builds you into his structure. once you’re part of his life, you’re in it.

your coffee order gets timed to the minute. your text messages get categorized in his head (green = happy, yellow = something’s off, red = drop everything).

he gets agitated if plans change too suddenly, but if you’re the reason? he softens instantly. you ground him. you’re the only thing that doesn’t throw him off.

he gets attached fast. his BPD makes it so once he feels something for you, it’s intense. there’s no casual dating. no half-measures. he goes from “i think i like them” to “i will absolutely die if they leave” in under a week. he’s so good at hiding just how deep it runs.

he replicates your habits without meaning to. if you fidget with your sleeves, he starts doing it. if you use a certain word a lot, it shows up in his vocabulary. he mirrors you because it comforts him.

he hyper-fixates on your favourites. if you say you like a snack once, he’ll buy ten. you compliment a song? it’s on every playlist he makes. you wear a certain lip balm? he’ll go out of his way to buy backups. he wants to memorize what makes you happy so he can recreate it. perfectly. every time.

he spirals when he thinks he upset you. even slightly. a weird tone in your voice? a shorter text reply than usual? his brain jumps to you hate me. you’re going to leave. i ruined it. he’ll pace. his routine will fall apart. instead of lashing out on you he gets quiet. self-destructive. unless you pull him back in with something soft — a touch. a word. a look. then he clings like a shadow.

he makes you things with his hands. little wood carvings, origami, folded napkin animals — he fidgets constantly, and you’re the outlet.

his hands don’t stop moving, so they move for you. you’ll come home and find a tiny heart made of safety pins on your nightstand. he won’t mention it, but he’ll watch to see if you notice.

he always asks for reassurance, but never directly. he’ll say things like, “you still like having me around, right?” or “you’d tell me if i was being too much?” and it breaks your heart a little, because he’s so desperate not to be a burden. you always answer the same way: “you’re my favourite person.”

can’t fall asleep without saying goodnight the same exact way. it doesn’t matter how late it is, how exhausted he is, how bad the day was — he has to say it. same tone, same words, same kiss on your temple. if he doesn’t it eats at him. he’ll lie awake, heart racing, staring at the ceiling like something terrible’s going to happen because he broke the pattern.

refuses to let anyone else drive you anywhere. he doesn’t care if it’s your friend, your boss, your own damn parent — if he can’t be the one driving, he’s deeply uncomfortable. he’ll sit by the door with his keys, ready to go.

has ‘rules’ for loving you. like brushing your hair off your face with his left hand only. or always kissing you three times before you leave. he doesn't need to do it — he has to. if he breaks the pattern, his brain tells him something bad will happen to you.

saves every single voicemail and text you send. even the dumb ones. especially the dumb ones. he replays your old voicemails when he’s spiraling.

he screenshotted the first time you said “i miss you” and keeps it in a locked photo album. you’re proof that something good happened to him once.

gets overstimulated easily, but hides it around you. if the lights are too bright, the room’s too loud, someone’s tapping a pen too much — he’s unraveling inside.

but if you’re talking to him? smiling? holding his hand? he’ll grit his teeth through it, just to stay in your orbit a little longer.

has a favorite version of you, but it’s not what you’d think. it’s not when you’re dressed up, or being cute, or saying nice things. it’s when you’re sleepy. messy. barely awake and murmuring nonsense with your face squished into his chest.

“you’re not real,” you mumbled once. “i made you up.” he still thinks about that. hopes it’s not true. but if it is? he’s glad you dreamed him.

collects your words like scripture. if you ever say something sweet to him, he will not forget. he repeats it to himself, over and over, like a mantra.“you’re safe with me.” ,, “you’re not too much.” ,, “i like you exactly the way you are.” he mouths the words in the mirror. sometimes he believes them.

panics if he forgets anything about you. can’t remember your shoe size? his heart races. doesn’t know if you take your coffee with sugar that day? hands start shaking.

his whole sense of safety is tied to knowing you. so if anything slips, it feels like the whole foundation is cracking.

