SAV

The ride home was a cocoon of tense silence. The streetlights shimmered in the night a silent parade past the tinted windows.

Michael sat in the far corner of the plush limousine seat, a beautiful statue carved from desire and anxiety. 

He’d been radiant at the 1980 American Music Award presentation, his neat afro, a soft light-brown cloud, his smile shy but genuine as he spoke to peers about Off the Wall.

And for the entire three-hour affair—from the first sip of prosecco to the final standing ovation, he’d been visibly, achingly hard.

You had whooped and cheered for him as he won in three separate categories. He made sure to point and thank ‘his girl’ for being the perfect muse. You couldn’t even comprehend the wins, as you were pointedly looking at his crotch, how he was trying to hide himself. 

You’d borne witness to it all. 

The subtle, tortured shifts in his wide-legged trousers. The way his elegant hands would flutter to his lap, pressing down, trying to angle the thick, insistent line of his erection against the lean plane of his stomach, or try to keep it in the waistband of his pants.

It was a futile, beautiful struggle. A faint sheen of perspiration had highlighted his forehead, and every time he leaned in to whisper a thank you, his breath was hot and unsteady. When he spoke with you, his eyes were alert, fervent, and his breath carried the scent of mint and sweet juice. He was coming apart at the seams.

Last night had been his first time. The loss of his innocence. A decision arrived at with trembling anticipation. Three whole years of held hands, of kisses that never deepened, of him whispering, "Let's do it when it’s perfect, baby. When it’s right.”

He’d finally decided it was right. “I love you,” he’d breathed into the darkness, his body taut above you. “I know I’m going to marry you—so why should I wait any longer?”

It had been a burst of frantic, bewildered sensation, over almost before it began, leaving him curled around you afterwards, whispering “thank you” over and over like a sacred vow into your skin.

You’d thought it a one-time gift, at least for a while, while he grappled with the guilt of stepping outside the bounds of his religious past.

The limo purred to a stop on the familiar Hayvenhurst driveway. He was out before the engine died, opening your door with a hand that trembled violently.

“Night, Mike. I’ll pick you up again tomorrow morning at nine sharp—you’ve got that radio show interview–” Bill called after him.

Michael wasn’t listening. He didn’t even take your hand up the path like he usually did.

He walked ahead, as if on a warpath, his posture rigid, his stride a careful, stiff thing meant to disguise the persistent, telling bulge in his trousers.

The house was a sleeping giant. You both climbed the grand staircase at speed. You struggled slightly in your heels, your long silk dress pooling at your feet. He led you away from the guest room you used to frequent, down a quieter hall lined with framed gold records and awkward school portraits. He stopped at a familiar door and pushed it open.

His childhood bedroom.

It was a sanctuary of preserved innocence. A smaller double bed with a faded blue comforter. 

Shelves bowed under the weight of countless Disney figurines: Cinderella’s castle, a parade of Seven Dwarfs, a lonely-looking Dumbo. A mobile of the solar system, coated in a fine layer of dust, hung motionless from the ceiling. The air was a blend of old paper, the faint sweet smell of vinyl, and the crisp, clean scent that was uniquely, essentially him.

You smiled as you took it in; it looked exactly as you remembered from when you first started dating. He had insisted you both use the guest room because he didn’t want to face moving any of his memorabilia. It just so happened his childhood bedroom was furthest from his family, his parents in the opposite wing, Randy down the stairs and Janet three doors down.

He went to the bed and sat down, his back to you. With a concentration that was borderline funny, he bent and began untying the laces of his polished dress shoes.

The act was so simple, so boyish; a child in his refuge, shedding the costume of the outside world, that it made your heart ache. 

In public, he was poised, adult, a persona he wore like a tailored suit. But here, he was the boy who believed in magic, who trusted too easily, whose curiosity was your favorite thing, the way he’d absorb everything about a subject, a time period, a movie, just as he did with music.

You stood by his old wooden desk, your fingers brushing the cool plastic of a model rocket. A ceramic figurine of Bambi watched with wide, glassy eyes.

“I saw it all night,” you said, your voice a soft intrusion in the quiet.

His hands froze on the second lace. He didn’t turn. “Saw what?”

“How hard you were. During the speeches. While you were eating. You kept trying to hide it, but you couldn’t. It was all I could think about.”

A visible tremor ran through him. He straightened slowly, but kept his back to you, head bowed as if in prayer. “It wouldn’t go away,” he confessed, his voice thick. “My body… it wouldn’t listen to me. The more I remembered last night, the harder it got. It was getting… painful.”

“I noticed your frustration,” you whispered, taking a step closer. The floorboard sighed beneath your weight. “And it made me wet. Drenched. Every time you adjusted yourself, every time you got that look in your eye… I could feel myself getting slick for you.”

He turned then.

His face was flushed, his beautiful lips parted. The need in his eyes had taken over; the shyness was a thin veneer over a bedrock of hunger.

“Wet?” he breathed, as if deciphering a complex lyric. His gaze dropped to the front of your gown. “Tell me what that’s like.”

You closed the final distance.

You took his right hand and lifted it. You placed his palm firmly against the damp silk covering your mound.

He gasped—a sharp, startled sound.

“Feel,” you instructed, your voice low.

His fingers trembled against you. You guided his hand down, under the heavy fabric of your gown, past the delicate lace of your stockings, until his cool fingertips met the soaked, feverish silk of your panties.

A choked, ragged sound escaped him.

“I can make you feel this way?” he stammered, his voice full of awe. “So warm… so… wet…”

“That’s for you,” you said, holding his wrist, making him feel the undeniable truth. “All night. That’s what the thought of you did to me.”

He was shaking now.

You hooked your fingers into the lace at your hip, drawing the fabric aside. Then you guided two of his long, elegant fingers inside of you. He was good with his hands; he had a rhythm like no other, skilled and precise. It was ironic that he knew how to play instruments so well, and now you wanted him to learn to play your body like one.

He went perfectly still. His eyes widened, the dark pools swallowing the light from the nightlight.

He was still feeling the intimate, velvet clutch of your body.

“Ohh…,” he whimpered, the sound pulled from his soul.

“Curve them,” you breathed, your own composure fraying. “Like you’re reaching for something.”

He obeyed; a slow, deliberate flexion. The pad of his middle finger found a spot that made stars burst behind your eyelids. A low, throaty moan tore from you.

“Mmmhh—!”

The sound shattered his last restraint. A deep, guttural groan echoed in his chest. He began to move his fingers, it wasn’t really with skill, just a frantic curiosity. In and out, curling, exploring. The tops of his fingers were softly pressing against your G-spot. 

He watched your face, utterly captivated, as his hand worked beneath your gown, his expression one of rapt, hungry devotion.

“This… this tight, soft, warm feeling… is what I was thinking about at dinner,” he panted, his breath coming fast. “This is what I wanted… right there and then, but couldn’t have.”

He withdrew his fingers, staring at the glistening evidence. Driven by an instinct deeper than reason, he brought them to his lips and… tasted.

His eyes fluttered closed.

“Y’taste so good,” he mumbled, his voice thick and sweet. “You taste like heaven.” 

He pulled his fingers from his mouth with a soft, slick pop. The look he gave you then was one of pure, pussy-drunk awe. The shy boy was submerged, replaced by a devoted lover.

“I need to feel you,” he said, the words rushing out. “I need to be surrounded by you. I need to have all of you.”

He fumbled with the buttons of his sparkly silver shirt and yanked off his bow tie, his usual grace abandoned. He shed it, let it fall onto a stack of comic books. The black trousers were shoved down, kicked away. He stood before you, naked in a room crowded with childhood dreams, fully, magnificently erect. You inwardly rolled your eyes at the fact he hadn’t worn briefs to the ceremony.

The juxtaposition in front of you, though, was devastatingly intimate. Him stood in this room, bearing himself, when a month prior he still struggled to get dressed in front of you.

He didn’t ask before diving in at you.

He gathered you in his strong, lean arms and laid you back on the blue comforter, pushing the skirts of your gown up to your waist, not even bothering to undress you fully because his need was too crazed, too immediate.

He settled between your thighs, his cock; thick, proud, flushed with wanting—pressing against your dripping heat. He looked down, his expression one of solemn, hungry wonder.

“I love you,” he whispered, but it sounded like a truth that made all this not only permissible, but necessary. 

“I need to feel this. Every part of it. I didn’t feel you fall apart last night. It was too fast. This time… I want to feel you come apart around me. I want to be inside you when you lose yourself.”

He pushed in.

It was a slow, inexorable claiming that made the breath hitch in his throat. He sank to his base, a long sigh escaping him. He was so deep it felt like he was pressing on your heart.

“Perfect,” he breathed, his eyes closing. “You are… so good, laying there all pretty for me.”

He began to move, a deep, rolling rhythm that was less about thrusting and more about communion.

“You take me so completely… like you were made for me…”

But then his movements changed. His hands, which had been braced gently beside your head, slid down to your thighs. His touch, usually so tentative, became firm, purposeful. 

He pushed your legs apart wider, then hooked them, bending them sharply to the side, opening you to him utterly. The new angle was deeper, more exposing. A soft cry left your lips.

“Yes,” he murmured, his voice taking on a darker, more resonant timbre. “Like this. I need to feel all of you like this.”

He began to move again, and this time, there was a new roughness to his rhythm. It wasn’t violent, but it was relentless, deeply possessive. Each stroke was a full, powerful drive, his hips meeting yours with a solid, wet slap-slap-slap that filled the quiet room. The bedframe began a steady, rhythmic protest against the wall.

He was lost in it. His eyes were open, watching your face, but they were glazed, seeing only the sensation.

“You’re so beautiful like this, how have i gone so long without this sight?,” he groaned, his words coming between panting breaths. 

“Surrendered to me. Letting me feel you. You’re my good girl, right?”

His dirty talk wasn’t crude; it was sensual, almost poetic, ripped from the core of his overwhelmed being. 

He drove into you, harder, his control slipping into something more primal. It became messy, clumsy—the way he gripped your thighs, the way he shoved into you—the want of his release overtaking his rationale. 

You knew there’d be bruises where he held you tomorrow.

He pulled out briefly, flipped both your legs to his right, then entered you with your legs together—the sensation for him even more distinct, squeezing his cock even tighter. 

His hands were on your sides now as he drilled into you. He leaned over as he pounded, his face so close to yours. 

You couldn’t look away, totally entranced by the primal look in his eyes. He’d been taken over by the sensation, totally overthrown.

“I want to drown in you… I want this feeling…” He thrust fast and deep now, as if he was fucking the sensual words into you. “Forever, let me have it forever—God—”

You could feel your climax coming in, a slow, tectonic pressure from the deep, relentless pounding. You moaned loudly, your fingers tangling in the blanket.

“Ah—ah—!”

“I feel it,” he gasped, his rhythm becoming more urgent, though no less deep. “I want to make you feel good… I want to see the pleasure blown out in your eyes.” He was muttering now between gasps of pleasure. 

“I’m going to write about how filthy and utterly ethereal you look in this moment,” he moaned, cupping your breasts with his hands.

His words; the romantic filth of them, spoken in that breathy, wrecked tenor were your undoing.

Your orgasm erupted, a deep, feeling within you; your whole body convulsed mercillisly.

You clenched around him in rhythmicly, uncontrollably. 

A broken cry was torn from your throat—“Michael—!”

you could feel how wet you had become from your orgasm, and by the slick, slapping sound of his slow, deep thrusting, it was driving him wild.

He cried out with you, a sound of pure, triumphant awe.

“Yes! that’s my girl. I have waited so long to see you so dirty like this, to see your face in agonizing heat…”

But he didn’t stop after your come down. 

He couldn’t. 

The feeling of your climax around him seemed to fuel a deeper, more desperate hunger. 

His thrusts became harder, faster, losing their measured pace, becoming a frantic, driving rhythm. The bed shook. A figurine of Mickey Mouse toppled from the shelf with a soft clatter.

“I can’t… I can’t stop,” he sobbed, his voice breaking. He was fucking you now with a pure, unadulterated need, the romantic poet consumed by the primal animal. “It’s too good… you’re too good… I need more… I need to be deeper…”

He was overstimulated, lost, chasing a feeling that kept escalating. He hooked your legs higher, over his shoulders, bending you nearly in half, and plunged into you with a force that stole the air from your lungs. His words dissolved into a litany of your name, interspersed with gasped, sensual fragments. 

His eyes roamed frantically, but then settled on the sight of his own motion, biting his lip as he watched the remnants of your undoing pool at the base of his cock.

“My heart… is in your skin… your taste is in my mouth…” he moaned, breathlessly inbetween pumps.

He flipped you over with ease, onto your stomach. You had a brief moment to prepare yourself before he settled over you, pressing you into the mattress, and drove back into your from behind.

“You’re mine, all mine, this is just for me, always—”

His own end took him by storm.

His body locked, every muscle straining. A raw, ragged shout was torn from him—“Fuuuu--GOD-- Y/N–” a sound that held no artifice, only pure, shattering release.

You felt his hot seed, pulsing into you, flooding deep within, a claiming that felt endless.

He trembled violently through it, his hips jerking with involuntary aftershocks, still buried to the hilt.

When the last tremor passed, he collapsed forward, but caught himself on his elbows, still sheathed inside you. He was panting, sweat dripping from his nose and afro onto your back. He looked down at you as you glanced back, his eyes wide, dazed, full of a wonder that bordered on fear. You both just started grinning at each other crazily.

“I think I got carried away,” he whispered, his voice hoarse and ruined. “In you. I completely… got lost.”

"mhmm," you noted back, "ya think?"

He slowly, carefully, withdrew, and rolled to the side, pulling you instantly against him. His arms wrapped around you, tight, possessive. His heart hammered against your back.

He was silent for a long time, his fingers tracing idle patterns on your stomach.

“I don’t know how I held off for so long,” he murmured finally, his lips against your shoulder blade. 

The scent of sex; musky, sweet, and profoundly intimate hung thick in the air of Michael’s old bedroom, a new perfume overlaying the old smell of books and toys. 

Minutes bled by, measured only in the gradual slowing of breath. You felt spent, hollowed out and filled up, drifting away on the aftershocks. 

Then, a shift in the energy beside you.

He lowered his arm.

In the soft gloom of the late evening, you saw his profile. His eyes were open, staring at the dusty mobile of the solar system behind your head. His lips, swollen and damp, parted. He looked so young like this, but he was grown now. The change you felt in him, even in the last few days was ludicrous. You fondly remembered how Michael would struggle to even hold your hand longer than 30 seconds, or he’d start madly blushing.

"Can I…" he started, his voice a ruined, raspy thing. 

He stopped, swallowed and then started again, the words tumbling out in a hushed, guilty rush. 

"Can I put my mouth on you? Right now?"

The question hung in the air, inappropriate, vulnerable, filthy in its innocent hunger.

You turned your head on the pillow. "Michael… you just… you finished in me. It's… it's mixed."

He turned his head too. 

His eyes found yours, and there was no shyness there, only a dark clarity. 

"I don't care," he whispered, the declaration simple and absolute. "I want to taste you for real. I want to taste where I was. Please."

He didn't wait for a final answer. The "please" was a formality. 

The decision was made.

He moved with a sudden, fluid grace that belied his exhaustion, sliding down your body like a man descending to an altar. He pushed your thighs apart with a firm insistence, his gaze locked on the glistening, spent evidence of your joining.

He hovered, his gaze fixed so intensely.

“So beautiful,” he breathed, the words barely a whisper, soaked in awe. “Like a rose that’s just… bloomed for me.”

His hands, which had been resting on your hips, slid inward. His touch was a little demanding, but still just as tender. His fingers came to rest on your outer lips, applying the gentlest pressure.

He began to part you.

It was a slow unveiling. The soft, swollen flesh, glistening with the combined evidence of your passion, yielded to his patient hands. He opened you like the pages of a cherished, secret book he was terrified to damage.

A soft, shuddering sigh escaped him. “Oh… wow.”

He was looking at the heart of you, fully exposed to him in the dim light. The intimate, intricate folds, flushed a deep, needy pink, the glimmering wetness that coated everything, the tight, hidden entrance that still pulsed gently from his recent possession.

"Look at you,” he murmured, his voice sounding almost deliriously drunk with pleasure.

“All pretty and pink and wet for me. Just for me.” He leaned closer, his nose almost touching you, inhaling deeply. The sound he made was one of a man tasting water in a desert; a low, guttural groan of pure, starving need.

"Oh, God…" he mumbled, his voice muffled against your flesh. "S'sweet… and salty…"

He was lost instantly. Any hesitation, any remnant of fastidiousness, was incinerated by the addictive, complex flavor. He ate at you with starving intensity. His tongue was blunt and demanding, lapping up every trace, diving deep to clean his own release from inside you with thick, curling strokes. 

The sounds were obscenely wet, sloppy, loud in the quiet room. He moaned continuously, a low, pleasured hum that you felt in your bones.

You writhed, oversensitive, a confusing mix of shock and overwhelming arousal knotting in your belly. "Michael… ah! Too… im so sensitive…"

He lifted his head, his chin dripping. His eyes were black pools of delerium. "No," he breathed, the word a gentle command. "I haven’t had enough. Sit on my face."

It was a desperate, worshipful plea.

He lay back flat, his hands coming to your hips, guiding you, pulling you up and over him. You braced your hands on the headboard, above his scattered pillows and plush toys, and lowered yourself, trembling, onto the waiting heat of his mouth.

Your world and everything in it, narrowed to sensation.

His mouth was a godsend; it was devoted hunger. As you settled your weight onto him, he let out a choked, blissful sound underneath you and his arms wrapped around your thighs, locking you in place. 

There was no escape, and in seconds, you didn't want any.

He feasted. His tongue speared into you, fucking into the tender, well-used channel with a rhythm that was all his own. He alternated between deep, penetrating licks and frantic, fluttering sucks on your clit, his nose buried against you, breathing you in like oxygen. His hips began to move in tiny, abortive thrusts against the empty air, the blanket beneath him.

You were in disbelief at what had gotten into him – the boy you once knew had well and truly been replaced by a man. A handsome, steadfast partner, who clearly didn’t have any thoughts of leaving you for anyone else; even in his fame.

You looked down at him from where you were perched over his face. And the sight… unwound you completely.

His eyes were squeezed shut in ecstasy, his beautiful face a mask of utter surrender. 

Your eyes roamed away, and then you saw against his stomach, his cock was already fully, achingly hard again, thick and flushed and leaking a fresh pearl of pre-come onto the skin just below his belly button. 

The sheer, wanton need of it and the fact that tasting you, servicing you, had him rock-hard and throbbing in seconds sent a violent, possessive thrill through you.

The power dynamic shifted on a dizzying axis.

You rose off his mouth, ignoring his grunt of protest. You moved backwards, straddling his hips instead of his face. His eyes flew open, confused, desperate.

"Wha—?"

You didn't let him finish. You wanted to show him that other positions were just as good. You remembered something you’d read, a way to take control…

You reached between your legs, took his hard, slick cock in your hand, and guided it to your entrance, still wet and open from his mouth and his seed. 

You sank down onto him slowly, sheathing him completely inside your sore, sensitive heat.

A dual cry tore through the room—his a sharp, shattered gasp of "God Damn–!", yours a long, low moan of exquisite, overwhelming fullness.

For a second, you both froze, impaled, connected. 

You saw the shock in his eyes, then the dawning, wild comprehension. You were in control. You were taking what you needed from him.

Then you began to move.

You rode him slowly at first, a deep, rolling grind, using the muscles inside you to clench his length. 

His head fell back, a string of broken, sensual praises falling from his lips. 

"Yess… ride me… use me… you feel so good taking your pleasure from me… only me baby"

But Michael was not a passive lover. He was jealous, stubborn and petty at times and this had to manifest in your sex life too.

The submission was a feint, a precursor to a different kind of power.

His hands, which had been gripping the sheets, flew to your hips. His grip was iron, his long fingers digging into your flesh. The gentle, curious boy was gone. In his place was a man consumed, only you on his mind and in his sightline.

"Harder," he growled, his voice darker than usual. 

He thrust his hips up to meet your downward stroke, a sharp, punishing impact that stole your breath. 

" harder. Take what you want. Use me."

He began to dictate the rhythm from below. He bucked his hips, meeting each of your descents with a powerful, upward drive, controlling the depth, the angle, the force. He was fucking himself into you from the bottom, his strength surprising, his need an inferno.

"Yes! Like that!" he chanted, his eyes blazing up at you, watching your breasts bounce, your face contort in pleasure. 

"Good. keep going. I wanna feel you tighten around me again whilst you come for me"

His physical domination from beneath you was the spark that lit the fuse. 

You cried out, your rhythm breaking into frantic, shallow bounces as the orgasm ripped through you, violently, your nerve endings completely shattered from what was going on.

He felt it. He saw it. And it unleashed the final, raw animal in him.

With a roar that was half-sob, half-triumph, he gripped your hips and lifted you off of him. In one violent, graceful motion, he flipped you onto your back and was surging over you before the cry could leave your throat. He slammed back into you to the hilt, hooking your legs over the crooks of his arms, folding you nearly in half.

"Mine," he said, the word a primal, guttural claim against your lips. 

His rhythm was brutal, perfectly aimed despite his inexperience, a relentless, piston-drive fucking that had the bed slamming into the wall with a frantic, wooden THUD-THUD-THUD-THUD.

He was everywhere, his sweat dripping onto your chest, his groans hot in your ear, his hands gripping your legs like vices. 

He was a beautiful, desperate machine, chasing his own end with fury, using your body to get there, giving you everything he had in the process.

"I think…m-gonna fill you up… again…" he panted, his rhythm fracturing into erratic, deep jabs. 

"Mark you… inside and out… so you never forget… whose girl you are… Ah—! Ah, God—!"

His release was silent. His body locked, every muscle corded and straining. His mouth opened but nothing came out, his eyes wide and unseeing as he emptied himself into you in hot, pulsing jets, deeper than seemed possible. 

He collapsed forward, but caught himself on trembling arms, still buried inside you, his forehead pressed to yours, his breath sobbing into your mouth.

Slowly, he softened and slipped out. He didn't roll away. He collapsed onto you, a dead weight of satiated obsession, his face buried in the crook of your neck. His arms slid under you, binding you to him completely.

His lips moved against your damp skin, the words slurred, thick with exhaustion and a profound, drunken awe.

“They are gonna have to lock me up in a padded room to stay away from you now”

fin.. ;)

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Out of the roughly 15,000 men at the school, 300 being athletes, 30 of them on the hockey team, and she had to fall for the one guy she absolutely could not have feelings for. Out of every guy in the school, out of every team, she had to have feelings for Garrett Graham. Her best friend's boyfriend. Hannah’s well deserved happy ending. 

It started small, laughing at his jokes a second too long. Watching him without realizing. Noticing things like how he always held Hannah’s hand like it was automatic, like it was easy. That’s what made it worse, it was easy for them. 

So y/n made rules, very strict rules: Don't be alone with Garrett, don’t stare at Garrett.

Rules she broke every single day.

The more she tried not to think about him, the more her brain insisted on betraying her. Which was how she ended up pacing her dorm room at 10:30 at night while Allie sat cross-legged on her bed like a therapist who had not consented to this job.

“I’m telling you,” Allie said slowly, “this is total avoidance behaviour.”

“I’m not avoiding anything,” Y/n snapped, “I don’t even like Garrett like that.”

Allie gave her a look.

Y/n added quickly, “He’s Hannah’s boyfriend. Obviously I don’t like him like that.”

“That’s not what I said.”

Y/n grabbed her water bottle like it could physically defend her from this conversation. “This is insane. Even if I did like anyone I’m too busy for a relationship. I have midterms. I have—”

“You have a crush,” Allie said simply.

“I do not—”

“And Logan has a crush on Hannah.”

That stopped her. The room went quiet in a way that felt like something clicking into place, whether she wanted it to or not.

Y/n exhaled sharply. “That’s unfortunate for him.”

“It’s unfortunate for both of you when you’re both suffering in silence like idiots.”

“I’m not suffering,” Y/n muttered.

Allie raised an eyebrow. 

Y/n stared at the ceiling for a long moment. “…Okay, fine. Slightly suffering.”

“Thank you.”

The problem wasn’t just the feelings. It was the situation. Hannah and Garrett were solid. Happy. Loudly in love in a way that made it impossible to ignore. No matter how bad you wanted too. And John Logan, he was not her problem. John Logan was never her problem. John Logan had loud opinions, hockey arrogance, and the most irritatingly observant person she had ever met.

And yet. 

Allie stood up. “Talk to him.”

“I am not talking to John Logan.”

“You literally might be the only two people on campus who haven’t acknowledged this dynamic.”

“There is no dynamic.”

Allie rolled her eyes, “You’re both exhausting”. Then she left Y/n alone with her thoughts, which was honestly worse.

She didn’t plan to go to Logan’s room. It just… happened, like her feet had given up waiting for her brain to catch up. She knocked once, then immediately questioned every life choice she had ever made. The door swung open, Logan looked at her like she had interrupted something important.

“What did you do?” he asked immediately. 

“Hi to you too.” Y/n didn’t even hesitate before walking past him into the room like she belonged there. “I might have implied to Allie that we’re seeing each other.” 

Logan closed the door slowly, like if he moved too fast reality would break and he’d get arrested by consequence itself. “Why would you do that?”

“Because we both have crushes on people we shouldn't and this is easier than admitting anything. I’m pretty sure it’s an avoidance technique.”

That made him pause. A beat. Then, flatly: “Right.” Logan stared at her for a long second, like he was trying to decide if she was a prank or a threat. Then he laughed, once, sharp, disbelieving. “You’re insane.”

“Probably.” she sighed, “but, you're the one who agreed to talk to me alone at night.”

“I didn’t agree to anything. You showed up in my room.”

“Yeah, but you didn't ask me to leave. That sounds like consent-adjacent language.”

“Don’t use legal terms you don’t understand.”

She dropped onto his bed like it had personally invited her. “Anyway, it’s fine. We just keep it going for a bit and they’ll leave us alone.”

Silence stretched, then Logan exhaled, like he was stepping off a cliff he’d already decided he was too tired to climb back up from. “Fine.”

She hesitated. “You’re actually agreeing?”

“I’m agreeing under one condition.”

Y/n narrowed her eyes. “Of course you are.”

“Don’t fall in love with me while pretending to date me.”

That should’ve been her first warning. “Obviously…. What makes you think I would?" 

Logan leaned back against his desk, completely calm in a way that made her suspicious. Y/n stared at him for a long moment.

“Okay,” she said finally, dragging the word out like she was stepping into traffic. “New rules.”

Logan raised an eyebrow. “We didn’t have rules”

“Of course we did. Now we have new ones.”

He gestured for her to continue.

She pointed between them. “Rule one: we agree on what we’re telling people before we start… whatever this is.”

“Fair.”

“Rule two: no improv. We discuss things”

“That’s going to be hard for me.”

“Of course it will be.” She rolled her eyes.

He nodded slowly. “And?”

Y/n hesitated, then added, “Rule three: if we’re going to sell this, we need to stop acting like we hate each other.”

Logan tilted his head. “Do we hate each other?”

She opened her mouth. Paused. “...I’m currently undecided.”

That got a quiet laugh out of him. “Alright,” he said. “So what’s the story?”

Y/n leaned back in the chair, thinking. “People already think I’m into Garrett. So we flip it.”

Logan frowned. “Flip it how?”

“We make it obvious I’m not interested in him anymore.”

“And I’m your distraction?”

She looked at him. “You’re my cover.”

Then Logan nodded slowly. “And Hannah?”

Y/n hesitated for half a second too long.

Logan noticed, of course he did. Then he said, quieter, “We keep it separate.”

“Yeah,” she agreed quickly. “Separate.”

Silence settled again, but it wasn’t as sharp this time. Logan pushed off the desk. “So. We’re selling a fake relationship to shut people up about real feelings we don’t want to deal with.”

Y/n pointed at him. “Don’t make it sound like that.”

“That’s what it is.”

She narrowed her eyes. “You already agreed.”

“I’m aware.”

A pause. Then Logan stepped closer—not enough to crowd her, just enough to make her look up at him.

“So,” he said, voice lighter again, “what’s our public image?”

Y/n studied him for a moment. Then, slowly: “We act like you’re obsessed with me.”

Logan’s mouth twitched. “That’s believable.”

“And I tolerate you.”

“Even more believable.”

“And we make everyone else uncomfortable enough to stop asking questions.”

Logan nodded once. “That part I can do.”

Y/n stood up, finally feeling the weird, shaky edge of what they were doing settle into something structured.

“Good,” she said. “Because starting tomorrow, we’re in a relationship.”

Logan looked at her like that sentence meant something entirely different than she intended. Then he smirked. “Yeah,” he said. “We are.”

The next week was hell. And also, unfortunately, a little fun. They didn’t tell anyone at first. There was no announcement, no official “we are now fake dating” press release. It was just… something they started doing. Like a habit they couldn’t explain and didn’t bother correcting. A hand at her waist in the hallway—casual, like it belonged there. Logan steering her through crowds without asking. A glance held just a second too long when someone said his name. Y/n laughing at something he said that wasn’t even that funny, because the way he was looking at her made it impossible not to. And people noticed, of course they did.

It started small. 

Dean was the first to notice it, he stopped mid-step in the living room, eyes bouncing between them as Logan handed Y/n her coffee without looking away from her face.

“Did I miss something,” Dean said slowly, “or are you two suddenly… tolerable to each other?”

Y/n choked on her drink.

Logan didn’t even blink. “We’ve always been tolerable.”

“No,” Tucker cut in immediately, squinting like he was trying to solve a crime. “This feels weird.”

“It’s called growth,” Y/n said too quickly.

“It’s called suspicious,” Tucker corrected.

Logan leaned back against the counter, arm brushing Y/n’s in a way that felt far too intentional for something that was supposed to be “just acting.” “You guys are weirdly invested in our relationship.”

Dean pointed at them. “You just said ‘our relationship’ like it’s normal.”

“It is normal,” Logan said.

Y/n nodded a little too fast. “Extremely normal.”

No one believed them. Which, unfortunately, was the goal.

The first real test came in the hallway outside Y/n’s lecture. She was mid-sentence, complaining about her professor, when Logan appeared behind her without warning and slid his hand to her waist like it had always been there. Her brain stalled, not her body, though, because that part reacted instantly. Because Logan was close—too close for someone who was technically just a fake boyfriend. Close enough that she could feel the heat of him through her hoodie. Close enough that if she turned her head slightly, her mouth would be inches from his jaw.

“You’re late,” she said, but it came out weaker than intended.

“Am I?” he replied, glancing down at her like he was amused that she thought she could be in charge of anything here.

“Yes.”

“Then I guess you should’ve left without me.”

“I don’t need you to walk me to class.”

His hand tightened slightly at her waist—not possessive, just… anchoring.

“I know,” he said simply. “But you like it.”

That should’ve been said lightly. It wasn’t. Y/n looked up at him too quickly. Logan’s expression didn’t change. But his eyes did something subtle—something that made her forget what she was about to say.

“You’re getting cocky,” she muttered.

“I’ve always been cocky.”

“Not like this.”

“Like what?”

She opened her mouth. Closed it again. Because the answer was: like you know exactly what you’re doing to me right now.

Instead, she said, “Like people are watching.”

At that, Logan glanced around the hallway. A few students were definitely watching.

Good.

He leaned slightly closer, voice dropping just enough to feel like it belonged only to her.

“Let them.”

Y/n’s pulse jumped, traitorously. Then Logan stepped back like nothing had happened, hand sliding from her waist slowly—deliberately—before he gestured toward her classroom.

“After you.”

She walked past him on autopilot, fully aware of two things: 

One, everyone had definitely noticed.

Two, Logan had absolutely enjoyed that more than necessary.

By midweek, it had gotten worse. And by worse, she meant: Logan had stopped pretending there was a line at all. He’d started sitting closer. Standing closer. Looking at her like he was constantly in the middle of deciding something he hadn’t told her about.

And Y/n—infuriatingly—was reacting. Not loudly or obviously, but enough.

Enough that when Logan brushed his thumb over her knuckles during a group study session, she forgot what she was saying mid-sentence.

Enough that when he leaned down behind her to grab her textbook and his chest pressed lightly against her back, she sat completely still until he moved away.

Enough that Allie, watching from across the room, slowly closed her laptop and said, “Yeah, this is fake my ass.”

Y/n nearly threw a pen at her.

The worst moment came on a Thursday night. They were alone in Logan’s room again—something that was starting to happen far too often to still feel accidental. Y/n was sitting on the edge of his bed, pretending to read while Logan paced in front of her like a problem that refused to sit still.

“We need consistency,” he said.

“In what?”

“In how we act in front of people.”

Y/n didn’t look up. “We’re already consistent.”

“No,” Logan said. “Sometimes you avoid me. Sometimes you look like you want to argue. Sometimes you look like—” He stopped.

Y/n finally glanced up. “Like what?”

Logan’s jaw tightened slightly. “Like you’re not pretending.”

Silence settled between them, heavy and sharp.

Y/n closed her book slowly. “That’s the point, isn’t it?”

Logan didn’t answer right away, he stopped pacing and turned toward her.

“Is it?”

That did something to her stomach.

She hated that it did.

“It’s a fake relationship,” she said carefully. “We’re supposed to be convincing.”

Logan nodded slowly. “Right,” he said.

But he didn’t sound convinced, he stepped closer to her until he stopped just in front of her.

“You know what the problem is?” he asked quietly.

Y/n swallowed. “What.”

“You’re good at this.”

“Good at what?”

“Pretending,” he said.

Her heart kicked once, hard.

“That’s not a compliment.”

“It wasn’t meant to be.”

That didn’t annoy her like it should have, Instead, she stood up slowly, forcing space between them that she immediately regretted.

“Maybe you’re just bad at it,” she said.

Logan’s eyes flicked down to her mouth for half a second, then back up.

“Maybe I stopped trying.”

The air changed, not dramatically, but enough that she felt it everywhere. 

“Logan,” she warned softly.

“Yeah?”

“Don’t.”

He tilted his head slightly. “Don’t what?”

She didn't answer, she couldn't. There were too many possible endings to that sentence. Logan stepped closer again anyway, slower this time. Giving her every chance to stop him. She didn't move away though. That was her mistake, or maybe it wasn't. 

“Tell me to stop,” he said quietly.

Y/n exhaled, shaky. “You’re supposed to be pretending.”

“I know.”

Another step closer.

“I am pretending,” he added. His hand came up—not touching her yet. Just hovering near her waist like he remembered exactly where it usually went. “And you’re not making it easy.”

That made her laugh once, breathless. “That’s your excuse?”

“No,” he said. “That’s the problem.” Then his hand finally settled at her waist again. Like it belonged there. Like it had always belonged there.

Y/n’s voice came out softer than she meant it to.

“This is a bad idea.”

Logan’s expression flickered—something honest breaking through the control.

“Yeah,” he agreed.

Neither of them moved.

Neither of them fixed it.

Instead, Logan leaned in just slightly—not enough to kiss her, not yet—but enough that she could feel the shift in everything unsaid between them.

“Tomorrow,” he murmured, “we’re going to have to convince them harder.”

Y/n let out a shaky breath. “Harder?”

His thumb brushed lightly against her side. “Yeah,” he said. “Because I don’t think anyone believes us anymore.”

A pause.

Then, quieter:

“Especially not me.”

And that was the moment Y/n realized the lie wasn’t what was getting dangerous anymore. It was how easily it was starting to feel like the truth.

It wasn’t until a Friday night party at the hockey house that everything shattered. Y/n had lost track of Logan somewhere between music and bodies and the kind of laughter that made everything feel blurry. Then she saw him.

On the balcony.

With Hannah.

Her stomach dropped so fast it felt like falling. She couldn’t hear them, but she saw enough.

Logan’s hands in his pockets. Hannah laughed softly. The kind of moment that didn’t belong to anyone else.

Y/n turned away before she could think, she only made it two steps before a hand caught her wrist. Not harsh, but certain she wasn't going to run away. She turned, Logan.

“Hey,” he said over the noise. “Where are you going?”

“Nowhere,” she said quickly. “I just—forgot something.”

“You didn’t.”

“I did.”

He studied her face. Too closely. “You’re doing that thing again.”

“What thing.”

“Running.”

Y/n scoffed. “I don’t run.”

Logan raised an eyebrow.

She sighed. “Fine. Avoiding.”

His grip loosened slightly, but he didn’t let go. “It’s not what you think.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You didn’t have to.”

That made her pause, the noise of the party faded a little, like the world had decided to give them a pocket of silence.

Y/n swallowed. “You were with her.”

“I was talking to her.”

“That’s worse,” she muttered before she could stop herself.

Logan blinked. Then something shifted in his expression. “…You think I like her.”

Y/n didn’t answer fast enough.

That was answer enough.

Logan let out a short laugh, but there was no humor in it. “You really think I’ve been doing all of this for Hannah?”

“I don’t know what to think,” she said honestly.

A pause.

Then Logan stepped closer.

“You think I’ve been doing this because I want someone else?”

Her breath caught slightly. “We’re not actually dating.”

His eyes flicked down to her mouth for half a second before snapping back up.

“No,” he said quietly. “We’re not.”

Then, softer: “But I didn’t start this to get closer to her.”

Y/n’s voice barely worked. “Then why?”

Logan hesitated.

For the first time since she had met him, he looked unsure, “Because you were easier to think about than her.”

Silence hit like a wave.

Y/n stared at him. “That makes no sense.”

“It does,” he said. “You just don’t want it to.”

Her heart was doing something deeply offensive.

“This was about me?” she whispered.

Logan exhaled like he was giving up. “At some point, yeah.”

That was the moment everything tilted.

Because suddenly she wasn’t thinking about Garrett anymore, she wasn’t thinking about Hannah, she was thinking about Logan’s hand still on her wrist.

Thinking about how he hadn’t let go, how close he was, how she wanted him this close.

“…This is a bad idea,” she said quietly.

“Yeah, probably.” Logan agreed.

Neither of them moved.

Then Y/n, barely audible:

“We’re still fake dating.”

That made him pause.

Then he smiled, small and real.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” she said, finally looking up at him properly. “But you’re doing it wrong.”

“Oh?”

“You forgot the part where you’re supposed to kiss me in front of people.”

Logan’s expression shifted—something softer breaking through the sarcasm.

“Is that so.”

Y/n nodded once. “Commitment, right?”

For a second, he didn’t move.

Then he leaned in.

Slow.

Like he was giving her every chance to stop him.

She didn’t.

The kiss wasn’t dramatic.

It wasn’t loud.

It was just real in a way their fake relationship had never been.

When they pulled back, Logan rested his forehead lightly against hers.

“So,” he murmured. “Still think I like Hannah?”

Y/n let out a breath that sounded suspiciously like a laugh.

“No,” she admitted.

A pause.

“I think you like me.”

Logan smiled against her.

“Finally,” he said. “Took you long enough.”

And for the first time, Y/n’s story didn’t feel cursed.

It felt like it was finally hers.

Though to be fair, things with Logan are not bad. That's the thing people don't understand when they hear situationship from hell. On the contrary, things with Logan are very good. Too good. Too good to look at directly without feeling something inconvenient shift behind your ribs, which is precisely why it's bad. Because he had been so genuinely, almost aggressively nice about the whole thing. He had found you at the edge of that party and sat next to you and talked to you for hours like you were the most interesting thing in the room, and he had made a real effort not to look at your boobs while you were talking, which in that particular environment was either extremely respectful or a sign that he was raised correctly, and either way it had done something to you.

And then you had woken up on his chest the next morning. His warm skin and steady heartbeat, the sort of light that meant it was too early to be awake, and done the awkward post-hookup shuffle of words, and heard: I'm not really looking for anything serious.

A bucket of cold water dropped directly on your head would have been less effective. More merciful, probably.

What else could you have done except agree? For god's sake, he was sitting there in black boxers holding a cup of coffee, extending it toward you like a peace offering, brown eyes looking at you with an expression that was genuinely, unfairly soft for seven in the morning. You took the cup. He readjusted against the headboard and looked at you with those eyes and said, simply: "So?"

So. So what? What were you supposed to say?

"Sure," you heard yourself say. "I'm interested in that too."

Sure. I'm interested in that too. Your internal voice repeated it back to you with the tone of a younger sibling trying to get a rise out of you. That was, objectively, the least true thing you had ever said out loud. You had been raised on Bridget Jones and every famous rom-com ever committed to film. You believed in love, in its inconvenience and its necessity and its complete refusal to be reasoned with. Casual did not cut it for you. It never had.

But god. If Bridget could have seen John Logan in that particular light, with that particular bed head, she would have understood completely.

So you agreed. And after that came the encounters.

At first they were private, almost secretive, you telling your friends you were going for a run and then actually running, just in the wrong direction entirely. Logan telling his that he was going to study somewhere, which was technically true, depending on your definition of anatomy. It gave everything a specific kind of thrill, the pleasant urgency of something that existed slightly outside the normal rules, and for a while that was enough.

But time has a way of dissolving things like that. Gradually, without either of you deciding to, you stopped hiding. And that was when the real problem arrived.

You and Logan became friends.

Not the convenient, surface-level kind, the real kind, the kind that builds without you noticing until one day you look around and realize that this person has become load-bearing in your life. You were always at the house. You knew the full taxonomy of Dean's recent romantic encounters, the specificity of Garrett's current problems, the ongoing narrative of Tucker's various endeavors. You didn't just know about them, you helped. You were involved. You had opinions and history and context, and they knew it, and they came to you with things.

And it went the other way too. Logan had gotten so close to your friends that he would voluntarily drive Marissa to her therapy appointments in Boston without being asked, would send Benny reels about topics they'd talked about the week before, remembered details that even you sometimes forgot. He had threaded himself into the fabric of your life so completely and so quietly that you could no longer locate the seam.

And finally, finally, things had started to feel like they were moving in the right direction. The direction they probably should have been heading since the morning after Halloween. Maybe the casual arrangement had just been a detour — a scenic route to the same destination. All's well that ends well.