he loves you in patterns. in rituals. in coffee orders and folded blankets and kisses placed in the exact same spot on your shoulder every night.

gets annoyed when you shower without him. he doesn’t even want to do anything — he just sits on the toilet lid with his chin in his hand while you’re in there like, “you left me out here alone for twenty-three minutes.” you open the door to steam and a pouty six-foot weapon of a man sulking.

gets weirdly quiet when you’re on your phone too long. not mad. just a little neglected. you look up and he’s just sitting there like a sad cat, hoping you’ll notice. you say “benny, you okay?” and he melts like, “...m’here. just waitin’.”

clings after arguments like his life depends on it. doesn’t matter if it was something small or serious. once things settle, he’s already reaching for you, forehead pressed to your collarbone. “not mad anymore.” he murmurs. translation: don’t leave me.

keeps weapons stashed in every room ‘just in case.’ under the bed. behind the fridge. in your car’s glove box.

memorized your ex’s face and car within the first week. he won’t say what he did with that information. but he didn’t like how they looked at you at the grocery store that one time. he made sure it wouldn’t happen again.

he hates parties.not because he’s antisocial, because he can’t relax when you’re in a room full of strangers.

he’s watching everyone — every glance, every shift, every hand that moves too close. he stands behind you the whole time, hand at your lower back, barely talking to anyone.

texts you “where are you?” even when he knows where you are. he saw you leave. he knows you’re at work or running errands or at the gym. but he still needs to hear you say it. needs the proof. the reassurance. you say “i’m fine, benny,” and he responds with “miss you.” (you’ve been gone 20 minutes.)

calls you his “person.” not partner. not babe. just “my person.” says it in a tone that sounds more like my reason for breathing.

won’t let you walk on the street side of the sidewalk. you’ve tried switching sides — he’ll switch with you immediately. doesn’t matter where you’re going. doesn’t matter if the road is empty. “nope,” he’ll mutter, hand on your hip. “you don’t get hit. not on my watch.”

he has a folder on his computer labeled “them.” inside: blurry security cam screenshots of you walking alone at night (yes, he tapped into feeds), saved texts from people who’ve upset you, and a detailed list of names he keeps tabs on. you don’t know it exists.

takes everything as a threat. you flinch at a loud noise? he’s already scanning the room. someone bumps into you too hard in a crowd? he steps between you like a human wall. you say “i don’t feel safe,” and he’s already reaching for his coat.

he doesn’t yell unless someone talks down to you. he’ll take endless shit from people when it’s about him. but the second someone disrespects you? his voice goes sharp. dark. you see it flip in his eyes like a switch — “you wanna repeat that to me?” and suddenly the room’s ice cold.

he’ll sit in complete silence beside you while planning murder in his head. someone made you cry? he holds your hand gently, rubs circles into your palm, kisses your wrist — and behind his eyes, he’s already figured out the five best ways to ruin their life.

he keeps track of your patterns better than you do. you get headaches before rain? he brings you meds before you mention it. your trauma responses show in tiny shifts? he spots them immediately and gets you out of the room.

he might be unstable, but when it comes to protecting you — he’s the most focused man alive.

stares at your contact name before calling you, like he’s bracing himself to hear your voice. thumb hovering over the screen, eyes soft and far away. sometimes he doesn’t even call. just stares. like maybe that’s enough to survive another hour.

doesn’t know how to be casual. you say “i like your shirt” and he’ll buy five more. you compliment his cologne once? he never uses another one again. every word you say means something to him.

loves when you wear his clothes a little too much. he acts all chill but inside he’s screaming. watching you walk around in his hoodie with the sleeves over your hands? ruined. he has to sit down.

he has no idea what a normal reaction is. you get a weird DM? he’s already tracking the IP address. you trip and scrape your knee? he’s acting like you got shot. “you’re bleeding.” he mutters, completely still. “baby, it’s a scratch—”

gets scary quiet when you’re in danger. like full military-mode, voice low and flat. grabs your hand. pulls you behind him. “stay down. don’t move. don’t look.” and you listen — because in that moment, he’s not your sweet clingy ben. he’s the weapon the government built.