And then you and Logan would go to Malone's, and a waitress would glance between you with a smile and say what a nice couple you made, and Logan would laugh in that easy, noncommittal way of his and say: we're just friends.

And there it was. Bucket of cold water. Every time, without fail, like a reset button neither of you had agreed to keep pressing.

Every single time.

Which brings you to now.

You are sitting on Logan's couch, draped over him, legs intertwined, peppering kisses down his neck while he makes a valiant and increasingly unsuccessful effort to tell you about the new episode of some reality show he has gotten inexplicably invested in. Something about traitors in a castle. Who cares. Not you. Not when Logan smelled like that and the house was quiet and his hands were doing that thing where they moved without him seeming to notice.

You sank further into him. The kisses started to linger. His words got sparse.

"Are you even listening to me?" Logan murmured, his voice coming out considerably less steady than he had probably intended.

You hummed against his pulse point by way of answer.

The front door opened.

You both startled, pulling apart with the practiced efficiency of people who had been interrupted before, but the moment you registered it was Dean you settled back into exactly the position you'd been in. Dean didn't care about PDA. He actively encouraged it.

He dropped onto the opposite couch, looked at the ceiling briefly, then at you.

"Okay, I have a question," he said. "Logan, dude, this is for science, please don't be weird about it."

At this point you were sitting upright, Logan's arms still looped around you, his chin finding your shoulder, using you as a very comfortable shield against whatever Dean was about to say.

"Shoot," you said.

Dean took a breath with the energy of someone preparing to say something they had already decided to say regardless of the response. "Do you think I should buy a vibrator for a friend of mine?"

Logan laughed against your neck. You shivered slightly at the warmth of his breath.

"Are you the friend?" you asked. "Are you buying a vibrator for yourself?"

"What? No. I'm a man."

"That doesn't mean anything. Men are allowed to have vibrators."

"I know that. It's not for me."

"I really think you should get one though. For yourself. If you want to be the Samantha of the group you have to commit to the bit."

"I am the Samantha," Dean said, with genuine offense. "And it's not for me."

"Have you even watched Sex and the City?"

"Yes. I'm from New York, for god's sake and you're being such a Carrie right now."

You settled back against Logan's chest, his arms tightening around you automatically, like a reflex, like something he did without thinking about it anymore.

Yes, you thought. And my own Mr. Big is currently holding me on this couch.

Garrett and Hannah came down the stairs in what you assumed were their stay-at-home outfits: sweatpants, hockey jersey, the specific comfort of two people who had stopped performing around each other. The moment they came into view you felt Logan's hand still. Not move away just still. And then he shifted from behind you to sitting beside you, technically still touching but the warmth of it had changed completely. It was less person you are tangled up with and more person you happen to be sitting next to on public transport.

You knew that shift. You had felt it before.

The first time, you had told yourself you were imagining things.

It was a Tuesday, nothing special about it, the kind of evening that had become completely ordinary, you at the house, Logan beside you on the couch, his thumb making absent circles on your knee while Dean argued with Tucker about something that didn't matter. Hannah had stopped by to pick up something she'd left there the week before, and the moment the door opened Logan's hand had stilled. Not moved away. Just stilled. Like an animal that had heard something.

You hadn't said anything. You'd filed it away in the part of your brain reserved for things you weren't ready to look at yet.

The second time was at one of Garrett's games. You had been standing with Logan at the edge of the rink afterward, his jacket half around your shoulders the way it always ended up, and Hannah had appeared through the crowd. Logan had straightened. Subtly, almost imperceptibly, but you felt it the slight shift in his posture, the way his jacket had slipped back off your shoulders without him seeming to notice he'd let it go.

You'd picked it up off the floor and handed it back to him without a word.

The third time you stopped counting.

Malone's on a Friday night had a particular energy loud enough to feel festive, familiar enough to feel like home. Your usual table was in the corner, the big one that fit all of you without anyone having to pull up an extra chair, and the evening had been good. Genuinely good, the kind that reminded you why you had agreed to this arrangement in the first place, Logan's knee against yours under the table, his arm finding the back of your chair sometime around the second round of drinks, the easy warmth of being somewhere you belonged.

You were mid-story , a good one, the kind that had the whole table leaning in and you could feel it landing, the timing was right, and Garrett was already laughing before you got to the punchline and Dean had that look on his face that meant he was going to steal this story and tell it as his own later, and Tucker was—

You glanced at Logan.

He wasn't laughing.

He was looking across the table at Hannah with an expression you recognized because you had spent the better part of a year learning every single detail of his face, and what was on it right now was something soft and slightly helpless the expression of someone watching something they had decided they couldn't have.

The story finished without you. Somewhere far away, the table laughed.

You picked up your drink. Set it down. Picked it up again.

"I'm going to step outside," you said. "Just — smoke a bit."

"You don't even smoke, (Y/N)!" Tucker replied, laughing, and it killed you because all of Logan's friends had come to know you so well.

"You okay?" Garrett asked.

"Fine. Just air."

You were already standing. Already reaching for your jacket. Logan was on his feet before you made it two steps.

"I'll come with you," he said.

The parking lot outside Malone's was cold and poorly lit. You got about twenty feet from the door before you stopped walking. The noise from inside filtered out muffled and distant, everyone still laughing, completely unaware.

Logan stopped beside you. Waited. He had always been good at waiting, which was one of the things you had loved about him and one of the things that had slowly, quietly driven you insane.

"Don't," you said.

"Don't what?"

"Don't do the thing where you stand there and wait for me to calm down." You turned to face him. The cold air hit your face and you were glad for it. "I'm not going to calm down. So just talk to me. Tell me the truth. Please. Don't bullshit me right now, Logan, I am asking you to not bullshit me right now."

"Baby—"

"Don't baby me, Logan. Not right now"

He looked at you with that steady, unhurried patience of his, which tonight felt less like a quality and more like a weapon.

"What do you want me to say?" he asked.

"I want you to tell me if you have a crush on Hannah." The word crush felt absurdly small for the moment but you couldn't bear the weight of the more accurate alternatives.

Something shifted in his face. Not guilt exactly, something deeper than that. The specific expression of someone who had been quietly hoping a question wouldn't arrive and had known, somewhere underneath the hoping, that it always was going to.

"It's not—" he started.

"Logan."

He exhaled. Looked at the ground briefly. Looked back at you.

"It's not serious," he said. "It's nothing. She's with Garrett. It's not like I would ever—"

"Oh my god." The laugh that came out of you had nothing to do with anything being funny. "Oh my god, you actually do. You actually have a crush on her."

"It's not a big deal—"

"You have a crush on your best friend's girlfriend and it's not a big deal." You repeated it back to him slowly. "I have been right here, Logan. For almost a year I have been right here, and you have a crush on Hannah."

"It's just a feeling. It doesn't mean anything." His voice had an edge to it now, something defensive sharpening underneath the calm. "And you don't get to be mad at me for it."

"Excuse me?"

"You don't get to be mad at me for having feelings." The words were coming faster now, the composure cracking in a way you almost never saw from him. "We said casual. That was the agreement. I can't be accountable to you for things I feel when you are not my girlfriend."

The word landed like a slap.

Girlfriend.

"Right," you said. Your voice had gone very quiet. "I'm not your girlfriend."

"That's not what I—"

"No, you're right. I'm not." You looked at him. Really looked at him — this person whose coffee order you knew by heart, whose nightmares you had talked him through at two in the morning, whose hand had reached for yours in his sleep so many times you had stopped counting. "Can I ask you something? And I need you to actually answer me. Not just wait until I stop talking."

He said nothing, which you took as a yes.

"What did you think this was?" Your voice was still quiet. Controlled. "Not what we agreed on in the beginning. What did you think it was last week? Last month? What did you think it was tonight when you had your arm around me at that table? When you picked me up from my house and kissed me in your truck?" You took a breath. "Because I need to understand how you look at what we have been doing and see something casual. I genuinely need you to explain that to me."

"It's complicated—"

"It's not complicated. It's actually very simple. I just need you to say it out loud."

"You knew what this was when we started—"

"I know what it was when we started. I'm asking what it is now." You crossed your arms against the cold. "Because from where I'm standing it looks a lot like a relationship. It looks like you drive my friends places and remember things about them they never told you twice, and I know every single thing about your life, and we spend more nights together than apart, and you reach for me when you're asleep like I'm something you don't want to lose." Your voice cracked slightly and you pushed past it. "So you'll have to forgive me for being confused about the casual part."

"I can't—" He stopped. Started again. "It's not about not wanting to. It's about what I can actually give right now. Hockey takes everything. My family, my mother, I don't have money, I don't have stability, I don't have any of the things that—"

"I'm not asking you for stability. I'm not asking you for money." Something in your chest had cracked open and you were past the point of closing it. "I'm asking you to admit what this already is. That's all."

"I am being honest—"

"Then be more honest." Your voice broke on the last word and you kept going anyway. "Because I'm in love with you."

The parking lot went completely silent.

Logan stared at you. The words sat between you in the cold air like something that had changed the temperature.

"What?" His voice came out barely above a breath.

"I'm in love with you." Steadier the second time. "I have been for a long time. And I know that's not what we agreed on. But I can't stand here and pretend I don't while you tell me it's not a big deal that you have feelings for someone else." You looked at him. "We are already a couple, Logan. In every single way that actually matters, we already are. The only thing missing is you admitting it."

Something moved across his face — something large and unguarded and almost frightened.

"It's not that simple," he said, quieter now, the defensiveness gone out of it.

"I know it's not simple. I know about hockey. I know about your mom. I know all of it, Logan, because you told me, because that's what we do. But none of that changes what I just said." You took a breath. "So just tell me. Do you have feelings for me? Yes or no. That's all I'm asking."

Logan looked at you.

And said nothing.

The silence stretched between you, long and terrible. His jaw was tight. His eyes moved across your face like he was looking for something he either couldn't find or couldn't say, and the longer the silence went on the more clearly you understood that the silence was itself an answer.

"Wow," you said finally. Very quietly. "Okay."

You picked up your bag. Straightened your jacket. Looked at him one more time this person you had spent 338 days loving in whatever form he would accept.

"Don't follow me," you said.

He didn't.

You walked back toward the warm light spilling out of Malone's windows, past your friends still laughing, past the table that an hour ago had felt like home, and you kept walking. Past the door, past the window, down the street, into the cold.

Too angry to cry. Too tired to pretend. Too done to look back.

Behind you, in the parking lot, Logan stood very still and said nothing which was the thing he was best at, and the thing that had finally cost him everything.

It had been a hard couple of days. But the upside of a not-breakup in college was that you didn't get to wallow, no watching rom-coms until the wee hours, no doing the Bella, watching the months pass from your bedroom window. Life was as it had always been, minus the space Logan had occupied in your weekly schedule. Not a metaphysical space, a literal one. When you opened your Google Calendar you found his game days still blocked out in blue, his training days still marked, everything still there like a calendar that hadn't gotten the news yet.

Pathetic, you thought, and deleted them.

Your days now belonged entirely to yourself, which should have felt like freedom and mostly felt like a lot of unscheduled Tuesday afternoons. No more disappearing in the middle of the day, no more make-out sessions in the library during lunch break. Just you and your own company and the slow, unglamorous work of being fine.

You weren't fine. You were something adjacent to fine that required daily maintenance and the careful avoidance of certain songs.

Marissa had noticed, she called it being under the weather, which was such a specific and old-fashioned way of putting it that in the beginning you had found it strange and now found it completely endearing. Your own personal nanna, showing up with iced coffee and terrible ideas at exactly the right moments.

The terrible idea this time was an underground bar in Boston she had found, which was a surprise since Marissa was fundamentally a sports bar person. You had a strong suspicion the entire excursion was engineered entirely for your benefit and the benefit of your appetite for expensive, colorful drinks, and you loved her for it and didn't say so.

The drive took exactly long enough to hype yourself up.

I'm pretty. I'm smart. I'm a catch.

The bar was dimly lit in a way that felt intentional rather than neglected, all low ceilings and good music and the general atmosphere of a place that didn't need to try. You, Marissa and Benny settled into a corner booth and approximately ninety seconds later Benny's elbow was in your ribs.

"Cute guy. Nine o'clock," he said, in what he apparently believed was a whisper.

You glanced toward the bar. Tall, white jacket, the kind of easy posture that meant he wasn't thinking about his posture at all.

"I'm not really looking for anything," you said.

"You're single. He's cute. The bar has drinks. What exactly is the problem?" Benny tilted his head. "Go order our drinks and make some poor decisions. You've earned it."

"I didn't bring my ID."

Benny stared at you. "You came to a bar without your ID?"

"I forgot." You shrugged.

"(Y/N)." His voice had the specific tone of someone choosing their words carefully. "What is wrong with you. Go. Drinks. Now. The ID thing is a you problem, figure it out."

You slid out of the booth before he could say anything else.

The guy at the bar was, up close, even more irritatingly attractive than he had been from across the room. He glanced over when you appeared beside him, and then glanced again in a way that was not subtle and didn't try to be.

"You look like you're deciding something," he said.

"Whether to admit I forgot my ID at a bar."

He looked at you for a moment. Then he smiled easy and genuine. "Hunter," he said, and held out his hand.

"((Y/N))."

"I'll vouch for you," he said. "If you tell me what you're drinking."

You told him. He ordered both without being asked, which was either presumptuous or exactly right, and you decided it was exactly right.

By the time you made it back to the booth with four drinks and Hunter's number in your phone, Benny was looking at you with the expression of someone who had orchestrated something and was very pleased about it.

You didn't tell him he was right. But you didn't have to.

The thing about Hunter Davenport was that he was genuinely, irritatingly likeable.

You had not been thinking about Logan when you said yes to Hunter's suggestion of getting coffee. You had not been thinking about Logan when the coffee turned into a walk, and the walk turned into two hours of easy conversation that asked nothing from you and gave something back.

That was the point.

You had gotten very good at not thinking about Logan in the weeks since Malone's. It was a skill, like any other, it required practice and the occasional forcible redirection of your own brain, but you were nothing if not disciplined when the situation called for it. You had been showing up to things. Laughing at the right moments. Sleeping through the night, mostly.

You were fine. You were getting finer by the day, which was either progress or a very convincing impression of it, and right now you weren't examining the difference too closely.

Hunter was easy. That was the thing about him. He was warm and uncomplicated and he looked at you like you were worth looking at, which was something you had apparently needed more than you realized.

It was nothing serious. You had been very clear about that with yourself. You were not ready for serious. But his hand was warm when it found yours walking back from the coffee place, and you let it stay there.

You were almost believing it.

The team was at the rink for an open practice, one of the informal ones that sometimes drew a small crowd of friends and the generally affiliated. You had come with Marissa, which gave you plausible deniability about why you were there, and you had sat in the third row and watched without watching, which was a skill you had also been practicing.

Hunter had waved at you from the ice. You had waved back.

You had not looked at Logan. You had been extremely disciplined about not looking at Logan, which meant you were also extremely aware of exactly where he was at every moment without technically looking at him, which was its own kind of exhausting.

After practice, Hunter had come off the ice still in half his gear and found you immediately, easy and unhurried, and said something that made you laugh. Your hand had gone to his arm the way hands do when you're laughing at something someone said, and it had stayed there for approximately four seconds.

Four seconds.

You knew it was four seconds because you had counted them, which meant some part of you had been paying attention to something you were pretending not to pay attention to.

The locker room door swung shut behind Logan without him looking back.

You found a quiet corner of the rink lobby while Hunter went to get his bag. You were looking at your phone, not reading anything on it, when you heard footsteps and looked up.

Logan.

He had changed out of his gear. His jaw was doing the thing: the tight, controlled thing that meant something was happening underneath the composure that the composure was working very hard to contain. His eyes moved from your face to the door Hunter had gone through and back.

"Hey," you said carefully.

"You and Hunter," he said. Not a question.

"That's not really your business."

"You're spending a lot of time with him."

"Logan—"

"I'm just making an observation." His voice was very even. The voice he used when he was the least controlled.

"Make it somewhere else."

He laughed short and humorless. "Right. Okay." He looked at the floor. Looked back at you. "I just didn't think you were the type."

You went very still. "The type to?"

"To go after a guy because of who he plays for." Quiet. Measured. Like he had chosen this version of the sentence carefully. "I didn't think that was your thing."

The lobby was very quiet.

You looked at him for a long moment. Long enough to make sure you had heard what you thought you'd heard. Long enough to see something flicker in his expression, the immediate, unmistakable recognition that he had gone too far.

"Say that again," you said softly.

"I didn't mean—"

"No." Your voice was calm in a way that had nothing to do with being calm. "Say it again. I want to make sure I understood you. Are you calling me a puck bunny?"

Logan said nothing. The flicker had become something closer to horror.

"Because that's what you just said." You tilted your head slightly. "After everything. That's what you went with."

"I didn't — that's not what I meant—"

"Then what did you mean?" You took a step toward him. "Because I have been patient, Logan. I have been so patient with you. I said the most honest thing I have ever said to anyone in that parking lot and you said nothing back, which I am trying. I am actively trying to make my peace with. But you do not get to say that to me. You don't get to do that."

"I know." His voice had lost all its evenness. "I shouldn't have—"

"Why did you say it?"

He looked at you.

"Tell me why." Your voice cracked slightly and you kept going. "Because it wasn't an observation. So tell me why."

Something moved across his face the composure fracturing in a way you had only seen once or twice in all the time you had known him.

"Because I can't—" He stopped.

"Can't what?"

"Because I can't watch you with him and not—" He stopped again. Pressed his mouth shut. Looked at the ceiling briefly.

"Not what?" Your voice was barely above a whisper.

He looked at you. Right at you. And for one unguarded, terrible second you could see everything, all of it, the whole enormous weight of everything he hadn't said in the parking lot outside Malone's, sitting right there on his face with nowhere left to hide.

And then he looked away.

"I'm sorry," he said. "It was wrong."

You looked at him for a long moment.

"Yeah," you said. "It was."

You picked up your bag. Hunter had reappeared at the far end of the lobby, jacket on, easy smile, completely unaware of the wreckage he had wandered back into. You walked toward him and did not look back at Logan.

But you heard him the sharp exhale of someone who had just watched something leave that they weren't sure was coming back.

Good, you thought.

And hated that you thought it.

Here was the thing about being called a puck bunny: it wasn't the word itself that got to you.

Puck bunnies weren't the worst thing a person could be.

Men were allowed their types, allowed to prefer blondes or brunettes or redheads, to only date younger women, to have a thing for accents, to announce their type to anyone who will listen like it’s a personality trait, to want someone tall or short or with a specific laugh, or say things like "I have never been with a Brazilian before". They were allowed to say these things out loud, to Tinder-filter by height, and if it was possible they would do by weight too, to have opinions about bodies that they shared freely and without apology.

But god forbid a woman had a type. God forbid a woman found hockey players attractive or musicians, or academics, or anyone with a specific quality she was drawn to. Then she was something to be named and categorized and looked down upon. Then she was a bunny.

You were not offended by the word.

You were offended that Logan, who had been silent while you poured your heart out in a cold parking lot, who had said nothing when you asked him the most direct question you had ever asked another human being , had found his voice again specifically to say that. That of all the things he could have finally said to you, after all the silence, this was the one he chose.

That was what got to you.

Not the word. The timing. The source. The specific, devastating irony of a man who couldn't say I have feelings for you finding it very easy to say something that small.

You didn't tell anyone what he said.

That was the first decision you made, walking out of that rink lobby with Hunter's hand in yours and Logan's exhale still somewhere in your chest. You were not going to tell Dean, who would say something devastatingly accurate about it. You were not going to tell Marissa, who would want to talk about it for three hours. You were not going to tell anyone, because telling someone meant turning it over, examining it, and you were not ready to examine the specific shape of what Logan had said to you and what it meant that he had said it.

You knew what it meant. That was the problem.

You had known the moment you saw his face, that flicker of something before the composure reassembled itself, the way his eyes had moved to Hunter and back to you with an expression that had nothing casual about it. You had spent 338 days learning the map of Logan's face and you knew exactly what that look was. You had just also heard what came out of his mouth immediately afterward, which meant that what Logan felt and what Logan was willing to do about it were, as always, two completely different countries.

You were done trying to travel between them.

The week that followed was quiet and it felt different from the other times you had gone quiet. Before, the silence had always been temporary, a held breath. This felt more like an exhale. Like something had finally, after a very long time, finished.

You went to class. You had coffee with Hunter on Tuesday, which was easy and warm and asked nothing from you. You went to Marissa's on Thursday and watched something forgettable on her laptop and fell asleep on her couch, and she put a blanket over you without waking you up, which was the kindest thing anyone had done for you in recent memory.

You did not go to the house off campus. You did not text Logan. You did not check if he had texted you, which required leaving your phone face-down on your desk for approximately four days straight, which was its own kind of discipline.

You were fine. You were getting finer.

You were also absolutely not fine.

Dean found you on a Wednesday.

Not dramatically, he just appeared at the coffee shop near your building where you went on Wednesday mornings, which you had mentioned to him exactly once four months ago, which meant he had remembered it and filed it away and was now using it, which was such a Dean thing to do that you almost smiled.

He sat down across from you without asking if it was okay and stole a sip of your coffee before saying anything.