has trauma responses built around you. you’re late? his hands start shaking. you stop responding? he spirals. he doesn’t just worry— he catastrophizes. his brain jumps to body bags. blood. everything he’s lost before.

so when you walk through the door, totally fine, he just grabs you. holds you so tight it hurts. “don’t do that to me again,” he whispers. “please.”

doesn’t forgive people who hurt you. ever. you may move on. he won’t. he keeps the memory. files it away like a grudge on ice. and if he ever gets the chance to settle the score? he’ll do it without blinking.

knows all your “tired” cues. you yawn a certain way when you’re really worn out vs. just sleepy. you go silent when your brain’s overwhelmed. so he’ll quietly turn the lights down, warm up your hoodie, and run a bath without you even asking.

obsessively keeps the place safe. deadbolts, alarms, cameras, backup flashlights, reinforced doors. not because he’s paranoid. because you live there. and nothing — nothing — is allowed to hurt you where he sleeps.

he does not know how to regulate jealousy. like. at all. you compliment someone? he’s quiet for hours. you laugh too hard at someone’s joke? he stares them down until they suddenly remember they have somewhere else to be.

he gets clingy after. full body contact. face buried in your shoulder. won’t let go. “you like me better, right?” you tease him and say “maybe…” his whole face drops. “dont.”

and if he sees them in public, he’s pulling you closer with a hand on your waist like mine. mine. mine.

he repeats the same three phrases every time you’re hurt. like it’s a spell: “you’re safe.” “you didn’t do anything wrong.” “i love you so much it hurts.”

he checks in constantly. not just “are you okay?”but “did you eat today? do you need quiet or company? can i hold your hand right now, or just sit near you?”

started 4.23.2025. finished 4.23.2025.

( masterlist. )

©️ monicfever 2025

You sat on your fire escape, your phone held up to your ear in one hand while the other rolled the filter of the cigarette you were smoking between your fingers. You put the extinguished cigarette in the ashtray you had seated on the windowsill next to you and begin to reach for the pack for another, just to realize it’s empty. You curse to yourself, then climb through the window back into your apartment.

A smile creeps onto Dex’s face watching you grab a hoodie off your bedpost before jumping into a pair of sweatpants. You leave your apartment, and Dex loses sight of you momentarily.

In this time, Dex exits his own commandeered unit, but stays to the shadows once he’s out on the street, keeping out of your eyesight as you leave your building.

Dex waits until you enter the deli on the corner before he crosses the street and hoists himself up onto your fire escape with a practiced ease.

He finds the window to your apartment left wide open and climbs through it himself. Dex looks around your bedroom, seeing the familiar grey sheets hazardously thrown across the bed from when you overslept this morning, leaving it unmade. Carefully making his way around your room, he stops at your vanity, examining the new pictures you have stuck to the mirror alongside the old ones Dex has already seen before.

As he reaches for the closet doors, he stops in his tracks when a piece of blue fabric lying on the floor catches his eye. He bunches the soft lace-lined cotton material between his fingers as he brings it to his nose, deeply inhaling your scent. Dex clenches his jaw and balls up his fists even tighter, feeling the primal urges stirring deep within him.

He hears your voice from the other side of the front door, still talking on the phone as you shove your key into the lock. Dex stuffs your panties into his pocket before he leaves the same way he came in.

Thursday

Dex has been staring into the dark window of your apartment for an hour now.

With a few errands of his own to run earlier, Dex couldn’t follow you to work or even drop by your office building to watch you have lunch at your desk today. But having your work schedule memorized, he knows you should be home by now.

Your bedroom window was wide open yet again, and it beckoned Dex across the street like a siren’s song.

He ignores every rational thought that screams at him not to as he crosses the short distance from his side of the street to yours.

Climbing through your window, Dex’s eyes quickly adjust to the darkness of the room, looking around to see no one in sight. He instead finds a trail of clothes leading out of the room like breadcrumbs down the hallway, where he sees a sliver of light peaking through the bathroom door.

You are home.

Instead of turning around like he told himself he should’ve, Dex continues to follow the sound of the shower running, carefully making his way down the hall. Right outside the bathroom lies another pair of discarded panties. It’s nearly instinctual now for him to bend down and pick them up to add to his growing collection in his bedside drawer back at his apartment.

With the bathroom door left slightly ajar, Dex nudges it gently, further opening it for him to look inside.

You were obstructed behind the glass from the condensation clinging to the shower door, but he’s still able to make out the suds of soap cascading down your body as you bathe yourself. Standing under the stream of warm water, he can visibly see the tension dissipating from your shoulders. Your body wash clings to the humidity of the small space, enticing Dex further into the bathroom. His hands itch to touch you, wishing they were running all over you instead of your own.

Dex nearly reaches for the shower door handle when he hears the sound of your phone ringing from your bedroom, breaking him out of his trance.

He retreats back to your room to find your phone charging on your dresser, lit up with a call from your father. You must be speaking to him again. Dex watches the call go to voicemail before he picks up your phone and unlocks it. He smiles to himself. Of course, your passcode remains the same even after all this time.

After looking through your messages and finding nothing exciting among the threads with your coworkers, Dex swipes open your camera roll to see the recent food you’ve been eating, the bars you’ve been frequenting, and the friends you’ve been hanging out with.

“You could’ve used the door, you know.”

Too distracted catching himself up on your life, Dex didn’t hear the shower shut off. Nor did he hear your footsteps enter the room.

“You know where I usually leave the key,” you say.

This was an issue Dex kept having with you—he let his guard down.

Dex looks to see you illuminated by the moonlight coming in through the window. You’re only clad in a towel with your arms crossed over your chest, looking at him like he were a child caught with his hand in the candy jar. He feels the blood draining from his face and remains frozen in the shadows.

“I should go,” is all he says as he begins to back away toward the window.

“Why even come at all then?” You stop him before he can leave again.

A beat of silence passes before Dex admits, “I needed to.”

You reach over to flip on the light switch.

“Don’t.” Dex switches the lamp off before you could get a good look at his face. But you ignore his warning and turn the light back on.

Dex can’t tear his eyes away from yours as you approach, worried about what they might tell him once you see him up close. But all they hold is sorrow; the sight of the fully healed scar across his cheek breaks your heart all over again.

“Oh, Ben.” You caress his face gently, and he immediately leans into your touch.

Dex caves in, pulling you into his arms and locking you into a tight hug like someone would come and rip you away from him. “I needed to see you,” he mumbles into your hair.

“Seems like you’ve been seeing me just fine,” you say, nodding toward the open window that faces his apartment.

He opens his mouth to question how you could’ve known, but you beat him to it.

“After hearing about an inmate escaping from Riker’s merely hours before an attempt is made on the mayor’s life by a sniper, it was pretty easy to figure out whose prying eyes have been watching from across the street.” You know him all too well—it kinda scares him. “I missed you, too,” you peck his lips.

One kiss was all it took for his entire resolve to break.

Dex flattens his hands against your spine to pull you in for a kiss again. Your lips meet in a hungry, needy clash of tongues, making your knees nearly buckle.

You only pull away when you feel your towel loosen around your body, threatening to unravel.

“Wanna let me get some clothes on?” you ask between giggles, attempting to pull away from Dex as you readjust.

“Why would I wanna do that?” he barely budges, firmly keeping you flush against his chest.

“I’m still very much naked under this.” you raise a brow.

“And you’re still wearing too much if you ask me,” he lowers his head to your neck, letting the faint scent of shea butter lingering on your skin flood his senses. But then Dex feels the uneven skitter of your pulse when he softly presses his lips to your jugular.

“What is it?” Dex asks, searching for an answer in your eyes. He can read you as well as his favorite book; there’s not much you could hide from him if you really tried.

“A lot can change in a year,” is all you say.

He certainly did.

Dex was fit before, but he’s practically doubled in size. The thin material of his shirt stretches across his broad chest, the sleeves contouring his bulging biceps, while his sweatpants hang low on his hips, hugging his deliciously thick thighs.