"He told me what he said," Dean said, without preamble.

You looked at your coffee. "Okay."

"He feels terrible."

"Good."

"I mean genuinely terrible. Like, I've known Logan for three years and I've never seen him—" Dean stopped. Seemed to decide something. "He's not sleeping. He's barely eating. He showed up to practice yesterday and coach pulled him aside after because his head wasn't in it, which has never happened, not once in three years."

"Dean." You looked up at him. "Why are you telling me this?"

"Because you deserve to know that it cost him something." His voice was straightforward, without manipulation. "I'm not asking you to forgive him. What he said was awful and he knows it. I'm just, you spent a long time showing up for him and I don't want you to think that none of it landed. It all landed. It's landing right now. It's just landing a little late."

You were quiet for a moment.

"A little late," you repeated.

"Okay, very late."

"Dean." You wrapped your hands around your cup. "He called me a puck bunny."

"I know." Dean had the grace to look genuinely pained. "He said it because he was jealous and scared and he handled it in the worst possible way and there is no defense for it. I'm not here to defend it."

"Then what are you here for?"

Dean looked at you across the table, this person who had been in your corner since before you had any idea how much you would need someone in your corner, and his expression was very honest.

"I'm here because he's my best friend and he's falling apart," he said. "And you're also my friend. And I hate watching both of you be miserable when I know exactly why you're miserable." He paused. "I'm not asking you to do anything. I just wanted you to know."

You looked out the window. The street outside was grey and unremarkable, the specific flatness of a Wednesday in November.

"How long has he known?" you asked quietly. "That he has feelings for me. How long has he actually known?"

Dean was quiet for a moment.

"A while," he said carefully.

"How long is a while, Dean."

Another pause. Longer this time.

"Since pretty much the beginning," he said.

You closed your eyes briefly. Opened them.

"Okay," you said.

"(Y/N)—"

"I'm not angry." And you weren't, which was almost surprising. You were something quieter and more tired than angry. "I just needed to know." You picked up your coffee. "Tell him I said he needs to sleep."

Dean looked at you. "That's it?"

"That's it." You met his eyes. "I'm not ready for anything else right now. But tell him to sleep."

Dean nodded slowly. He finished stealing your coffee and stood up and put his jacket on, and then he stopped with his hand on the back of the chair.

"For what it's worth," he said. "The Hannah thing. It was never real. He told me that too. He said he thinks he latched onto it because it was safer than admitting what was actually happening."

You didn't say anything.

"Okay," Dean said. "I'll see you around."

He left. You sat there with your cold coffee and the grey Wednesday street outside and the specific, exhausting weight of loving someone who had known the whole time and chosen, over and over, to say nothing.

Since pretty much the beginning.

338 days. And he had known since pretty much the beginning.

You sat with that for a long time.

It had been raining since noon.

Not the dramatic, cinematic kind of rain that arrived with thunder and purpose, just the steady, grey, unrelenting kind that soaked through your jacket in the first thirty seconds and didn't apologize for it.

You were on your way back from the library, hood up, head down, thinking about nothing in particular, which you had gotten very good at recently. The art of thinking about nothing. Occupying your own brain with the immediate and the logistical the paper due Thursday, the coffee you were going to make when you got home, the question of whether you had remembered to charge your phone.

You had not been thinking about Logan.

You were almost at your building when you heard him.

"(Y/N)."

You stopped walking.

He was standing at the bottom of your building's front steps, which meant he had been waiting in the rain for some amount of time, which was evident from the state of him soaked through, hair flat, jacket dark with water. He looked like someone who had arrived with a plan and abandoned it somewhere on the walk over and was now operating on something more basic and less manageable.

He looked, for the first time in all the time you had known him, completely unguarded.

"Logan." Your voice came out carefully. "What are you doing here?"

"I need to talk to you."

"It's raining."

"I know."

"You're soaked."

"I know." He took a step toward you. "I've been standing here for forty minutes trying to figure out what to say and I still don't know, so I'm just going to say it badly and hope that counts for something."

You looked at him. The rain came down steadily between you.

"You have two minutes," you said.

He exhaled. Ran a hand through his wet hair. Looked at you with the expression of someone stepping off a ledge they had been standing on for a very long time.

"I have been in love with you," he said, "since pretty much the beginning."

The rain was very loud suddenly.

"I knew it when we agreed to casual. I knew it when we stopped hiding. I knew it every time I reached for you in my sleep and every time a stranger called us a couple and I laughed it off, and I knew it in that parking lot outside Malone's when you told me the truth and I stood there and said nothing back." His voice was steady but only barely, the steadiness of someone gripping something very hard. "I said nothing because I was terrified. Not of you. Never of you. Of what it meant. Of what I would owe you if I said it out loud. Hockey takes everything I have and my family situation is a disaster and I don't have money or stability or any of the things that a person is supposed to have before they ask someone to—" He stopped. "But Dean said something to me last week. He said that I was losing you anyway. That all my careful management of the situation had achieved was losing you slowly instead of all at once, and somehow I had convinced myself that was the better outcome."

You said nothing. The rain soaked through your hood and you didn't move.

"And then I said what I said to you at the rink." His jaw tightened. "I have replayed that moment every day since it happened. There is no version of it that I can make okay. I said it because I saw you with Hunter and something in me just broke. Not a good break. Not the kind that leads anywhere useful. Just — I broke, and I said the cruelest thing I could think of, and I aimed it at you, and I have hated myself for it every single day since." He looked at you. "I'm not telling you that to make you feel sorry for me. I'm telling you because you deserve to know that it was never about you. It was never about who you are. It was about me being terrified and handling it in the worst possible way, and I'm sorry. I am so sorry."

The rain fell between you, steady and indifferent.

"You knew since the beginning," you said finally. Your voice came out quieter than you intended.

"Yes."

"A year."

"Yes."

"And you said nothing."

"Yes." He didn't flinch from it. "I said nothing, and I let you carry it alone, and I told myself I was protecting you from the complications of my life, but I think I was just protecting myself. From having to be as brave as you were in that parking lot." Something moved across his face. "You were so brave. You said the true thing and I just stood there. And I have thought about that every day since. About what it cost you to say it and what it cost me to say nothing back."

You looked at him. This person. Soaked through and unguarded and finally, finally saying the thing he had been not saying for 338 days.

"The Hannah thing," you said.

"Wasn't real." Immediate. Certain. "I think I needed it to be real because it was safer than admitting what was actually happening. She has what you and I have, what you and I were and I think I confused wanting that with wanting her. It was never her." He held your gaze. "It was always you. It has only ever been you."

The rain had soaked through your jacket completely now. You were cold in a way that had stopped being uncomfortable and become simply the condition of the moment.

"I'm not asking you to forgive me tonight," Logan said. "I'm not asking you to do anything. I just needed you to know that I heard you in that parking lot. I heard every word. And I should have said this then, and I'm sorry that I didn't, and I'm saying it now because Dean was right, I am losing you anyway, and I would rather lose you having finally told the truth than keep you at a distance by staying silent." He paused. "I love you. I have loved you for a long time. And I'm sorry it took me this long to be brave enough to say it."

The street was very quiet under the rain.

You looked at him for a long moment. Long enough to turn it over. Long enough to feel the full weight of 338 days, of every almost-conversation and loaded silence and reset button and bucket of cold water. Long enough to remember his hand going still when Hannah walked in, and the parking lot, and the rink lobby, and the specific sound of his exhale when you walked away.

Long enough to remember, underneath all of it, a Halloween party and a wall and two people waiting out the night from the edges of it, talking like they had nothing to prove to each other.

The beginning, before it got complicated. Before it got careful.

"You're an idiot," you said.

Something shifted in his expression. Not quite hope. Something more tentative than hope.

"I know," he said.

"You made everything so much harder than it needed to be."

"I know."

"I carried that alone for a very long time, Logan."

"I know." His voice broke slightly on it. "I know you did. I'm sorry."

The rain came down. You looked at him this soaked, unguarded, finally honest person standing at the bottom of your steps and felt something in your chest that had been braced for a very long time slowly, carefully release.

"You should have just said it," you said. "In the beginning. You should have just said it."

"I know." He took a step closer. Close enough that you could see the rain on his face, the wet dark of his hair, the expression underneath all the composure that had finally run out of places to hide. "I know. I'm saying it now."

You looked at him.

"Say it again," you said quietly.

"I love you." No hesitation. No composure. Just Logan, standing in the rain, finally saying the true thing. "I love you. I have loved you since pretty much the beginning and I am done pretending I don't."

The rain fell between you and neither of you moved and the street was quiet and everything was very still.

Then you closed the distance.

You kissed him in the rain, which was cold and slightly impractical and nothing like the careful, managed version of Logan you had spent 338 days trying to navigate. This was different. This was him kissing you back with both hands and no hesitation and none of the holding back, and it felt finally, finally like the true thing. Like the version of this that had been waiting underneath all the other versions the whole time.

When you pulled back you were both soaked and breathing slightly unsteadily and his forehead dropped to yours in the rain.

"I'm still mad at you," you said.

"I know." His arms tightened around you. "I know you are."

"The puck bunny thing is going to take a while."

"I know. Whatever it takes."

"And you have to tell me things." Your voice was muffled against his jacket. "When you're scared, when it gets complicated, when your brain does the thing where it decides silence is the safe option. You have to tell me instead."

"I will." He said it simply, without qualification, which was how you knew he meant it. "I will."

You stood there in the rain outside your building, soaked through and slightly ridiculous, and you thought about Halloween and 338 days and parking lots and rink lobbies and all the long, complicated distance between the beginning and right now.

Worth it, you thought.

The music was already loud before Y/N even made it up the front steps.

It blasted through the walls hard enough to shake the windows while bodies crowded the porch, half the campus apparently determined to celebrate Briar’s hockey team latest win like they’d personally scored the goals themselves.

Y/N adjusted the strap of her purse on her shoulder and glanced back at the three girls behind her. “This,” she said dryly, “is exactly how people get diseases.”

Her friend Chloe laughed. “Oh my God, stop acting like you’re above this. Your brother literally lives here.”

“Exactly,” Y/N replied. “I know what kind of diseases exist inside this house.”

Another girl, she didn’t even know beside her nudged Y/N’s shoulder excitedly. “Still can’t believe your brother’s Garrett Grant.”

“Graham,” Y/N corrected automatically.

“Whatever. The point is your family tree is carrying our social lives.” Y/N rolled her eyes, but she was smiling a little as she pushed the front door open.

Instant chaos. Bodies everywhere. Beer spilled on the floor already. Music too loud. People shouting over beer pong in the dinner table.

Home, basically.

“Baby G!”

Dean appeared first from the living room already drunker than he should. “There she is,” he announced dramatically. “My favorite Graham.”

“You say that every time just to piss Garrett off.”

“But I mean it every time.” he winked at her.

Dean immediately threw an arm around her shoulders and started pulling her through the crowd while her friends looked one second away from passing out from excitement.

Y/N heard one of them whisper: “Oh my God, that’s Dean Di Laurentis.”

She rolled her eyes. Poor girl.

“They are all freshman, Dean,” Y/N warned. “Behave.”

“I’m always behaving.”

The kitchen erupted into cheers suddenly as several hockey players stumbled in carrying cases of beer. And right in the middle of them. Logan.

Hoodie sleeves shoved up his forearms, curls messy under a backwards cap, and that lazy, effortless kind of confidence that made it seem like he belonged everywhere he stood. The warm glow from the kitchen lights softened the sharp edges of his face while he laughed at something one of the upperclassmen said, easy and unguarded for once.

Unfortunately for Y/N’s sanity, Logan always looked unfairly good without even trying.

Y/N’s friend beside her went completely silent. Then: “…holy shit.” one of them said.

Y/N snorted. Because ‘Yeah… holy shit.’ She thought

That was usually people’s reaction to Logan.

He looked up a second later, eyes scanning the room automatically before landing on her. And immediately smiled, walking towards them.

“Well, well,” he called over the music. “Graham brought friends.” His mouth curved into a smirk. He wasn’t interested in the girls at all, he just knew the comment would earn him an reaction from her, and for some reason, he never got tired of them. Like a boy annoying his crush on school because he doesn’t know how get her to notice him.

Y/N flipped him off instantly. “They’re innocent freshmen. Leave them alone.”

“I don’t want to be left alone,” one of her friends whispered weakly.

Dean and Logan chuckled. And Y/N rolled her eyes, but her gaze drifted back to Logan anyway. He looked different tonight.

Not physically, though the messy dark hair, flushed cheeks, and post-game confidence weren't helping.

No, it was something else.

Confidence was natural to Logan, but tonight it seemed different somehow. Brighter. Real. Not made up. Like he was carrying the energy of the entire arena with him.

Which, to be fair, he practically was. He'd scored a hat trick. The crowd had spent half the game chanting his name. The team had won because of him.

The worst part? He wore real confidence disgustingly well.

Y/N liked to think she knew better than most that Logan hid behind a smile. Behind the flirting, the confidence, the constant jokes, and sarcasm there was always something he kept carefully out of reach. A part of himself he rarely let anyone see.

But hockey? Hockey was different.

Hockey was the one place where nothing about him was rehearsed. There was no mask and not a carefully crafted version of John Logan. Just him. It was obvious in the way he moved on the ice. In the way his entire face lit up after a goal, a assist. In the pure, almost boyish excitement he could never quite hide after a win.

Whatever insecurities he carried, whatever demons he kept locked behind that easy smile, they disappeared the second he stepped onto the rink.

And maybe that was why Y/N enjoyed watching him play so much. Because for a few hours, she got to see the real version of him. The one who wasn't pretending to be anything at all.

As if sensing her staring, he glanced over.

"Careful, Graham," he said, pointing lazily at her with someone else's beer. "Keep looking at me like that and I'm gonna start thinking you're impressed."

Y/N snorted.

"It’s easier for me to walk barefoot through this kitchen.” she said sarcastically “You scored three goals and somehow became even more arrogant."

Logan grinned. Actually grinned. Like he'd been waiting for her to bring it up. And suddenly he looked pleased. Not because of the game. Because she'd noticed.

"So... you saw that?" He said, trying and failing to sound casual. The question slipped out before he could stop it.

Y/N stared at him and blinked.

"Logan."

"What?"

"My brother was playing."

Logan immediately regretted it. His smile melted instantly.

Of course she saw it. Her brother was the fucking captain of the team. Why the hell had he gotten excited in the first place? She watches practically every game. Like she'd been sitting in those stands watching him.

Idiot.

The stupid little spark in his chest fizzled out instantly. There it is, reality. He should've known better.

"Right," he said, taking a sip of his beer. "Yeah sure."

But then Y/N tilted her head slightly.

"and," she added, "you played really well."

Logan looked up surprised.

"What?"

"You did." She shrugged. "Three goals is kind of incredible, Johnny !"

For a second, he just stared at her.

Y/N fought the urge to smile but tried to hold it, keeping the cool girl character. Then break the character and finally smiled, when she saw his face light up again the exact moment the compliment landed.

He play it cool and was able to recover quickly.

"Well," he said, suddenly looking far too pleased with himself, "I am kind of incredible."

Y/N laughed and flipped him "Fuck off. I'm never complimenting you again"

Logan chuckled softly under his breath too. Too softly and naturally. Her friends exchanged looks and Y/N changed the subject.

“Where’s Garrett?” she asked.

“Somewhere upstairs with Hannah”

“Sounds right.”

As if summoned by the mention of his name, Garrett suddenly appeared at the top of the stairs.

He spotted Y/N instantly. Then spotted the freshmen girls behind her.

“Well,” Y/N sighed. “Speaking of the devil”

Garrett pointed directly at Logan before even reaching the bottom step.

“You.”

Logan blinked innocently. “Me?”

“Don’t try anything” throwing back to the conversation they had days ago in his room.

Y/N laughed innocently.

And Logan… Logan just grinned slowly like Garrett’s threats had become background noise years ago. Before he could say anything to defend himself Y/N spoke.

“Relax, Johnny wasn’t flirting with them…” Y/N said innocently. Then she paused. “…yet.”

Logan looked offended immediately. “That’s slander.”

“That’s experience.”

Dean chuckled somewhere behind them while Garrett looked one second away from developing a stress-induced migraine. Y/N ignored all three of them.

“Anyways,” she continued, turning toward the girls beside her, “come meet my brother since apparently he’s, like, a celebrity or something.”

“Oh my God,” Chloe whispered, panicking instantly.

Garrett groaned. “Y/N—”

Too late. Y/N grabbed his wrist and physically pulled him forward into the circle of freshmen girls despite his resistance.

“This is Garrett Graham,” she announced dramatically, like some kind of sports commentator. “Team captain, future NHL star, and unfortunately for you girls, very much taken, so let’s all be respectful and keep your crushes to yourselves.”

Garrett deadpanned. “I’m leaving.”

“No you’re not.” she held his arm keeping him in place.

Her friends looked fascinated. Which happened a lot around Garrett.

He had that effect naturally. Big presence, sharp stare, the kind of confidence that made people straighten unconsciously when he walked into a room.

Y/N, didn’t see him like that at all. Mostly because she’d spent her entire childhood bullying him.

“Hi,” one girl squeaked nervously.

Garrett softened almost immediately. Not by much, maybe two percent, but for him that was practically warmth. The girls standing behind Y/N didn't look like the kind of people she usually spent time with. If he were being honest, he wasn't even convinced most of them were real friends. They seemed far more interested in the house and the hockey players than in Y/N herself. But he knew that she was trying to branch out beyond the skating world, trying to fit in with normal college girls for once, and Garrett wasn't about to make it harder for her.

So he slipped easily into the role they were all expecting: Briar's captain, friendly, polite, approachable. If making a good impression helped Y/N feel a little more comfortable, then he could play the part for a few minutes. Besides, it was nice seeing her with people outside the rink for a change. "Hey," he said politely.

Y/N looked smug. “See? He’s house trained.”

“Shut up”

Behind them, Logan watched the entire interaction with amusement tugging at his mouth. His eyes stayed on Y/N a second longer than necessary as she laughed again, and as she walked around introducing her friends to different guys on the hockey team, head tipping slightly toward her friends, arguing with Garrett about something stupid.

Most people looked at Y/N and saw confidence. The loud laugh, the quick comebacks, the way she could walk into a room full of strangers and somehow end up talking to all of them within ten minutes. She moved through their house like she lived there, stealing drinks, insulting people affectionately, making herself comfortable wherever she went.

But Logan had always thought there was something a little misleading about that version of her. Not because it wasn't real. Y/N was genuinely funny and talkative and ridiculously easy to like. The thing was, people assumed that meant she was easy to get to know. She wasn't.

Growing up with their dad she had, she'd learned early how to smile through discomfort, how to hide pain behind politeness, how to make difficult things look effortless. Figure skating had only reinforced it. Years of performing had taught her how to stay graceful when she was exhausted, how to make every movement look intentional, how to let people see exactly what she wanted them to see.

It was almost funny, really. For someone who was such a social butterfly, Y/N kept her world surprisingly small. Most friendships drifted in and out of her life without ever getting particularly deep. The people she truly let in could be counted on one hand: Garrett, the boys, Hannah and Allie. That was it. And whenever anyone pointed it out, she'd just shrug and insist she already had everything she needed.

And she meant it.

For them everything with Y/N felt easy. And Logan still hadn’t realized yet that maybe that was his problem. And why it was so hard to push whatever weird thought was going through his head away.

Y/N was halfway through introducing another girl to one of the denfesemen when a girl appeared beside Logan near the couch.

“Congratulations on the game” she said with an already flirty undertone, leaning against the side of the couch beside him.

He ignored her for some seconds. Eyes still clued toward Y/N across the room. She was laughing at something Garrett said, one hand gripping his forearm while he looked deeply unimpressed by her existence.

Then the girl said “So... you’re Johnny?”

That made him finally look back at the girl beside him. He reconized the girl as one of Y/N’s friends. Pretty. Blonde. Smiling at him.

“…don’t call me that.” he said quite rude without even noticing.

She blinked. “What?”

“Johnny.” He took another sip of beer. “Don’t call me that”

The girl laughed awkwardly. “Oh. Sorry. Y/N talks about you guys all the time, so I guess it stuck.”

That made something strange settle low in his chest. Y/N talks about you guys all the time. Not just Garrett. But also not just him. But them.

And really, why wouldn't she talk about them?

Y/N spent so much time at their house that half her college memories probably happened within these walls. Movie nights, team dinners, study sessions, late-night food runs, stupid inside jokes that somehow never died.

Somewhere along the way, she'd stopped being Garrett's little sister who occasionally stopped by and simply become part of the group.

Logan wasn't sure any of them had even noticed when it happened and hadn’t really thought about it. But apparently Y/N had. And apparently it was an important subject for her.

“You don’t like it, huh?” the girl teased lightly.

Logan was lost in his thoughts and realized a second too late she was still talking to him.

“What?”

“The nickname,” she said. “You hate it that much?”

“No,” he answered automatically. Then quieter: “Just sounds weird from other people.”

Because he didn’t hate it. Not really. He complained every time Y/N called him Johnny, but half the time he was just pretending. When she said it, it sounded natural. When someone else did, it felt like they were using something that wasn’t theirs.