“I can see,” Dex grins, sliding his hand down to your lower back, “You somehow got more beautiful,” he tells you, planting a kiss on your cheek.

You involuntarily roll your eyes, “you’re just saying that,” you mutter.

“Oh am I now?” Dex’s brows stitch together incredulously, “I kinda find that hard to believe when that new coworker of yours tries to find every excuse under the sun just to come and talk to you. He spends more time leaning in the doorway of your office than he does at his own desk.”

You laugh. How long has he been watching?

“Brian’s just a friend.”

“Doesn’t change the fact that I’ve seen how he looks at you. I mean, he was practically drooling when you came in yesterday wearing that baby blue dress.” It’s not like Dex could forget, even if he wanted to—it took everything in him not to put a bullet between Brian’s eyes as he walked to his car after clocking out.

“A lot can change in a year but what I feel about you hasn’t.” Dex says, “Unless it’s how you feel about me that’s changed,” you can visibly see the worry weighing on his shoulders.

“I wouldn’t have left the window open for you all these nights if it had,” you smile.

Dex kisses you again, but this time softer—slower. He gently cups your face, deepening the kiss as you crane your neck. Dex runs his tongue across your bottom lip, tasting the minty mouthwash you had rinsed with before you found him in your room.

Your hands travel up his chest, and it intimidates you a bit, feeling the difference in his size from the last time you saw him—felt him. Dex lowers himself to grab the back of your thighs and hoists you off the ground in one swift motion. You gasp into his mouth, feeling your feet leave the ground, and grab onto Dex’s shoulders. He takes the opportunity to slip his tongue into your mouth, and you grab his face eagerly accepting.

Dex takes his time walking over to your bed like he wanted you to savor every moment just as he was.

He sits down at the edge of your bed with you straddling his lap without breaking the kiss. You only part from his lips to catch your breath. Dex chases after your lips, desperate for more, forgetting he needed to breathe himself. He opens his eyes to find you looking at him.

You run a hand through his hair, slightly tugging his head back. Dex’s low-lidded lashes flutter as he grips the soft plush on your thighs, trying to fight those primal urges yet again. He’s waited this long to have you in his arms again; he didn’t want to rush this moment with you.

“My beautiful, beautiful angel,” Dex mutters as he drags you by your thighs higher up on his lap, seating you right on top of the bulge tenting his pants.

He begins littering kisses across your chest, and you arch into his touch.

“Dex,” you sigh, carding your fingers through the short hairs at the nape of his neck.

“Yeah?” he lowly draws out.

“Touch me.”

“I am,” he laughs.

“Don’t be such fucking tease. Not now, been too long,” the second half of that sentence came out as a whine.

Dex slides his hand under your towel, carefully dragging his hand across the skin of your inner thigh, inching closer to your core.

“Like this you mean?” he spreads your folds, softly petting your clit.

Dex slips two of his fingers inside of you, musing as he watches your face contort with pleasure. He languidly curled his fingers inside of you, moving at a slow come-hither motion as your hips begin to rock against his hand.

He croons, feeling your warm, wet walls open up for him. Dex keeps his eyes locked on you as you desperately grind against his hands, wishing he’d move his fingers. But Dex knows that’d be too easy. He knows your body too well; he could definitely make you cum with his hands tied behind his back.

“That’s it, pretty girl, get yourself off for me.” his arm flexes with each gentle stroke of his digits against your gummy walls.

“Dex, please,” You desperately whine as he pulls his fingers away just enough to stay gloved by your pussy but just missing that sweet spot inside of you.

He finally gave in to your pleas and sank his fingers the rest of the way until his middle and ring fingers were knuckle deep inside of you.

You buried your head into Dex’s shoulder as you gush onto his hand. Dex slowly pumps his fingers, hitting that soft spongy spot inside of you every time. You grab onto his arm, gently digging your nails into his skin as you feel yourself get closer to coming.

He presses his thumb to your clit, rubbing tight, calculated circles, and you cling to Dex’s shoulders tighter. He flips you onto the bed, lying you down while keeping his fingers buried inside of you.