Her smile shifted slightly then, like she finally noticed he wasn’t really paying attention to her.

His attention kept drifting back across the room. Y/N had moved closer to Garrett again, still talking animatedly with her hands while her friends listened. Garrett pretended to look annoyed, but Logan knew him well enough to catch the tiny things underneath it.

The way Garrett stayed turned toward her automatically in crowded rooms. The way his eyes tracked her without thinking. The way Y/N leaned into him casually because somewhere deep down she’d never doubted he’d be there.

Protective. Constant. Safe

It made him think.

Maybe because ever since Garrett had finally told them the truth last year, Logan hadn't been able to completely stop wondering about it. Not about Garrett, about Y/N.

Garrett's stories had always revolved around bruises, shouting matches, slammed doors, and a father who seemed determined to turn every room he entered into a battlefield. Logan knew enough to understand why Garrett carried some of the things he did. Knew enough to understand where the anger came from. But Y/N had always been the missing piece of that story.

He'd never asked her. It wasn't his business. Garrett had trusted them with his memories, and Logan wasn't about to start digging for details that hadn't been offered. Still, he couldn't help wondering where Y/N fit into all of it. Where she'd been during those years. What she'd seen. What she'd heard through bedroom walls. How much of it she remembered, and how much of it Garrett had managed to shield her from.

Because sometimes Logan looked at her and saw someone who seemed completely untouched by that kind of childhood, bright, confident, quick to laugh. Then other times, he'd catch small things that made him think the opposite. The way she avoided conflict she couldn't joke her way through. The way she brushed off things that should probably bother her more. The way she seemed determined to carry every problem by herself rather than ask for help.

Like somewhere along the way she'd learned the same lesson Garrett had. Just in a different form. Hide the damage. Keep smiling. Make sure nobody notices.

Garrett had spent most of his life protecting Y/N. Which made this… Whatever this weird thing inside Logan’s chest was… feel worse somehow. It felt wrong in a way he couldn’t fully explain. Because standing here watching them, it was impossible not to see how much trust existed there. How much love.

And Logan was suddenly terrifyingly aware that he was looking at Garrett’s little sister too long again.

The girl beside him tried one last time anyway.

“So,” she smiled, letting her fingers brush lightly against his arm, “are all hockey players this antisocial or just you?”

Normally, Logan would've flirted back without thinking. Easy smile. Easy charm. Easy conversation. The girl was pretty. She was standing right next to him, clearly interested, practically handing him an opening. Usually, that would've been enough.

Instead, he barely reacted.

Because his attention kept drifting across the room.

Y/N was near the middle of the living room now, laughing as Hannah wrapped an arm around her shoulders. A second later, the two girls grabbed Garrett from opposite sides and started trying to drag him toward whatever disaster counted as dancing tonight.

Garrett immediately looked annoyed. Or at least he tried to. His mouth was already twitching before they even managed to pull him away from the wall, the corner of it betraying him as Hannah laughed and Y/N nearly doubled over from her own success.

The idiot was enjoying himself.

Logan felt a soft smile tug at his mouth before he could stop it.

The girl beside him followed his gaze.

Watched Y/N and Hannah continue harassing Garrett while he complained the entire time, letting them pull him farther into the crowd anyway.

Then she looked back at Logan. And suddenly went very quiet. “Oh,” she said.

For the first time all night, Logan actually looked at her and he realized exactly what she'd been seeing.

Understanding flashed across the girl's face almost instantly. Then came sympathy. Which was somehow worse. The girl looked back at Logan and laughed softly.

Logan frowned. "What?"

"Nothing," she said, still smiling. Then her eyes flicked toward Y/N again. 

Before Logan could come up with a response, she shook her head, amusement replacing whatever disappointment she'd felt.

"Good luck with that… Logan." she said sarcastically and he noticed she avoided the nickname. 

"With what?" he asked immediately.

But she was already backing away into the crowd.

"You'll figure it out."

And then she was gone.

No teasing. No accusations. No chance for him to explain that she had the wrong idea.

Logan stared into his beer for a moment.

Good luck with that, hockey boy.

Good luck whit what exactly?

He almost rolled his eyes. The girl didn’t even know them and had spoken like she’d uncovered some life-changing secret after one small interaction.

Please.

She didn’t know what she was talking about.

Y/N was just… Y/N.

Of course he looked at her. Half his friends were currently orbiting around her. Garrett was over there. Hannah too. Dean had practically appointed himself her personal bodyguard for the night.

Anybody would be looking in that direction. The girl had just misread the situation.

Completely.

Logan took another sip of beer.

Then, without thinking, looked across the room at Y/N again.

———————

The party kept moving around.

Music louder now. More bodies packed into the house. The heat unbearable from too many people dancing too close together.

And somewhere in the middle of it all that, Y/N.

She’d abandoned her jacket hours ago, now down to a cropped Briar U shirt and jeans, hair messy from dancing while Hannah and Allie screamed lyrics around her. Her "friends" were nowhere to be seen anymore, and honestly she felt way better around Hannah and Allie anyways.

She looked happy. Not polite-smiling happy. Not teasing-the-boys happy. Actually happy.

Free in a way Logan didn’t think he’d ever really noticed before. And maybe it was because this place felt safe to her. Their house, Garrett and the boys. She moved through the crowd without hesitation, laughing freely, accepting drinks from Tucker without checking them first, throwing her head back when her friends dragged her into another terrible dance circle.

Comfortable. Because she trusted that nothing bad would happen here. And that somebody would take care of her if it did.

Logan watched her spin badly with Hannah and Allie to some early 2000s song while Dean nearly fell over beside her and Tucker recorded the whole thing laughing.

A smile tugged at Logan’s mouth despite himself.

Logan huffed quietly into his beer and leaned back further into the couch cushions.

Conversation started around him, hockey schedules, classes, some argument about playoffs, but it all blurred together after a while.

Because every few minutes his eyes found her again.

Y/N stealing somebody’s drink. Y/N laughing so hard she doubled over. Y/N dancing terribly on purpose just to make everyone laugh harder. Every glance lasted a little too long. Every time he looked away, his attention drifted right back. He never noticed her like that before. And the more he noticed it the worse it felt.

Because Garrett trusted him.

Hell, Y/N trusted him. She was not only her best friend’s sister, she was his friend too.

She walked into this house without thinking twice. Safe enough to steal their drinks, fall asleep on their couches, and trust that nobody would ever see more of it.

The thought settled heavily in Logan's chest.

Because he'd always hated when people said men and women couldn't just be friends. Hated the idea that every friendship secretly came with an expiration date, that eventually one person always wanted more. And yet, watching Y/N laugh her way through the crowd, made Logan feel like an asshole.

Because as far as she knew, he just another one of the boys.

Then suddenly—

“Jooooohnny.”

A body dropped onto the couch beside him hard enough to make him jolt slightly. Followed by Garrett, Tucker, Dean, Hannah and Allie walking in the living room.

Y/N grinned at him lazily, very obviously drunk.

Her cheeks were flushed pink from dancing, her eyes bright and unfocused as she made a grab for the beer in his hand.

Logan dodged easily.

Drunk Y/N had terrible reflexes.

“People’s princess,” Dean said sitting on the armchair. “Finally tired of entertaining your subjects”

Y/N pointed at him dramatically. “It’s just a break… I’ll be right back”

“You spilled vodka on my shoes twenty minutes ago.”

“And yet you forgave me because I’m cute.”

“No,” Garrett muttered, appearing behind the couch suddenly. “he forgave you because you’re five seconds from falling over.”

Y/N gasped softly. “I’m not even that bad”

She leaned further into Logan’s side as she said it, completely unbothered. Logan went still instantly.

“Hi,” she said suddenly, squinting up at him. “Why do you look depressed?”

“I’m literally just sitting here.”

“Yeah,” she nodded seriously. “But, like… depressing.”

The boys chuckled

Y/N ignored tem completely and kept staring at Logan with drunken concentration like she was genuinely trying to solve a puzzle.

Then she narrowed her eyes.

“…you’re boooring. You just scored 3 goals in a important game, and spend the night sitting on this couch… you are no fun”

Logan looked down at her and suddenly realized just how close she was.

Close enough to see her melted make up and the faint glitter still stubbornly clinging near the corners of her eyes. Close enough to smell alcohol mixed with her perfume. Close enough that if she leaned even a little more—

Y/N blinked up at him slowly with heavy, sleepy eyes, still waiting for an answer to whatever nonsense accusation she’d just made. Completely unaware of the effect she was having on him. His throat tightened. Logan swallowed hard before he caught himself.

Then immediately leaned back, giving her shoulder a light shove.

“Shut up,” he muttered with a nervous chuckle. “You are dead-ass drunk.”

Y/N gasped dramatically like he’d deeply insulted her.

“I’m not drunk.”

“You almost walked into my lamp ten minutes ago.” Tucker accused

“The lamp moved.” she said dramaticlly

Dean nodded solemnly from the floor. “Honestly? I saw it too.”

“Thank you.”

Garrett looked exhausted. “I’m surrounded by idiots.”

Y/N ignored him entirely and stole Logan’s beer again before he could stop her.

“Hey—”

“You share,” she informed him.

“You’ve had, like, four drinks already.” he took his beer back

“And?” She tilted her head lazily against the couch cushion. “I want to have five" she pouted

And suddenly Logan felt hyperaware again of the fact that she was practically folded against his side.

This felt dangerously wrong. Not because she was doing anything inappropriate. Y/N was just being Y/N. Comfortable, loud, affectionate when drunk, the problem was that she didn’t know the effect this suddenly had on him.

“You are,” she insisted, poking his ribs weakly. “You are all weird and quiet.”

Logan nearly choked on his beer. “No, I’m not.”

Y/N chuckled again, soft and tired this time, until she suddenly dropped her head onto Logan’s shoulder like gravity simply gave up on her. Everything in Logan’s body locked instantly.

Y/N was already half asleep.

“She’s done,” Tucker announced from the other couch.

“No shit,” Garrett muttered.

Y/N made a small annoyed sound without lifting her head. “I’m literally awake.”

“Congratulations,” Logan said dryly, staring very hard at the opposite wall instead of the warm weight resting against him. “Do you want a medal?”

“…yes. the golden one, in the olympics” she said sleepy

Tucker lost it laughing. Honestly, that was probably a sign he was drunker than he should’ve been, because it wasn’t even that funny.

And Logan smiled despite himself. Which was exactly the problem.

“Damn it,” Garrett muttered.

Logan glanced up.

Across the living room, Hannah and Allie were fully passed out on the opposite couch, tangled together next to Tucker.

And Dean suddenly disappeared , probably with the brunette he was hooking up with twenty minutes ago.

Garrett took a long breath and pinched the bridge of his nose like the entire party was personally attacking him. “This is why I hate throwing parties,” he muttered. “Everybody has fun, then somehow the house is destroyed, the beer's gone, and we're the ones cleaning up tomorrow.”

"That's leardship Gare" Y/N mumbled

Garrett ignored her and continued “And don't even get me started on freshmen who discover alcohol for the first time and immediately forget how to function.”

“Love you too,” Y/N mumbled sleepily against Logan's shoulder.

Garrett pointed at her immediately.

“You are exactly who I'm talking about."

“No, I'm not.” She cracked one eye open. “I'm your favorite.”

“You're currently drooling on Logan."

Logan nearly inhaled his beer wrong. Y/N lifted her head just enough to look offended "Liar ! I don't drool."

Then she dropped right back onto his shoulder anyway.

Logan was painfully aware of: Y/N curled into his side. His arm resting along the back of the couch behind her. The fact that he hadn’t moved away once.

Garrett sighed heavily.

“Hey,” he said finally, looking directly at Logan. “I gotta take Hannah and Allie home before it gets too late”

Logan blinked once.

“And?”

“And Dean disappeared.” Garrett jerked his head toward Tucker. “Tucker’s drunk off his ass.” Then finally: "So do you mind taking care of Y/N?”

The room seemed to go strangely quiet for a second. Garrett trusted him. And Logan felt like the world’s worst person suddenly. Because Garrett asked the question so easily.

No suspicion. No hesitation.

“Yeah,” Logan answered automatically, voice rougher than intended. “Course.”

Garrett nodded once like that settled it completely.

“Just make sure she drinks water before she passes out.”

Y/N lifted one finger into the air dramatically without opening her eyes. “Hydration is important for high performance athletes.”

“You had vodka mixed with an energy drink.”

“Balance.”

Garrett rolled his eyes and chuckled lightly shaking his head. Then he moved toward the couch, crouching briefly in front of Y/N.

“Hey,” he said quieter this time. “I’m taking Hannah back to campus.”

Y/N blinked slowly at him. “Kay.”

“You staying here tonight?”

She nodded immediately, not even thinking about it. “Mhm.”

“Okay.” Garrett brushed messy hair back from her forehead automatically. “Lock the upstairs bathroom door this time if you shower in the morning.”

Y/N looked offended. “That happened one time.”

Garrett laughed under his breath despite himself, kissed her forehead before standing again. Then he looked toward Logan one last time.

“Text me if she gets worse.”

Logan nodded once.

And just like that, Garrett handed over the most important person in his life without a second thought.

“I’m not even that drunk,” Y/N complained immediately after Garrett disappeared toward the front door with Hannah and Allie barely conscious behind him. “I don’t need a babysitter”

Her words blended together just enough to completely destroy her argument. Logan looked down at her incredulously.

“You can barely keep your eyes open.”

“I’m just relaxing.”

“You called the lamp hostile earlier.”

“Because it was.”

Y/N rolled her eyes dramatically before letting herself fall backward against Logan’s shoulder again with absolutely no concern for personal space.

“He’s so dramatic, I swear,” she mumbled. “Like, oh no, Y/N had fun at a party, somebody alert the authorities.”

Logan huffed out a laugh despite himself.

“G is just protective.”

Y/N groaned instantly. “He’s insane.”

“He worries"

“Too much.” she added.

She shifted again until she was practically folded into Logan’s side, one leg thrown lazily across the couch cushion beside him. Logan was trying very hard not to think about the fact that her face was tucked against his neck now. He swallowed once and stared straight ahead at the crowded living room like it personally offended him.

Y/N snorted softly against Logan’s shoulder, clearly amused. Then she tilted her head up suddenly to squint at him.

“You smell nice.” Everything in Logan’s body stopped functioning for a full second. Y/N blinked slowly, still completely serious. “Like laundry detergent,” she informed him.

Logan dragged a hand down his face. “You are never drinking again.”

Y/N smiled sleepily then, small and lazy and entirely too comfortable against him. Her fingers absentmindedly curled into the sleeve of Logan’s hoodie like it was the most natural thing in the world.

And maybe for her, it was. That was the problem. Because for Y/N, this probably meant nothing. She wouldn’t even remember.

Meanwhile Logan was sitting there hyperaware of every point where she touched him while guilt slowly ate through his bloodstream.

Tucker noticed. Of course he did. His drunk eyes narrowed slowly between the two of them. Logan looked up noticing Tucker's eyes on them and stomach dropped immediately.

“I’m gonna take her upstairs,” Logan announced to nobody in particular.

Mostly because he desperately needed to get out of this couch before Tucker’s drunk ass accidentally developed observational skills.

Y/N barely protested when Logan stood and took her hand, helping her up from the couch carefully. The second she got to her feet, she swayed slightly. He reached out quickly and steadied her.

“Wow,” she said, sounding genuinely impressed. “So quick.”

Logan laughed. “You're a figure skater. You're supposed to have better balance than this.”

Y/N squinted at him. “I can skate backward.”

“You can't walk forward.”

“Details.”

She stumbled toward the stairs with all the confidence of someone who absolutely should not be walking unassisted. Logan followed automatically, one hand hovering near her elbow just in case.

Halfway to the staircase, she faltered. Not from the alcohol this time. A small wince crossed her face before she could hide it, her hand briefly brushing her knee. Logan noticed immediately.

"You okay?" he rushed to her side "Something hurts?"

"Nothing."

"That wasn't a nothing face."

"My knee's being dramatic." she said as if it was nothing.

"You mean injured?"

"I mean dramatic."

Y/N blinked at him. Then shrugged.

"Yeah. Probably danced too much."

"You dance for an hour and injure yourself?"

"I skate for six hours and injure myself," she corrected.

Logan narrowed his eyes.

She ignored him. Then she looked up at the staircase. And stopped completely. A look of deep suspicion settled on her face. "There's more of them than before." brushing the subject.

Logan stared. "The stairs?"

"Yeah... and they are moving."

"They are literally the same stairs."

Y/N squinted harder. "and multiplying."

"Jesus Christ."

Before she could attempt climbing again and accidentally throw herself backward down the staircase, Logan exhaled sharply and bent slightly to lift her instead.

One arm under her knees. The other around her back. Easy and effortless.

Y/N let out a startled laugh immediately as he picked her up bridal style. Her head tipped backward dramatically while her arms looped loosely around his neck for balance.

Logan rolled his eyes as he started upstairs carefully “You’re impossible.”

“No,” Y/N sighed dreamily. “I’m amazing”

Logan laughed quietly under his breath before he could stop himself. Y/N looked up at him then, smile softer now, eyes heavy and unfocused in the dim hallway lighting.

And God. That was dangerous. Very dangerous.

Then suddenly she spoke again.

“Did you know,” Y/N slurred thoughtfully, “I quit pairs when I was little?”

Logan looked down at her. “Yeah?”

He wasn’t really paying attention anymore, just giving her enough responses to keep up with whatever drunk train of thought she was currently riding. Most of her words had blended together into background noise by now.

She nodded against his shoulder.

“Uh-hu. My partners could never lift me properly.”   

Y/N just kept going. “I hated pairs, honestly. Being thrown around, being caught, trusting somebody not to drop you.” She wrinkled her nose. “None of my partners were ever very good at it. I hit my head a lot. Then she laughed softly. “One of them told me I was too heavy.”

The hallway suddenly felt very quiet. Logan stopped walking. 

“What? Does Garrett know about this?”

The look of horror on her face was immediate. “Oh my God, no. He would murder a second grader.”

Logan considered that for a second. “Maybe he should have.”

Y/N blinked up at him. “We were like seven.”

“I don't care.” The answer came so fast it almost surprised him.

A smile tugged at her mouth. “He was seven too, Johnny.”

“Then he was a seven-year-old asshole.”

That actually made her laugh.

Y/N yawned and rested her head against his shoulder again.

“Besides,” she mumbled sleepily, “it worked out. I was always better on my own anyway.”

Logan looked down at her for a moment. He had a feeling she wasn’t talking just about skating anymore. The worst part was that she sounded like she believed it.

Logan tightened his jaw and started walking again. "Sounds like your partners sucked."

Y/N laughed softly. "Most of them did."

"They had one job. To catch you."

She laughed softly. "That's not technically how pairs works."

"Maybe not." He glanced down at her. "Still. If somebody's trusting you enough to throw themselves into the air, you don't get to screw that up."

The words settled between them. For a second, Y/N just stared at him.

Maybe it was the alcohol. Maybe it was the way he said it. But suddenly it didn't feel like they were talking about skating anymore too.

There was something strangely earnest in his voice. Something simple and solid. Like he genuinely couldn't understand how anyone could be trusted with something precious and then choose to let it fall.

A sleepy smile tugged at the corner of her mouth.

“That's a very nice thing to say, Johnny."

Logan huffed a quiet laugh. Y/N kept looking at him for another second, studying him like she'd discovered something unexpected.

Then her smile widened.

"You would've been a great partner."

Logan snorted. "I'm pretty sure figure skating requires grace and coordination. I'd be kicked out on day one."

That made her laugh. And he smiled to himself proud of it "Probably” Her gaze dropped to his arm where it was holding her effortlessly. "But at least I would've known you were gonna catch me."

The words were casual. The effect they had on him wasn't.

As she said them, her fingers tightened absentmindedly around his bicep where her arm rested. Logan nearly missed a step. Y/N blinked down at her own hand, then squeezed experimentally once more.

"...wow."

Oh no.

"I never realized how fit you were," she mumbled, squeezing again as if this were a perfectly normal thing to do. "This is insane."

"Y/N." he warned

"What?" she asked innocently, looking up at him while continuing her completely unscientific investigation.

"Jesus Christ." he groaned

She laughed softly, still completely unaware of the fact that she was actively shortening his lifespan. Or maybe she knew… Drunk Y/N was difficult to read.

Logan tightened his grip under her knees slightly and pushed Garrett’s bedroom door open with his shoulder. The room was dark except for the lamp near the desk.

Y/N immediately sighed dramatically once they entered. “Oooh my kingdom.”

“It’s your brother’s room.” he said unpatient.

Logan walked toward the bed carefully while Y/N kept talking nonsense against his shoulder.

“You hockey boys are weirdly muscular,” she informed him seriously. “Like… is concerning.”

“You are never drinking vodka again.”

“Okay but” she poked his chest weakly “your arms are ridiculous.”

Logan exhaled sharply through his nose. This was torture. Actual torture. Because Y/N sounded completely casual about it. Meanwhile Logan’s brain was actively trying to kill him. His body was betraying him. He lowered her carefully onto Garrett’s bed, expecting her to let go.

She didn’t.

Her arms stayed looped lazily around his neck while she looked up at him from the mattress with heavy eyes.

Too close. Again. Logan swallowed hard.

“Alright,” he said roughly. “You gotta let go now.”

Y/N frowned slightly like she genuinely needed a second to process the request.

Then finally “Oh. Sorry” she chuckled and slowly, she loosened her arms.

But instead of fully letting go, her hand caught the collar of his shirt lightly before he could pull away.

Logan froze instantly. Y/N squinted at him with sleepy concentration.

“You’re pretty,” she informed him very seriously.

Logan actually choked a little on air. Grabbing her hand on his shirt and pulling it away “Okay,” he said quickly. “Goodnight.”

Y/N started laughing again as he immediately tried stepping backward out of reach.

“Relax, Johnny,” she teased softly, falling sideways into Garrett’s pillows. “You look scared.”

Scared wasn’t exactly the word for it. Terrified felt more accurate. As he organized the pillows on the bed for her to sleep in. Y/N looked like she considered something for a moment before finally speak.

“So did you?”

Logan, halfway through pulling the blanket over her, looked up in confusion.

“I did what?”

Y/N shifted onto her back dramatically, squinting at him with a teasing little smile.

“Hook up with Chloe.”

Logan blinked once honestly confused “…who?”

“My friend,” Y/N clarified with an exaggerated eye roll. He still looked confused so she added “The blonde one.”

“Oh.”

“She wanted to hook up with you,” Y/N continued casually. “Has been talking about it all week.”

Logan snorted softly despite himself. Y/N looked deeply unimpressed. “Really annoying, by the way.” She threw herself harder into Garrett’s pillows like the entire situation personally offended her. “Acting like you guys are celebrities or something,” she muttered. “It’s stupid.”

Logan crossed his arms lightly, leaning against Garrett’s desk now and looking at her smirking.

“You literally introduced your brother like he was royalty downstairs.”

“That was ironic.”

“Sure.”

Y/N ignored him.

“She kept begging me to introduce you guys,” she continued. “I told her I wouldn’t, but then she was like, ‘I’ll just talk to him myself.’”

Her voice changed mockingly on the last sentence. Logan laughed quietly under his breath. Then Y/N looked back at him again.

“So?” she asked. “Did you?”

There was something oddly focused about the question despite how drunk she was. Curious and genuine watching him carefully.

Logan shrugged once. “No.”

Y/N blinked. “No?”

“No.”

“…why not?”

The question came too fast. Like she asked before thinking about it. Logan noticed immediately. Y/N noticed too, judging by the way her expression shifted slightly afterward. But instead of backing off, she doubled down.

“She’s pretty,” she said defensively. “Like... a lot”

“Never said she wasn’t.”

“She literally spent two hours fixing her hair before coming here.”

“Really? Didn't notice” he said crossing his arms.

Y/N narrowed her eyes at him from the bed. “You flirt with everyone.”

“That’s not true.”

“Johnny,” she deadpanned. “I’ve seen you flirt with the library lady.”

Logan laughed. Actually laughed. And Y/N hated for one brief second how good he looked doing it. Drunk thoughts. Dangerous territory.

“She wasn’t really my type,” Logan said finally. Find a reasonable explanation.

Y/N tilted her head slightly against the pillow.

“And what exactly is your type?”

You are

The room got quieter somehow. Suddenly Logan could hear every small sound in Garrett’s room: the muffled conversations dowstairs through the walls, Y/N’s breathing, his own heartbeat being deeply unhelpful.

Because Y/N was looking at him now. Really looking at him. Drunk curious eyes soft in the low light. Logan forced himself to shrug casually.

“Don’t know,” he lied.

Y/N hummed sleepily like she didn’t believe him for a second. Then, after a pause:

“Yeah... maybe blondies not your thing.”

Logan’s breath caught so subtly he almost thought he imagined it himself. Y/N, meanwhile, was already sinking deeper into the pillows, eyes half closed again. Completely unaware of the damage she was causing.

Logan walked away and stayed still near the doorway for a second, hand already on the light switch.

Y/N’s breathing had evened out. Her eyes were closed. And for one dangerously peaceful moment, he thought she’d finally fallen asleep.

Good. Because he needed distance. Cold water. Maybe psychological intervention. He reached for the switch.

Then—

“Don’t leave, please.”

The words were so quiet he almost didn’t hear them. Logan turned immediately. Y/N was still curled into Garrett’s blankets, eyes barely open now, voice rough with exhaustion and alcohol. But the teasing was gone.

“I don’t like being alone like this,” she admitted softly.

Something in Logan’s chest tightened painfully. Because suddenly she didn’t sound drunk anymore. She sounded vulnerable. Young. And underneath the sleepiness and slurred words, there was something deeper there too. Something sad enough that Logan felt it instantly without fully understanding why.

Y/N shifted slightly against the pillow, blinking toward the dark hallway behind him.

“Where’s Gare?” she asked quietly. Not Garrett. Gare. Like small. Childlike. Old habit.

Logan leaned against the doorframe slowly. “He took Hannah back to campus, remember?”

Y/N frowned weakly. “Oh.” she said in relization.

Silence stretched for a second. Then quieter:

“He always stays.”

And there it was. That deeper thing again. Logan knew enough about Y/N and Garrett’s childhood to understand what she wasn’t saying out loud. Garrett always stayed because growing up, somebody had to.

Somebody had to stand between her and the yelling and slammed doors and bruises Garrett pretended nobody noticed. Somebody had to make sure she felt safe. And apparently even now, drunk and exhausted, part of Y/N still searched for her brother first when she felt vulnerable.

Logan’s throat tightened unexpectedly.

“Hey... it's okay. I can stay.” he said softly before he could stop himself.

Y/N looked at him sleepily. Logan hesitated only half a second longer before walking back toward the bed. The mattress dipped slightly as he sat carefully on the edge beside her.

Y/N relaxed almost immediately. Like his presence alone settled something anxious inside her. That should not have affected him as much as it did.

“You gonna stay?” she asked quietly.

Logan looked down at her for a long moment. Then sighed softly through his nose.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “I’ll stay until you fall asleep.”

Y/N’s eyes closed again almost instantly after that. Trusting him without hesitation.

And Logan sat there in Garrett Graham’s room beside the girl he absolutely should not be thinking about this way, while guilt and something dangerously close to tenderness twisted together inside his chest.

Jafaar’s dorm looked like it always did: textbooks everywhere, half-empty water bottles scattered around, and sketches covering half of his desk.

You’d been in his dorm for about twenty minutes while he went to look for the charger he swore he left in one of his friend’s rooms. The second the door shut behind him, your eyes drifted toward one of his dressers. One of the drawers was slightly open, just enough for you to catch sight of something black tucked inside.

You knew you probably shouldn’t look, but curiosity got the best of you. Rumors about Jafaar had always been weird. Half the girls on campus swore he was innocent to the point of being clueless, just some shy little architecture nerd who spent more time studying than doing anything else.

Before you could really think about it, you reached into the drawer and pulled the journal out.

The leather felt worn beneath your fingers, the edges softened like he’d opened it a hundred times before.

A bookmark stuck out near the middle. You hesitated for a second before flipping to that page and starting to read.

The very first line made your stomach tighten instantly.

𝐼’𝑑 𝑚𝑎𝑘𝑒 ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝑐𝑜𝑚𝑒 𝑜𝑛 𝑚𝑦 𝑡𝑜𝑛𝑔𝑢𝑒 𝑓𝑖𝑟𝑠𝑡. 𝑇ℎ𝑒𝑛 𝑎𝑔𝑎𝑖𝑛 𝑜𝑛 𝑚𝑦 𝑓𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑒𝑟𝑠 𝑤ℎ𝑖𝑙𝑒 𝐼 𝑠𝑡𝑟𝑒𝑡𝑐ℎ ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝑜𝑝𝑒𝑛. 𝐼’𝑑 𝑡𝑎𝑙𝑘 ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝑡ℎ𝑟𝑜𝑢𝑔ℎ 𝑖𝑡 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑤ℎ𝑜𝑙𝑒 𝑡𝑖𝑚𝑒, 𝑡𝑒𝑙𝑙𝑖𝑛𝑔 ℎ𝑒𝑟 ℎ𝑜𝑤 𝑡𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡 𝑠ℎ𝑒 𝑓𝑒𝑒𝑙𝑠, ℎ𝑜𝑤 𝑔𝑜𝑜𝑑 𝑠ℎ𝑒’𝑠 𝑡𝑎𝑘𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑚𝑒. 𝐼 𝑤𝑎𝑛𝑡 𝑡𝑜 𝑤𝑎𝑡𝑐ℎ ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝑓𝑎𝑐𝑒 𝑤ℎ𝑒𝑛 𝐼 𝑏𝑜𝑡𝑡𝑜𝑚 𝑜𝑢𝑡 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑦 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑒, 𝑔𝑟𝑖𝑛𝑑𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑠𝑙𝑜𝑤𝑙𝑦 𝑢𝑛𝑡𝑖𝑙 𝑠ℎ𝑒’𝑠 𝑐𝑟𝑦𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑓𝑜𝑟 𝑖𝑡.

Heat crept up your neck as you flipped another page.

Your mouth dropped open as you read what he wrote. You quickly covered your mouth with your hand as you gasped. An ache settling between your thighs.

“𝐼 ℎ𝑒𝑎𝑟𝑑 ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝑡𝑎𝑙𝑘𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑡𝑜 ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝑓𝑟𝑖𝑒𝑛𝑑 𝑎𝑏𝑜𝑢𝑡 𝑚𝑒. ‘𝐻𝑒’𝑠 𝑠𝑜 𝑠𝑤𝑒𝑒𝑡, 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑝𝑟𝑜𝑏𝑎𝑏𝑙𝑦 ℎ𝑒𝑙𝑙𝑎 𝑖𝑛𝑒𝑥𝑝𝑒𝑟𝑖𝑒𝑛𝑐𝑒𝑑. 𝐼 𝑎𝑙𝑤𝑎𝑦𝑠 𝑔𝑒𝑡 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑣𝑖𝑏𝑒 𝑓𝑟𝑜𝑚 ℎ𝑖𝑚,’ 𝑠ℎ𝑒 𝑠𝑎𝑖𝑑.

𝐼 𝑎𝑙𝑚𝑜𝑠𝑡 𝑙𝑎𝑢𝑔ℎ𝑒𝑑 𝑜𝑢𝑡 𝑙𝑜𝑢𝑑. 𝐼𝑓 𝑠ℎ𝑒 𝑘𝑛𝑒𝑤 𝑤ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝐼 𝑤𝑟𝑖𝑡𝑒 𝑖𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑗𝑜𝑢𝑟𝑛𝑎𝑙 𝑤ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝐼 𝑖𝑚𝑎𝑔𝑖𝑛𝑒 𝑑𝑜𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑟𝑦 𝑠𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑙𝑒 𝑛𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡 𝑠ℎ𝑒 𝑤𝑜𝑢𝑙𝑑𝑛’𝑡 𝑠𝑎𝑦 𝐼 𝑤𝑎𝑠 𝑠𝑤𝑒𝑒𝑡. 𝑀𝑎𝑦𝑏𝑒 𝑠ℎ𝑒’𝑑 𝑙𝑒𝑡 𝑚𝑒 𝑠ℎ𝑜𝑤 ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝑒𝑥𝑎𝑐𝑡𝑙𝑦 ℎ𝑜𝑤 𝑖𝑛𝑒𝑥𝑝𝑒𝑟𝑖𝑒𝑛𝑐𝑒𝑑 𝐼 𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑙𝑙𝑦 𝑎𝑚.”

You stared at the page, rereading it slower this time. Then it hit you the conversation from the other day.

You and your friend, laughing, talking about him without thinking much of it. Your stomach dropped as the words clicked into place. He wasn’t talking about some random girl. He was talking about you.

You swallowed hard, your fingers tightening around the edge of the journal. After a moment, you flipped to the next page anyway, too curious to see what else he had written about you.

𝐼'𝑑 𝑙𝑎𝑦 ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝑜𝑢𝑡 𝑜𝑛 𝑚𝑦 𝑏𝑒𝑑 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑡𝑎𝑘𝑒 ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝑎𝑝𝑎𝑟𝑡 𝑝𝑖𝑒𝑐𝑒 𝑏𝑦 𝑝𝑖𝑒𝑐𝑒. 𝑆𝑡𝑎𝑟𝑡 𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝑚𝑜𝑢𝑡ℎ, 𝑚𝑎𝑘𝑒 ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝑠𝑎𝑦 𝑚𝑦 𝑛𝑎𝑚𝑒 𝑢𝑛𝑡𝑖𝑙 ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝑣𝑜𝑖𝑐𝑒 𝑔𝑜𝑒𝑠 ℎ𝑜𝑎𝑟𝑠𝑒.

𝑇ℎ𝑒𝑛 𝑚𝑜𝑣𝑒 𝑑𝑜𝑤𝑛, 𝑏𝑖𝑡𝑒 𝑚𝑎𝑟𝑘𝑠 𝑎𝑙𝑜𝑛𝑔 ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝑖𝑛𝑛𝑒𝑟 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑠, 𝑙𝑒𝑎𝑣𝑒 𝑏𝑟𝑢𝑖𝑠𝑒𝑠 𝑠ℎ𝑒 ℎ𝑎𝑠 𝑡𝑜 ℎ𝑖𝑑𝑒. 𝐴𝑛𝑑 𝑤ℎ𝑒𝑛 𝐼 𝑓𝑖𝑛𝑎𝑙𝑙𝑦 𝑓𝑢𝑐𝑘 ℎ𝑒𝑟, 𝐼'𝑑 𝑑𝑜 𝑖𝑡 𝑠𝑙𝑜𝑤 𝑎𝑡 𝑓𝑖𝑟𝑠𝑡. 𝐷𝑟𝑎𝑤 𝑖𝑡 𝑜𝑢𝑡. 𝑀𝑎𝑘𝑒 ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝑏𝑒𝑔. 𝑀𝑎𝑘𝑒 ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝑠𝑎𝑦 𝑝𝑙𝑒𝑎𝑠𝑒. 𝐴𝑛𝑑 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑛 𝐼'𝑑 𝑔𝑖𝑣𝑒 ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑟𝑦𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑔.

There are pages and pages of more, each entry more explicit than the last. He describes you in vivid detail, the way you move, the sounds you'd make, the things he wants to do to your body every filthy scenario.

The door handle rattled, and you shoved the journal back into the drawer as quickly as you could, closing it, your heart in your ass as Jafaar stepped inside, holding the charger. You quickly tried to act normal.

“Found it,” he said, voice soft like always. But now you knew what lived behind that softness.

“Sorry it took so long. After I got the charger, I stopped to grab a drink,” he said. “The machine was out of my favorite, so I had to-” He stopped suddenly, his eyes landing on you.

Something flickered across his face. “You okay? You look… kinda flushed.”

“Ohhh, I’m fine,” you said too quickly. “It’s just a little hot in here, you know.”

He paused, studying you. His gaze flicked to the dresser drawer, now shut a little too neatly.

"You sure?" He pushed his glasses up his nose with one finger.

“Just thinking,” you said, trying to sound casual, as if you hadn’t just read about him wanting to fuck you.

His head tilted slightly. "About what?"

Your pulse hammered. The air in the room felt thicker. You were thinking about his words.

Oh … fuck it.

"About this," you said, reaching into the draw pulling the journal from its hiding spot.

His face went pale. His mouth opening and closing for a second he looked like a deer caught in headlights. "That's you shouldn't-"

"I read it." Your voice came out steadier than you expected, though your heart was pounding so hard you could hear it in your ears.

"All of it. Well, most of it.”

"That's private you know."

"Really?" You held the journal up, your thumb brushing over the worn leather. "Because it sounds like you've been thinking about me a lot. In very un-private ways."

His jaw tightened. For a long moment, he didn't say anything. Then he set the charger down as he took a step toward you.

"You think you know me," he said, his voice lower now, rougher. "You think I'm just the shy, nerdy guy who can't talk to girls. Who couldn't possibly have a single filthy thought in his head."

"I did think that," you admitted, your heart racing. "Until I found this."

He stopped in front of you, close enough that you could smell his cologne.

"So now you know." His hand reached out, and for a moment you thought he was going to take the journal. Instead, his fingers brushed against yours, trailing up your wrist.

"Now you know what I think about when I can't sleep. What I think about when you're sitting right next to me, laughing at something stupid, and all I can imagine is bending you over and fucking you until you scream."

Your breath hitched. Gosh, you wanted him to fuck you. His hand kept moving, sliding up your arm, over your shoulder, until his fingers tangled gently in the hair at the nape of your neck.

"Go ahead," he murmured, his thumb stroking the sensitive skin behind your ear. "Tease me. Laugh at me. Tell me I'm a pathetic pussy for writing all of that down instead of doing anything about it."

Suddenly, you felt the need to push him more.

“Everyone thinks you’re so innocent,” you said, throwing the journal down on the bed, trailing your hand down his arm and letting a hint of mockery slip into your voice.

“Sweet, shy Jafaar. You probably never even kissed a girl, right?” You paused, watching his reaction. “But here you are, writing about putting me through the mattress.”

His hand shot out and grabbed your wrist.

"Say that again?"

You smiled, feeling the thrill of pushing his buttons. "Sweet, shy Jafaar-"

He pulled you hard against his chest, his mouth crashing into yours. He kissed you all demanding, hungry, nothing like the shy boy who can barely hold eye contact. His hands weaved into your curls, his fingers twisting the strands pulling but not hard enough to hurt, but enough to let you know who's in control here.

“Bet,” he whispered against your lips. “I’m going to show your ass.”

“Yes, please,” you smirked, giving him all the consent he needed.

He effortlessly lifts you, your legs wrapping around his waist as he carries you to the bed. Thankfully, he had a full-sized bed, unlike those tiny ass dorm beds you couldn’t stand. You were so grateful that this college allowed you to choose different-sized beds.

"You talked about me too. I didn’t forget ," he says, climbing onto the bed after you, settling between your legs. "I heard you. The other day with your little friend. You said I was probably inexperienced."

"You think I'm all talk?" he said, pulling his belt free letting it drop to the floor. "You think I don't know what to do with a woman?"

He crawled onto the bed, positioning himself between your legs.

"Let me show you exactly what I've been writing about."

He grabbed the hem of your shirt and pulled it over your head in one motion. Then your bra, his fingers working the clasp with ease..

He bent down and took one of your nipples into his mouth, sucking hard while his thumb worked the other. The sensation shooting straight to your pussy.

"Fuck," you gasped.

“That’s just the beginning,” he mumbled, pulling back.

He worked his way down your body, kissing, biting, leaving marks. When he reached your pants, he unbuttoned them and tugged them down your legs, along with your panties.

He sat back, staring at you lying bare before him.

"Beautiful," he murmured. "Even better than I imagined."

He leaned forward, his mouth hovering inches from your pussy. "You're gonna taste so good."

But instead of diving in, he sat up again, reaching for his journal on the bed. He opened it to a marked page.

"I wrote this one down a few weeks ago," he said. " m’gonna show you how it goes."

He tossed the journal to the side, sliding his palms up the insides of your thighs, spreading you further until you were completely exposed to him.

Leaning in, he dragged his tongue in one long, slow stroke from your entrance up to your clit.

You gasped. He didn’t give you time to recover. He licked again, firmer this time, circling your clit with the tip of his tongue before sucking it between his lips. One hand stayed on your thigh, holding you open. The other slid two fingers through your slick and pushed inside without warning.

“Shit…Jafaar.”

He moaned against you, the vibration making your hips jerk. His fingers curled, finding that spot inside you that made your vision blur. He pumped them steadily, tongue never stopping its attention to your clit.

“Put your hands above your head,” he said against your skin. “If you move them I’ll stop.”

You obeyed instantly, fingers twisting into the sheets above you. Jafaar rewarded you by adding a third finger, stretching you open while his tongue worked faster. The wet sounds filled the small room his mouth on you, your own desperate breathing, the slick slide of his fingers.

“You taste so fucking good,” he muttered. “Been wanting to bury my face here since the first time I saw you in those shorts. Thought about it every night. Jerked off coming all over my chest thinking about how you’d sound when I made you come on my tongue.”

Your back arched off the bed. The pressure was building so fast, coiling tight in your lower belly. Jafaar felt it. He sucked harder on your clit crooking his fingers just right.

“You gonna come already? Go ahead then. Let me feel it.”

Your thighs clamped around his head as the orgasm ripped through you, hips bucking against his mouth. He licked you through it, fingers still moving, drawing it out until you were shaking.

He slowly pulls his fingers out and brings them to his mouth, sucking on them. He makes a low, appreciative sound.

"Taste better than I imagined."

His chin was shiny with your slick. He wiped it with the back of his hand, eyes never leaving yours.

“Still with me?” he asked.

You nodded, breathless.

“Good because i wanna do more.”

He stood up and removed everything except his cardigan and shirt. He pushed his pants down, along with his boxers.

His dick sprung free, settling against his belly button, thick and already leaking at the tip. He wrapped a hand around the base and gave it a slow stroke as he hopped back on the bed.

The sight makes your mouth water. He's not small. Not by a long shot.

“See what you do to me?” he said. “Been hard since I walked in and saw you looking all guilty.”