His eyes stay trained on your face as he hovers over you.

“Come on, sweetheart,” Dex whispers in your ear, “Wanna feel your pretty pussy cum for me.” You feel him smile against your skin as your hips rise from the bed, chasing after that high. Your back arches and your thighs tremble. Your walls spasm around Dex’s fingers as they ferociously fuck you through your orgasm. The harmony of your whiny moans and obscene, slick squelching from between your legs filled Dex’s ears euphoniously. He basks in your beautiful sounds.

Your fingers wrapping around his wrist gets Dex to slow down before he slips his wet fingers out of your heat. Dex examines his glistening fingers as they catch the moonlight, coated with your arousal, before bringing them to his mouth and licking your juices clean off his hand.

“God, I’ve missed the taste of you,” he says before lowering his head to your neck, softly licking and nipping your skin between his teeth. Dex presses open-mouthed kisses along the column of your throat as he inches a hand up your thigh, pushing your towel open further. His hand continues the rest of the way up your body, until the rest of the towel unravels.

Dex sits back on his haunches, taking in your bare figure laid out before him like a gift he just unwrapped, and runs a hand through his hair.

As Dex’s eyes slowly drink you in, you were suddenly hyper aware of how exposed you feel while he was still fully clothed. You attempt to re-cover yourself, but Dex stops you by pinning your arms to the mattress beside your head.

“Oh, darling, don’t go trying to hide from me now,” he darkly smiles. Dex begins to make his way down your body, alternating between soft kisses and love bites.

He releases your arms to let his hands roam all over you, groping and kneading every part of your body. His calloused hands cupped your breasts, humming in delight as he welcomed the weight of them in his hands.

Dex buries his face between the valley of your breasts, licking and sucking your skin to leave red splotches that would blossom into purple bruises. Dex was careful of where he placed them, making sure you’d just barely be able to hide them; only visible to those staring hard at your cleavage—like a certain coworker of yours.

He rolls his thumbs over your pearled nipples, tweaking them between his deft fingers. You yelp, nearly grinding your hips against his clothed thigh.

Dex settles between your legs, shouldering them wider apart to make room for his broad frame. He kisses each of your thighs, directing them over his shoulders. Without hesitation, he laps at your folds, tasting the remnants of your previous orgasm. Dex hooks his arms under your thighs and pulls you closer to his face, burying his head deeper into your pussy. Your legs threaten to close around his head, the skin of your inner thighs scratching the stubble on his cheeks. But Dex’s arms barely budged, keeping you right where he wanted you.

Dex closed his eyes, losing himself in the taste of you on his tongue, gushing into his mouth like a never-ending fountain.

You could feel the growing wetness sticking to your thighs as Dex’s drool mixes with your slick, making a mess of the sheets below you. Dex brings his free hand between your legs, spreading your lips to tongue your labia.

His tongue weasels inside of you, and his nose bumps your clit, making you buck your hips against his mouth. Dex flattens one of his arms across your stomach, pinning you back to the bed. You tried to wriggle out of his hold, not because you wanted him to let go but to get him to exert more of his strength. You mewl, your head spinning as he keeps you locked in this position.

“Fuck, baby—you’re gonna make me cum again,” you moan. Your fingers comb through his hair, letting your nails gently scratch his scalp as you grip onto his dirty blonde locks.

Dex growls back in response, hungrily sucking on your clit. His tongue worked relentlessly, languidly swirling the bundle of nerves in his mouth. You cried out Dex’s name and roughly pulled on his hair, making him groan into your mound. The vibrations from his mouth send jolts of electricity up your spine, and your toes curl.

Your upper body flailed and jerked as your lower half was kept pressed against the mattresses. Dex lapped up your cum, gladly drinking down your release until he felt the tense quiver of your thighs around his ears.

Dex sits up, and you look at him through your lashes, the lower half of his face wet with your juices. You watch as he licks his lips and wipes his mouth of your essence before he grabs the back of his shirt and tears it off over his head.

Your eyes run down the expanse of his chest to his defined abdomen, flexing with every slow breath he takes. You watch the muscles in his arms ripple under his skin as he begins to push his sweatpants down his hips.

Fuck me.

Dex looks up at you and laughs, “I’m getting there, sweetheart. Mind a little patience?”

Fuck, you said that out loud. No backing down now.

You slide off the bed and stand in front of him, “I’ve been patient enough, Poindexter, don’t you think?” You grab the waistband of his boxers and pull him close.

Dex brings his lips to yours, and your hands push his boxers down his thighs, freeing his dick from its confines. You take him into your hand, making him moan into your mouth. You run your thumb over the leaky slit, smearing his precum over his shaft. You twist and jerk your wrist as Dex throws his head back, giving you access to his neck. You lick a stripe up the side of his throat before tugging his earlobe between your teeth. You softly litter kisses across his neck before you return the favor and suck a bruise above his Adam’s apple.

“Fuck,” Dex sighs as he rocks his hips into your hand. He picks you up once again, guiding your legs around his waist. “I need to be inside of you,” Dex mutters against your neck, “need to feel you,” he says as he climbs onto your bed with you still clinging onto him like a sloth hanging on a tree branch. Dex sits with you in his lap, resting his cock between your wet folds. You reach between your bodies to take his cock into your hand again, rising out of his lap to guide his tip to your sopping core.

You bite your bottom lip as you feel the blunt head of his cock pushing into you. Dex roughly grunts, taking hold of your hips in both hands, trying to keep himself from slamming you down onto his lap in one go.

“Attagirl,” Dex deeply sighs, “just take it easy,” he soothingly rubs your back. His eyes fall to where your bodies connect, watching the way your pussy slowly sucks his cock the rest of the way in.

Your eyes screw shut as you drop your forehead to rest against his, feeling him fully sheathed inside of your warm cunt.

Dex wraps his arm around you, wanting to feel impossibly close to you. But even balls deep inside of you wasn’t enough for him—he wanted more. More of you.

“Holy shit, you fit around me just so perfectly,” his voice reverberates in your ear, “It’s like you were made for me,” he rasps.

You hum in agreement, moving your legs from beneath you to flatten your feet on the bed and grab onto his neck.

“Just for you,” you tell him as you roll your hips.

Dex drops his hand to your lower back, letting you set the pace. You lean back, resting a hand on his thigh behind you to steady yourself as you rock your hips.

“That’s it, angel, take what you need," he rasps. "I'm all yours to use," he tells you. You moan at his words, throwing your head back with a lustful smile. You bring your lips back to Dex’s, and he swallows your sensual whimpers and cries.

You push him back onto the mattress, and his hands on your waist move south to cup your ass as Dex angles his hips up into yours. The tip of his cock easily finds your sweet spot, and you cling onto him once more. You let Dex take control, thrusting up into you at a faster—more desperate rhythm.

“Oh god, Ben, please,” you pant.

A deep growl rumbles in his chest. He slides his hands up your back, locking you into a bear hug as his thighs flex beneath you with every thrust of his hips. Your breathy whines and broken moans fill Dex’s ears while his cock repeatedly bullies your g-spot.

A smile spreads across Dex’s face as he watches you completely lose yourself on his cock. He pushes you back onto the bed, never slipping out of you as he fucks you into the mattress. He hooks an arm beneath your hips, spearing into you while using his other hand to press his thumb to your clit.

“God, you’re so wet. I can feel how close you are from the way you’re soaking me,” he says, reveling in the way your pussy pulses around him.

“M’so close…fill me up so good—feels so fucking good,” you slur.

A guttural moan rips from your throat, and your hips desperately buck into Dex’s. Your walls clamp around him as you cum. Dex nearly cums himself and quickly pulls out of you, making you whine from the sudden loss of contact.

He doesn’t leave you untouched for long, however, with his hand finding its way between your thighs once again, slipping his fingers back inside of you. You shoot upright and grab onto Dex’s arm, closing your legs around his hand.