He leaned down and spat directly onto your pussy. The warm saliva trickled down and he caught it with two fingers, pushing them back inside you.

“Look at this pretty pussy,” he murmured. “All puffy and wet, you’re so tight,” he said. “Gonna feel so good around my dick.”

He worked his fingers in and out a few more times, scissoring them to stretch you. Then he pulled them free and lined himself up.

He pushes in slowly, letting you feel every inch. He's bigger than you expected, stretching you in a way that borders on too much, but he doesn't stop until he's buried to the hilt.

Your hands fly up, gripping his shoulders.

“Fuck! Jafaar, you’re so big!” You mewl.

“I know, sweetheart, but you can take me.”

“Can’t you?” he asks, pausing for a moment.

“Yes, I can take it, pleaseeee.”

“Goddamn,” he groaned, biting his lip to stifle a whimper. “You’re squeezing me so tight. Like you don’t want to let me go.” He stills, letting you adjust.

"I've wanted this for so long," he murmurs. "Wanted you for so long. You have no idea what it was like watching you walk around.”

“Knowing I couldn’t have you, everyone thought I was too soft, too gentle to pull you.”

"But I'm not," he continues, his rhythm building. "I'm not gentle. I'm not soft. I'm the guy who's been fantasizing about fucking you into this mattress for months."

He reaches up and grabs your face, squishing your cheeks together.

“Tell me what you want,” he demands, his hips thrusting into you with urgency.

“I want you” you whined.

His speed picks up, each thrust harder than the last. The bed creaks beneath you. Your hands find the sheets once more, gripping them as he takes you apart.

"Tell me I'm innocent now," he growls, driving into you.

"Tell me I'm inexperienced."

You can barely form words. "You're not ah fuck-"

"That's right." He leans over, his mouth at your ear.

a/n: (if ykyk)

"I've been dreaming about having you in this position.”

He pulls out, and before you can protest, he's turning you over, pushing you onto your stomach. He grabs your hips, pulling them up, positioning you on your side.

As he moved you into position you had one knee bent forward, the other leg stretched straight.

Jafaar stays upright behind you on his knees. His cardigan brushing your lower back every time he shifts.

He grips the base of his dick and lines up again, pressing the swollen head against your entrance until it parts you.

He pushes in slow, letting you feel every ridge and vein stretch your walls. The angle from this height drives him straight forward instead of down so the pressure against your front walls build fast.

He bottoms out and holds there, hips flush to your ass. One hand stays planted on your hip. The other lifts and comes down hard across your right cheek. The slap cracks through the room. Heat blooms under your skin and you jerk forward moaning but his grip keeps you in place.

“Fuck,” he mutters, watching the print rise. He pulls back until only the head stays inside, then drives forward again.

“I love the way your ass jiggles.” You wiggle your ass in response, and he spanks you again, this time lower, catching the curve where your ass meets your thigh.

The sting mixes with the thick slide of his dick making you clench around him.

His knees stay planted wide for leverage. The wet sound of your pussy gripping him grows louder with each pass. He reaches down, spreading your cheeks with one hand, watching the way his dick disappeared inside you.

“Keep your leg up,” he says. You hook your top knee higher and he groans when the new angle lets him sink another half inch. His big palm cracks across your ass again, harder, the sound sharp. Your skin burns and you push back into the next thrust without thinking.

He leans forward, chest hovering over your back but never dropping his weight.

He pulls your hair next. His fingers gather your hair up into a makeshift ponytail, tugging your head back until your neck arches. The pull makes your spine curve. He uses the new angle to fuck you harder, the head of his dick dragging across that spongy spot inside you every stroke.

He spanks you again, open palm, right where the skin is already tender. Your ass jiggles under the impact, and he watches it ripple.

“Tell me how it feels.”

“Full,” you answer. “Deep, so deep.”

"You like that?" He was breathing hard, his lip tucked between his teeth.

"You like being taken like this? Like being treated like the filthy little fantasy you read about?"

“Yes, oh… Fuck, yes.”

“Right there,” you whine as he hits your g-spot.

"Yeah?" He focuses his thrusts, aiming for that spot. "Right there, Mama?"

"Yes, yes, fuck, Jafaar, right there."

He starts to move long, deep strokes that dragged against every sensitive spot inside you. You could feel the muscles in his thighs flexing against the backs of your legs.

Your mouth keeps falling open. You reach back and grab his wrist where he’s holding your hip.

He pulls almost all the way out, pauses, then slams back in until his hips smack your ass. The force rocks you forward. He does it again, slower this time, letting you feel every inch leave and return. Your walls flutter around him and he groans, low and rough.

“Gonna come if you keep squeezing me like that,” he warns.

“Then come,” you say. “I want it.”

He shakes his head once. “Not yet.” He leaves you empty for three long seconds, then pushes back in with one smooth stroke.

The sudden fullness makes you gasp. He spanks you twice quickly, left then right, the slaps landing on already heated skin.

“Fuck, listen to that creamy ass pussy you just creaming on me, baby,” he panted. “Taking every inch like you were made for it. Bet you’ve been thinking about this too, haven’t you? Wondering what it would feel like to have me buried in you.”

All that came out of your mouth were broken moans.

His glasses slide down his nose, and you reach back to push them up, settling the frames back into place.

“Thanks, baby.” He grunts out, hypnotized by the way your pussy is swallowing his dick.

He spits down, this time directly onto where you're joined, the wetness combining with where you're already slick. "That's fucking perfect," he groans.

He reaches down, grabs your ankle, and lifts your straight leg higher so your thighs open wider. The new position lets him bottom out completely.

He stops and flips you onto your back. His dick is still hard, glistening with your white slick. He hooks your legs over his shoulders, leaning down, folding you in half like a pretzel.

“Wanna see your pretty face closer,” he said.

He slid back inside with a smooth thrust. The new angle made him go so deep that you could swear you felt him in your throat. His pubic bone pressed against your clit with every stroke.

The little chain he always wore dangled in front of you, and you took that as an opportunity to suck it into your mouth while staring him dead in the eyes.

“You look so fucking sexy with my chain in your mouth. Fucking hell.”

As you held the chain in your mouth, he moaned, “Tell me how it feels.”

“So fucking good,” you managed. “Don’t stop please don’t stop.”

“I’m not stopping until you come on this dick,” he promised.

The filthy promise sent another wave of heat through you. Jafaar’s rhythm grew rougher.

You both didn’t care that people could hear you two outside the dorm. Now, they’ll finally know that he’s not all sweet and innocent. The wet sound of skin on skin filled the room.

"You have no idea how long I've wanted to hear you moan like that. To feel you clench around me. To watch your tits bounce while I fuck you senseless."

Another spank lands, this one lower, catching the side of your thigh. The sting travels straight to your pussy, and you clamp down around him. He curses under his breath and fucks you through the squeeze, his dick twitching inside you.

"Squeezing me so good, fuck," he grunted. "This is exactly what I fantasize about every night. You here in my room, taking me like a good girl."

You moaned, unable to form words. The pleasure was building, coiling tight in your belly.

"You like being fucked by the shy nerd, don't you?" he said, lightly slapping your face.

"The one everyone thinks is so damn inexperienced. Tell me how much you like it."

"I love it," you gasped. “You’re fucking me so good, shit.”

"Louder."

"I LOVE IT!"

He lowers his head, kissing you, swallowing your moans. His tongue slides against yours as he pulls back a little to bring his fingers down between your legs. More wetness spreads over your clit as he rubs it in, circles it with his thumb.

"So fucking nasty," you breathe.

"You like it."

He's right. You do. The wetness, the slick sound of his hand moving against you, the way his eyes watch his own fingers work.

He removes his fingers, placing them in his mouth, sucking his fingers clean.

“Tastes so fucking good.”

He pounds into you, faster, harder, and you can feel yourself tightening around him as he hits your sweet spot perfectly.

"I'm gonna—" you start.

"I know." He reaches down and presses on your lower stomach, right above where he's buried inside you. "I can feel it. You're squeezing me so fucking tight."

Your hands find his shoulders, digging into the fabric of his cardigan, the one he’s still wearing. The contrast is absurd: this nerdy, shy-looking boy in only a shirt and cardigan, fucking you into the mattress as if he’s been waiting for years.

"Come for me," he says, and his voice cracks on the last word, breaking the facade for just a second. "Please, I need to feel you come on my dick."

The please does it.

You come hard, your back arching, your nails digging into his shoulders through the wool. He keeps fucking you through it, drawing it out, and you can hear yourself making sounds you've never made before.

"That's it, that's it, fuck." He's close, you can tell by the way his rhythm stutters, the way his breath catches. "Where do you want it?" He was going to nut in you anyways, but he still wanted to ask you.

“I’m on the pill. In me.”

He comes with a groan that's almost a whimper, burying his face in your neck as he pumps into you.

You can feel him, hot and thick, filling you up, your walls clenching around him as he spills inside you. His whole body shaking from the force of it.

For a long moment neither of you moved. The only sounds were your ragged breathing and the distant noise of campus life outside the window.

"Holy shit," he murmurs against your skin.

He eases out carefully. A trickle of his cum follows, sliding down your spent pussy. He watches it with heavy-lidded eyes before reaching down and pushing it back inside you with two fingers.

“Keep that in there,” he said quietly. “Want you to feel it for the rest of the day.”

The lens of his glasses is fogged up. He collapses beside you, one arm draped over your waist.

You turned your head to look at him. “So… everyone’s wrong about you.”

“Yeah. They are.”

“That was the best dick I’ve ever had.”

Ps- jafaar is so fioneeee omg fck M*DDIE 🫪.

Chris nudged your arm, his grin stretching wider with every step to the seats. “Just means more popcorn for us,” his voice containing a pitch of excitement to it. You caught a flicker of mischief in his eyes, as if he were in on some secret.

You follow quietly behind as they lead you to the center row—never the sides, always the middle, because they insist on sitting next to you. Sliding into the seat, you glance at them and notice how they both lean in, elbows intentionally brushing yours. The closeness feels intentional, and out of the corner of your eye, you catch Matt shooting Chris a private smile. Whatever is happening, you’re sure it’s about you, and curiosity gets to you.

About halfway through the movie, you feel the lightest touch on your thigh—fingertips tracing slow, teasing lines. You glance over to find Chris smirking, eyes never leaving the screen. You shoot him a sharp “quit it” look, but he only arches an eyebrow, his hand inching higher. Moments later, Matt shifts closer, his breath warm against your ear, sending a shiver down your spine. Goosebumps prickle across your skin, anticipation and confusion mixing in your chest.

“Enjoying tonight?” Matt whispers, his hand sliding to your waist, fingertips tracing soft, lazy circles that feel both comforting and hot. His voice is low, and you can’t help but wonder how much of this night he planned.

You freeze as their hands start to wander—one tracing the curve of your waist, the other slipping along your thigh. Each touch is deliberate, and you can’t help but glare playfully at them both. Then the sudden realization hits. This empty theater wasn’t a coincidence. These two idiots had planned every detail, and you’re not really sure how to feel about it.

You’re not sure if you want to strangle them for being so sneaky—or just lean in and kiss them both for it.

Chris’ fingers begin to explore again, trailing up your thigh until they graze the edge of your underwear. Your breath hitches, and you glance at the screen before looking back at him. He’s watching you, lips curled into a smile, one eyebrow arching up as if silently challenging you to stop him.

Matt, quiet until now, hears your shaky breath and leans in, his lips brushing your ear before giving it a playful nip. Heat is consumed throughout your body, and he seems to know it. “You know,” he whispers, “when Chris suggested doing this in a movie theater, I thought he was insane. But then I pictured you here, between the two of us, and… well, let’s just say I changed my mind. Out here, we can do anything. No one would ever know.”

You open your mouth to reply, but Chris’s touch scrambles your thoughts. The way his fingers slip beneath the hem of your skirt, barely grazing your skin, is distracting. He watches with a knowing smirk as goosebumps bloom along your thigh, clearly enjoying your reaction.

Matt’s hand joins the action, slipping under your shirt and tracing the sensitive skin just above your waistband. “You have to tell us if you want us to stop, baby,” he murmurs, pressing a soft kiss to your neck—a gentle difference to the heat building between you all.

Your breath catches, desire taking over. “Don’t—keep going,” you whisper, your voice so soft.

Everything shifts the moment you grant permission. Chris’s fingers slide higher, pressing and circling your core through your underwear, drawing a soft moan from your lips as your hips chase his touch. Matt’s hand explores under your shirt, his thumb and forefinger gently rolling your nipple, sending sparks of pleasure through your chest. He catches your gaze and grins, then leans in to find a sweet spot on your neck, nipping and sucking. No doubt, leaving a mark you’ll discover tomorrow.

Focusing on the movie is impossible now. Your world has shrunk to the soft laughter of the boys and the occasional muffled groans that slip out from them. Their movements are slow, purposeful—hands and mouths teasing, exploring, and discovering every place that makes you shiver with want.

Chris captures your mouth in a desperate, needy kiss. His tongue tangling with yours, tasting your hunger. His fingers slip your underwear aside, teasing your folds, his touch light and unbearably slow. He grins against your lips, clearly pleased by how wet you are for him. Meanwhile, Matt’s mouth is relentless on your neck, his hand exploring your breasts—grabbing, pinching, getting those sweet, shameless moans he loves to hear.

“Do you know how long we’ve been planning this?” Matt whispers. “We both wanted you for so long. Having you here, finally, it’s more than we imagined.”

Your whole body shakes as they explore you, hands and mouths worshipping every inch, making you feel desired in the privacy of the empty theater. For a moment, you give yourself completely to them, the world becoming just the three of you and the sins you are creating.

Chris’s mouth is wild on yours, alternating between sucking your bottom lip, nipping gently, and then drawing your tongue into his mouth. Every so often, he leans his forehead against yours, breath mingling with yours as his fingers draw slow, filthy circles on your clit. Matt has pushed your shirt up above your chest, his mouth worshipping your nipples—licking, sucking, and tugging them between his teeth before soothing you with his tongue.

“God, you’re beautiful,” Matt murmurs, his lips brushing soft kisses between your breasts, awe and hunger mixing in his voice.

Chris pulls away for a moment, flashing you a devilish grin. “You like this, don’t you? Both of us touching you like this,” he teases, voice thick with desire. Suddenly, his pointer and ring finger slip inside you, stretching you out, and he watches your face. You can’t help the soft moan that escapes, your hips instinctively rocking into his hand, eyes hazy with pleasure as you meet his gaze.

The movie’s soundtrack blares in the background, but your moans rise above it, shameless and raw. Matt’s mouth claims your other nipple, his tongue circling it slowly while his free hand wraps gently around your throat, holding you steady as he loses himself in you.

Chris moves his fingers slowly in and out of you, each movement paired with a slick, unmistakable sound that fills the empty theater. He groans, glancing down at his hand, his voice filled with awe. “God, look how wet you are for us.”

You whine, reaching for Matt’s hair and tugging him up to you. The theater, usually cool, now feels hot—thick with heat and anticipation. There’s no way you want this to stop.

Matt kisses his way up your neck, meeting Chris’s gaze over your shoulder. You’re sprawled sideways in the seat, not caring about comfort, only the heat of their hands on your skin. Matt exchanges a look with Chris, something unspoken passing between them before they both nod in agreement.

Matt immediately claims your mouth, kissing you so deeply it leaves you breathless. Unlike Chris’s hungry, biting kisses, Matt’s are sensual—slow, his tongue tracing gentle circles around yours. Occasionally, he shares spit with you just to see your reaction, drawing soft, desperate whines from your throat.

“Just let us spoil you the way you deserve, good girl,” Chris whispers, his breath hot against your ear as you melt into Matt’s kiss.

You nod softly, and Chris’s fingers speed up, curling expertly to hit that spot inside you that makes your vision blur. Each time your body tenses, he smiles and leans in, whispering, “Shh, you can take it, ma.”

His fingers are relentless, desperate gasps and moans come from you with every perfect stroke. Pressure builds low in your stomach, each wave making it harder to hold back.

Matt pulls back and just looks at you, his hand still around your neck, his eyes dark with hunger and something tender. “She’s close, Chris. You close, baby girl? Gonna cum all over his hand?” His grip tightens a fraction, sending a delicious shiver through your body.

Your mouth drops open, soft, desperate pants escaping you. Chris groans at the sight. “Let go for me, ma. I know you want to. Cum for me.” His voice is gentle but commanding.

One hand clings to Matt’s arm, the other gripping Chris. You cry out, the orgasm crashing over you—“C-cumming! Oh fuck—I can’t!”—as a rush of liquid spills over Chris’s hand and the seat beneath you. He moans, fingers slowing to help you ride out every last wave.

“Did—did she just…?” Matt breathes, eyes wide with awe and disbelief.

Heat floods your cheeks as you look away, suddenly shy beneath their gazes.

“That was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen,” Chris breathes, his voice in disbelief. He slowly removes his fingers from you and, eyes locked with yours, sucks them clean.

You glance between them, your embarrassment fading just a little as you realize they’re genuinely into the fact that you squirted. “I swear I didn’t plan that—uhm, someone say something,” you stammer, searching for reassurance.

Matt is the first to break the silence, grinning. “Should we go find a towel? And, uh, how do we make that happen again? I’m with Chris—that was unreal. I want to see you do it again.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “Jesus, Matt, once is enough. But I think it’s time I help you two.”

Chris and Matt nod eagerly, anticipation written all over their faces. You follow, sinking to your knees. You start with Chris, unbuttoning his jeans with slowness, enjoying the way his breath hitches. You drag his jeans down, leaving him in white boxers, his hard cock obvious, straining against the fabric.

You turn to Matt and do the same, teasing both of them by pressing slow, hungry kisses through their boxers. Matt whines, “Fuck, baby, don’t tease. Not after what we saw. We need you. Badly.”

A sly smile on your lips, you push Matt's boxers down, revealing his thick cock, veins prominent and precum already glistening at the tip. You stroke him slowly, your touch light. Glancing at Chris, you catch the desperate restraint on his face. “Chris, hold my hair back?” you whisper.

Chris nods, quickly gathering your hair into a makeshift ponytail, his fingers trembling as he waits for what comes next.

You look up at Matt, your lips curling into a teasing smile. “Want me to suck your cock now?” you ask softly, letting the question hang heavy in the air.

Matt groans, his voice strained with need. “Please, [Y/N],” he whispers, his hands trembling slightly as he waits.

You drag your tongue slowly along his shaft, savoring the way he shivers under your touch. His moans are soft, needy, filling the space between you. Before taking him into your mouth, you spit on his cock, stroking him until he’s slick and throbbing.

“Oh—fuck. Shit,” Matt whimpers, barely able to keep his eyes open as your mouth closes slowly over him, drawing out every ounce of sensation.

You take Matt as deep as you can without choking, starting to bob your head in a steady rhythm. Chris’s hand is gentle yet firm in your hair, guiding you. You look up at Matt, your mouth full, and catch the way his thighs tense. Pushing yourself a little further, you feel yourself gag slightly as he hits the back of your throat, his breath catching in response.

“Oh fuck. She’s really doing it,” Chris breathes, disbelief mingling in his voice as he watches you take Matt so deep.

Matt is speechless, watching you swallow him whole. His hand replaces Chris’s in your hair, his control tightening. “I’m done being nice. Time for you to know what it’s like to have someone really fuck your mouth,” he growls, hunger in his eyes.

Matt’s hips start to move, setting a deep, steady rhythm as his cock slides in and out of your mouth. You gag occasionally as he thrusts into your throat, pushing your limits. “That’s it. Good fucking girl. Taking me so good,” he moans, the pleasure raw in his voice.

A moan vibrates through Matt as you pleasure him, the sensation making him shudder. Chris lies down beneath you, gently tapping your thigh. “Ma, ride my face,” he murmurs, eyes dark with anticipation.

Without breaking your rhythm on Matt, you shift your body over Chris. Instantly, his hands grip your hips, guiding you down to his mouth. His tongue is relentless, lapping up every drop, tasting you with greedy, quick strokes. Your hips rock instinctively, chasing the pleasure he gives you.

“Shit, you like that? Sucking me off while Chris eats you out? Such a fucking filthy girl,” Matt groans, his voice strained. He keeps thrusting into your mouth, occasionally wiping away the tears that escape your eyes.

You whimper, overwhelmed as Chris sucks hard on your clit, then slides two fingers back inside you—fast, hungry, with no hesitation. The air is thick with the chorus of moans from both boys and the slick, wet sounds of Chris’s fingers moving inside you as you suck Matt’s cock.

“Sh-shit, I’m so close. Fuck—your mouth feels incredible,” Matt whines, his rhythm faltering as he chases his release.

You nod and tap his thigh—a silent signal, giving him permission to let go.

Chris leaves love bites along your thighs, his fingers relentless as they find that perfect spot inside you again and again. He whispers against your skin, “Come on, squirt on my face, ma. I know you can. Let go for me.”

You hollow your cheeks and suck harder, drawing a deep groan from Matt. “Sh-shit. Cumming. Oh god.” He spills into your mouth, hot and salty, and you meet his eyes as you swallow, giving him a wicked, satisfied smile.

Your satisfied smile falters, replaced by a moan. “Oh fuck, Chris, I’m—” The pleasure rushes back with a vengeance.