“Dex, it’s too much please. I can’t-” tears pricked your eyes, feeling overstimulated.

“Oh but I know you can, darling. Need you to stay wet and ready for me.” Dex says like it takes much for you when it comes to him anyway.

Dex stands before you can process the emptiness his hand leaves you with. He wraps an arm around your middle, manhandling you onto your knees at the edge of the bed. Your head spins from having him toss you around like a ragdoll.

Dex brings his cock back to your slit, gently tapping your clit with his cockhead, and you fall back against his chest. Dex pushes inside of you, enrapturing you once again. He grunts deeply, letting his breath fan over your shoulder, feeling the way your warm, wet walls open up just for him. His lips press languid kisses up the back of your neck as he holds you there, not moving—just leaving his cock buried deep inside of you. You try to move your hips with his tip curving deliciously into your sweet spot, but Dex tightens his hold on you, restricting your movements.

“Just look at yourself,” he gently grabbed your face and directed your eyes to the mirror across from your bed by the window. The same mirror Dex would watch you stand in front of for half an hour, contemplating your outfits. Looking at your reflection, your lower stomach pools with arousal, seeing the scene before you. Dex slowly draws his hips back, just barely leaving his tip inside of you before filling you up again, making you shudder. “My precious angel, so needy, all fucked out. All just for me,” he says lowly in your ear.

Dex hugs your shoulders, and you feel his bicep nearly close around your neck every time his arm flexes as he thrusts into you. You weren’t worried he’d hurt you, though he was fully capable of doing so in this position. Your hands rest on his forearm, but you don’t stop him, and just roll your head back onto his shoulder.

“I’m so close, baby, please don’t stop,” you reach behind you, tangling your fingers in his hair, “Wanna cum again—wanna cum with you.”

His eyes were glued to your reflection in the mirror, intensely watching you as you lost yourself. Dex’s arm around your waist pulls you back onto his cock, hitting that sweet spot inside you with such precision every time he bottoms out.

“Need me to fill you up?” he asks, and you slowly nod. “Gonna stuff you so full of my cum you’re gonna be dripping for days afterwards. Brian won’t have a doubt in his mind who you belong to then,” your velvety walls flutter around Dex, and he laughs. “Oh, you like the sound of that, huh? What a fucking tease you are.”

Dex’s hand reaches down to your puffy clit, pinching the sensitive bud between his fingers. Your orgasm crashes into you like a freight train, and you see stars. Dex continues to pump his cock into you, his hips stuttering as he feels the damn begin to break inside of him. Dex sharply pounded into you, the skin of your ass roughly slapping against his lower stomach.

If Dex still wasn’t holding you, you would’ve fallen forward face first onto the mattress, your legs unable to hold you up as you cum for the fourth time tonight. Warm ropes of Dex’s cum coat your inner walls in white. You quietly chanted his name, your mind growing hazy, only able to think of the man wrapped around you. Dex’s arm kisses your shoulder as his dick begins to soften, and he slowly eases out of you.

Dex hooks an arm beneath your thighs, effortlessly scooping you up bridal style. You settle in his arms, circling your own around his neck as you kiss him.

“Ben-”

He interrupts you because he doesn’t need to hear you say it. “I know,” and he passionately kisses you.

Not wanting to let you go, Dex carries you out of your bedroom to the bathroom. He sits you on the bathroom counter, starting up the shower before opening the door to step inside. He holds his hand out for you, which you quickly accept, allowing him to pull you into the shower with him.

After your second shower of the night, you were finally able to dress yourself in one of Dex’s old Quantico shirts and now lay with your head on his chest.

The sounds of the city coming in through the window were drowned out by the sounds of Dex’s heartbeat in your ears. You feel him trace spiraling shapes on your skin with the tip of his fingers.

He breaks the comfortable silence to ask, “When did you start smoking again?”

“Few weeks after you were indicted. It’s a good distraction,” you answer, gently stroking the blonde hairs on his chest.

“It’s not good for you,” Dex says, but you can hear the hint of amusement in his tone.

You lift your head to look at him, “When has that stopped me?”