Chris nods and dives back in, his mouth relentless on your clit, determined to push you over the edge. You grip Matt’s hand, the contact washing over you as another powerful orgasm crashes through. Your release wet and wild over Chris’s face, chest, and hands.

“Fuck’s sake. That’s the hottest thing I’ve ever seen,” Matt says, his voice soft with amazement. If you weren’t so spent, you’d laugh and maybe smack him for running his mouth.

Chris gently helps you off him, then stands and wipes his mouth and face with his shirt. He glances around with a lazy grin. “Yeah… I definitely like this movie theater,” he says, satisfaction in every word.

A blush creeps up your cheeks, but you recover quickly, turning to Chris with a playful look. “Think it’s time I make you cum, hmm?” you tease, your confidence and desire clear in your voice.

Chris’s eyes darken, and he nods, stripping off his boxers with a practiced motion. His cock isn’t as thick as Matt’s, but it’s long and impressive. You stare, breath catching. “Shit,” you groan, admiration and hunger in your tone.

Chris surprises you by pulling you into a soft kiss—rare tenderness from someone who usually chases heat over sweetness. “You good, ma?” he whispers as he checks in with you.

“Yeah. I’m great,” you breathe, excitement bubbling in your chest. “I think I want to ride Matt, and while I’m doing that, I want you to cum on my face. We’re all okay with that?” Your voice is soft but steady, making sure everyone’s boundaries are clear.

Matt nods quickly, excitement flickering in his eyes. “Count me in,” he says, his voice low and eager.

Chris grins, his voice dropping. “Yeah, I’ve definitely pictured my cum on your face before. So I’m in.”

A pulse of heat throbs between your legs at his words, desire quickly building again. Chris trails his fingers teasingly through your slick folds, grinning. “Guess you like that idea too, huh?” he teases, smirk full of promise.

The three of you shift into place—you're on your knees above Matt, facing away from him in Reverse Cowgirl. Chris stands before you, looking down with hungry eyes, the tension thick in the air.

Matt goes serious for a second. “Bro, if you cum on me, I swear to god I’ll murder you in your sleep. You better have good aim, man.”

You stifle a laugh, covering your mouth—honestly, the thought never even crossed your mind.

Chris rolls his eyes and snaps back, “Shut the fuck up, Matt. I know exactly what I’m doing.”

Matt’s hands find your hips, his tip teasing at your entrance. “You ready, baby?” his voice low with want.

“Yeah.” You lock eyes with Chris, who’s already stroking himself, his thumb brushing slowly along your bottom lip.

You sink down onto Matt’s length, feeling every inch as he stretches you, your walls fluttering around him. A moan escapes you as you settle, full and completely connected to him.

“Suck, ma,” Chris commands, his thumb slipping past your lips. You suck on it, eyes locked with his, while his other hand pumps himself in a slow rhythm. Matt’s hands on your hips, he guides you up and down his shaft, pulling you almost all the way up before slamming you down, his breaths shaky with pleasure.

“So fucking good. Gripping my cock, just like you should. Letting me fuck you, like a good girl,” Matt groans, moving you on him with urgency. Every so often, his hand smacks your ass, leaving a sting and a red mark before he soothes the spot with a gentle rub.

Chris groans, withdrawing his thumb from your mouth—a string of spit connecting you briefly. He bends down and rubs that same thumb over your nipple, teasing you further. “Come on, ma. Let me hear those filthy sounds,” he urges, his voice dark with hunger.

“Chris, you—fuck. I love watching you touch yourself while I ride Matt. I want your cum all over me,” you moan, breathless and needy.

He hisses, pumping his cock faster, his eyes glued to you. “Such a fucking good girl,” he growls, the praise sending a fresh wave of heat through you.

Matt moans as you take over, bouncing on his cock with a relentless, unforgiving pace. Your hands grip his knees for leverage, and the room fills with the slick, filthy sounds of your bodies moving together.

“Jesus. So fucking hot,” Matt groans, spreading your ass cheeks so he can watch his cock disappear into your soaked pussy, some cum already dripping down his shaft. “God, look at you—so beautiful, creaming on my cock.”

A desperate whimper escapes you as Matt’s tip finds that sweet spot inside—right where Chris’s fingers were before. The orgasm starts to build rapidly, and you shoot Chris a pleading, wordless look.

“Close? Gonna squirt again for us?” Chris teases, already knowing exactly what that look on your face means.

You nod frantically, bouncing even faster. “So—so close. Matt, I’m gonna cum,” you gasp, barely able to control your voice.

Matt’s grip tightens on your hips as Chris’s hand moves faster along his own cock. Both boys are breathless, chasing their own release, the tension in the air nearly unbearable.

“Cum, [Y/N]. Squirt on my cock. Make me so fucking wet,” Matt groans, his thrusts growing deeper, more desperate, determined to push you over the edge.

“Shit, ma, I’m close. I need you to cum. Let go—let me see you lose control,” Chris whispers, his hand stroking himself faster, eyes fixed on you.

“Oh god! Fuck. Cumming, I—” Your words break off as pleasure crashes through you, a dizzying rush of heat. You clench around Matt, whimpers spilling from your lips as you feel yourself soaking him.

“Jesus. Fuck, baby.” Matt’s hips stutter as he watches you squirt on him, the sight pushing him over the edge. He follows with a shudder, thick ropes of cum filling you up. “Such a good girl—for me,” he groans, his voice wrecked with pleasure.

“Ah, shit. Cumming,” Chris chokes out, his cock twitching as you move closer. Hot release spills across your face and into your mouth. You meet his eyes, licking your lips as you savor the taste and the look of satisfaction on his face.

You’re the first to giggle, which quickly spreads to Matt and Chris. Chris snaps a picture of you, still laughing, face messy with cum. You shoot him a mock glare, but he just shrugs, grinning. “Hey, gotta have something for later. Don’t look at me like that.”

Matt rolls his eyes, grabbing his hoodie to gently wipe your face, then between your legs. “He’s a horny idiot. Ignore him,” Matt mutters, but his movements are gentle and caring.

You nod and shoot Chris a playful glare. “Not a word of this gets out to your friend Christopher, got it?” you warn, but there’s laughter in your voice and eyes.

Chris nods solemnly, holding his hands up. “Scout’s honor,” he murmurs, but can’t hide his smirk. He helps you dress gently while Matt pulls on his clothes as well.

Once everyone is dressed, you glance at the screen—it’s gone black. “Wait… what happened?” you ask, genuinely confused.

Matt laughs, shaking his head. “Babe, the movie ended like thirty minutes ago. We were a little... distracted.”

You blush, unable to hide your smile. Chris snorts, “That’s what happens when you’re with two sex gods.” His cocky grin makes you roll your eyes, but you can’t help laughing too.

You groan and give Chris a playful smack on the arm. “That’s it. No more. Matt, I’m all yours tonight,” you declare, shooting Matt a wink.

Matt cheers, sticking his tongue out at Chris as he grabs your hand triumphantly. Chris gapes, reaching for your other hand, the two boys already bickering over who gets you tonight. You walk between them, laughter bubbling up as their playful argument trails behind you all the way to the car.

For once, you think, you enjoyed the movies more than you ever have before.

M yaps: I really have a problem adding humor to my smut... I am so sorry ahahaaha

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Matt looks up and sees you, the same teasing glint from the video looking right into your eyes. Your whole inside is on fire as you stare at those blue eyes. You stand there, swallowing, not breaking eye contact with your boyfriend. Matt smiles sinfully, knowing exactly why you’re giving him that look. He’s teasing you on purpose; driving you crazy is his favorite activity these days.

“I was wondering how long it’d take you to get here,” he teased, patting the empty space beside him.

You cross the room, heart thumping, the space shrinking with every step toward the man who unravels you so easily. You sit down beside him, feeling the heat from his body radiate into yours.

He eyes you up and down, pupils dilating, gaze growing darker. “You look like there’s something on your mind,” he says, his voice lower than usual. His hand lands on your knee, thumb tracing slow, lazy circles that send goosebumps racing up your thigh.

As you try to concentrate, all you can think of is that godforsaken video: how his hair looked so soft, the outfit sinful to your eyes, the way he moved, and the little fuckboy smirk he gave in the back when he wasn’t dancing. You get bold. “That video wasn’t fair. You looked way too good,” you whisper as your hand has a mind of its own and finds the bottom hem of his shirt. “Like, really good.”

Matt grins, his hand sliding higher up your thigh. “Yeah? Did my baby like how I looked? Want to see it even closer?”

You nod, the invitation making your pulse race. Scooting closer, you press a kiss to his jaw and whisper in his ear, “Maybe I want more than just a look.”

He smiles, fingers strong on your jaw, eyes searching yours for a beat before his lips claim yours. The kiss is gentle at first, then his tongue dances across your bottom lip, coaxing a needy whine from you before slipping into your mouth. Your tongues tangle, hungry and competitive.

You graze his bottom lip with your teeth, tugging it between your lips and soothing the sting with a slow suck. Matt moans, voice rough: “Fuck, baby. You drive me crazy.”

As you make out, his hands slide up your sides, fingers grazing the edge of your shirt—hesitant, waiting for your permission. You nod into the kiss, and his touch grows bolder, hands gliding under your shirt, rubbing soft circles beneath your breasts, teasing until you arch into him. “Matt. Please.”

He smirks, lips trailing from yours to your ear, where he nips gently. “Please what? Beg for it, pretty girl.”

You tug at his hair, loving the way it feels between your fingers. Matt lets out a low, desperate groan.

“Please. Touch me. Do something. Stop teasing.” You plead.

He nods and reaches behind you, unclasping your bra with ease and helping take it off. His hand replaces the fabric, thumb circling your nipple, sending sparks through you. “Such a good fucking girl,” he whispers, mouth trailing gentle kisses along your neck.

Before you can go any further, Nick’s voice rings out from the kitchen, “Hey! Chris and I are heading out for a bit.”

Matt pauses, clearing his throat. “Yeah, man. That’s fine. Have fun!”

You look at Matt. He presses a finger to his lips, signaling for silence. If they hear you, they’ll never leave, and this moment will vanish. You listen as the door opens and closes. Finally, you’re alone.

“Thank god, now I can really fuck you without any distractions. Take your shirt off, baby. Let me see you,” Matt commands, voice filled with want.

You move fast, stripping your shirt off, baring yourself to him. The second the cool air hits your chest, his mouth claims your nipple, switching between gentle sucks and teasing bites. His other hand rolls your other nipple between his fingers. You moan, threading your hand into his hair. “F-fuck. Daddy… so good.”

He hums against your skin, mouth working you over until he pulls away, a trail of spit connecting his lips to your nipple. He smirks. “Daddy, huh? That’s a new one.”

You blush, struggling to meet his eyes—half embarrassed, half afraid he won’t like it.

He tips your chin up, gaze soft. “That’s hot. Don’t overthink it, baby.”

You smile, and he bends down to press a gentle kiss to your lips. Your hands slip from his hair as he eases you back, guiding you to lie on the couch beneath him.

He hovers over you, thumb absentmindedly circling your nipple. He kisses along your neck, sucking at the spot just beneath your jaw until you whimper and arch into him. “Matt… God.”

You catch his lips in a hungry, desperate kiss. As your tongues tangle, he grabs your hands and guides them back into his hair. You smile, fingers tangling in the soft strands, impossibly turned on by something as simple as his haircut.

“You really couldn’t stay away, could you?” he whispers as you tug on his hair.

You laugh softly, hands slipping under the hem of his shirt, dragging it upward. “Can you blame me?”

Matt shakes his head, groaning as he pulls his shirt over his head. Your hands roam his chest, lips pressing soft kisses to his collarbone. He throws his head back, a needy whimper escaping him. “Shit… baby, you’re making this really fucking hard for me.”

Before you can catch your breath, he captures your lips again—messy and desperate, teeth grazing, spit slicking your mouths. Everything feels hot and frantic and so fucking good. Matt grinds down against you, and you moan at the thick, heavy pressure. “Feel how fucking hard you make me? My cock missed you. What are we going to do about this?” he mutters against your lips.

“Whatever you want, I just need to feel you.” You pant, voice shaky with want.

Matt kisses down your neck, leaving a trail of love bites in his wake. He tugs gently on each nipple with his teeth, then continues lower, his mouth exploring your stomach. A soft moan escapes you, and he grins, licking up your skin. “Love the sounds you make, baby.” When he reaches the waistband of your shorts, he peppers soft kisses along it, eyes locking with yours—dark and hungry.

“Tell me what you want, good girl. Use your words for me,” Matt says, voice thick with arousal.

You arch, breathless, looking at him and begging. “I want your mouth on me, Matt. Want you to make me cum with your tongue. Please… daddy.”

Matt lets out a low chuckle as his fingers start to unbutton your shorts. “Such a dirty girl for me. You love my mouth on you, don’t you?”

You nod as he slides your shorts down your legs, his gaze fixed on you. “You okay?” you whisper, needing the reassurance.

His eyes linger on the red lace underwear hugging your hips. He swallows, gaze roaming your body, lust obvious. You can see the outline of his cock, straining against his sweatpants. You grab his hand, grounding him. “Matt?”

He moans, fingers tracing the lace. “Holy fuck. Are these new?”

You giggle. “Yeah, got them today. Thought you’d like them.”

Matt smirks, thumb tracing down your body until he finds your clit, rubbing slow circles through the lace. Your mouth falls open, a quiet, “Oh,” slipping out.

“Feel good, baby?” he murmurs, watching your reaction.

You nod, hips chasing the friction as his thumb keeps teasing you. A wet spot forms over the lace, and you whimper, “S’good. Oh my god.”

Matt groans as he watches the wet spot grow, his thumb pressing harder. Your eyes lock, his devilish grin telling you he’s up to something.

Before you can ask, he slides your underwear down and off. He spreads you open, sliding a finger between your folds. “Drenched already, and I’ve barely touched you.” When he pulls his finger away, it’s slick—he brings it straight to your lips.

“Taste.” He presses his finger to your lips.

You open for him, letting him slide his finger into your mouth. You suck, tasting yourself, and he groans. “Such a good little slut. You’re mine. You got me?”

You nod, sucking harder in answer. He slips a second finger in, and you coat it with your tongue. Your eyes flutter closed as he presses a kiss to your ear, whispering, “I’m about to make you feel things that video could never do. Will you be a good girl and take it all?”

You gasp, his fingers slipping free. “Y-yes. I want to be good. I want it all, daddy.”

Matt presses a soft kiss to your lips, muttering, “Good girl.” He kisses down your body, your hands flying to his hair, craving that softness again.

As his mouth travels lower, his hands slide up your thighs, calloused thumbs rubbing soft circles near the top as he holds you open. His teeth graze your hipbone, then his lips suck at the sensitive skin inside your thigh. Your hips buck, desperate for more.

“No, no. Let me control this, baby. I know you want more, but be patient for me. I know you can do it,” his voice is soft against your skin. He looks up, holding your gaze as his tongue drags a slow, wet path from your inner thigh, around the top of your mound, to the other side. You let out a shaky gasp. “I’ve been thinking about tasting you for days,” he groans.

You whimper as his fingers circle your clit, arching into the touch, forgetting all about patience. Matt lets out a soft laugh. “There’s my needy girl.” He replaces his fingers with his tongue, slow, agonizing strokes that send white-hot shivers racing through you.

As his tongue laps at your clit, his fingers return, teasing your entrance, gathering slickness before finally pushing both inside you. His mouth never leaves your clit—switching from soft sucks to flickering kitten licks that make you tremble.

“F-fuck… Matt, feels so good. Oh god—” you moan, his tongue working your clit, his fingers setting a steady rhythm at the same time, sending you to the edge. You look down at him, amazed and in awe, watching him eat you out, gently playing with his hair as his eyes meet yours.

“S-so fucking good… I love your mouth,” you whisper, encouraging him. He nods and groans, sending another wave of pleasure through you.

Wet sounds, the couch slightly creaking under the weight of what is happening, and Matt’s subtle moans fill the living room. You let out tiny gasps as his fingers hit your sweet spot. He grins, mouth detaching, just his fingers moving deep inside you now, and does it again. “That’s it. Let me hear how good it feels. Fucking clenching around my fingers like a good girl for me.”

As Matt’s fingers work you, you reach for the waistband of his sweatpants. “Can I?”

He nods, breathless. “Fucking please, baby.”

You move quickly, pushing his sweats down. Matt pauses, letting you help him out of them.

His cock springs free—thick, flushed, already leaking precum. You moan at the sight, his fingers still inside you but unmoving, savoring the moment. He groans, feeling how much wetter you’ve gotten just from looking at him. You wrap your hand around his length, brushing your thumb over the head to gather precum, then begin stroking him, slow at first, careful.

You look up at him through your lashes, playing innocent. “Does that feel good?” You squeeze his cock on the word, making him whimper. His hips jerk up, cock pulsing in your palm. “Fuck. Jesus Christ, that feels so good. Keep doing that, baby,” Matt whimpers.

Matt starts moving his fingers again, this time fast and sure, no more slow build. He curls them expertly, making you cry out, your hand squeezing his cock in pleasure every time he finds that perfect spot inside of you. Every moan from you makes his cock twitch in your grip, thick and heavy and so, so perfect.

“If I knew this haircut would get me this, I’d have done it a long time ago.” He bends down, still working you with his fingers, and sucks a harsh mark onto your neck. You whimper, breathy and loud, earning a laugh from him. The room is anything but quiet now—filled with moans, wet sounds, and the heavy scent of sex, everything feels sinful.

“Matt, you’re going to make me cum. I can’t—oh god.” You moan, and he nods, fingers moving even faster. The pressure builds hard and fast, your body clenching around his fingers. You grab his neck, stroking him faster, desperate. He smiles and whispers, “Let go, baby. I got you. You know that.”

At those words, you lose yourself to the sensation, to him. Your hand slips from his cock as you come undone, clinging to his shoulders to steady yourself. “Oh god. Fuck, Matt—fuck.” Your body shakes as you ride out the orgasm, feeling wetness on your thighs and beneath you. His fingers slow, helping you through every last wave.

Matt laughs softly, pulling his fingers out and licking them clean, eyes never leaving yours. You lie there, catching your breath. “What?”

“Think that’s the hardest I’ve ever made you cum. Kinda made a mess—so fucking hot, though,” he says, glancing at the evidence all around you.

You look down, blushing at the mess—wet spot on the couch, thighs slick, his hand glistening to the wrist. “Tell anyone about this, and I’ll murder you.”

Matt laughs, pressing a soft kiss to your lips. “Fuck no. This is all mine. No sharing.”

You sit up and push him back against the couch. He lets out a breathy laugh, smiling up at you. “Well, hello there.” You straddle his lap, his cock pressing between your folds. He moans, “So fucking wet. I love how much I turn you on.”

You nod, and slowly start to grind against him, wet sounds coming out where his cock slides against your lips and entrance. “Oh shit, this feels good,” you whisper softly, hands going behind his neck and playing with the hair there.

His hands grip your hips, squeezing as he pants. “Like feeling my cock slide against you, baby? Feel how hard and thick I am for you?”

You whimper and keep grinding, hips picking up speed, his tip catching your clit with every pass. His cock grows slick with your arousal. “Matty, feels so good—love how it feels rubbing against me,” you moan into his neck, leaving soft little love bites along his throat.

Matt moans loudly, tugging your head back to look at you. “I need to be inside you. This is driving me crazy. Will you be a good little slut and ride daddy’s cock?”

You nod quickly, gasping, “Yes. Only for you.”

His hands are gentle on your hips as he lifts you up just enough to guide you over him. You feel his swollen head press at your entrance, gripping his shoulders as you sink down, inch by inch, feeling him stretch and fill you. Matt hisses, watching your face to make sure you take your time.

Matt’s fingers dig in hard enough to leave bruises as you finally take in his full length, buried to the hilt. He looks down, where your bodies are connected, and heat passes through his eyes. You subconsciously clench around him, dragging out a sharp intake of breath from him. Matt is very still, not moving an inch, taking in the feeling of you wrapped tight around him, the wetness and warmth he can feel. Finally, he speaks quietly, “I want you to ride this cock. Show me as you do every time.”

He pulls you into a deep, messy kiss, tongue tangling with yours, his grip possessive. You moan into his mouth.

“Love riding your cock,” you whisper against his lips, lifting your hips only to sink back down. His hands squeeze your thighs in answer.

As your hips glide up and down his shaft, Matt can feel every inch of you. He loves how his cock drags along your walls, pulling out soft clenches around it. “Fuck, you’re driving me crazy.” You smile, riding him hard—pulling almost all the way off before plunging back down, giving him everything.

Your hands move to his chest, just resting there to help as a steadying force as you move. The friction and the movements are building something hot deep inside both of you. Matt’s head leans back, a string of curses and moans tumbling from his lips. He grabs your breasts. His mouth latches onto your nipple, licking, sucking, and nipping, his teeth tugging gently at the peak before flicking it with his tongue until you’re wild with pleasure.

You moan, “Matt, you’re so fucking deep. Cock feels too good—oh my god.” You ride him harder, grinding down in slow, needy circles, feeling his cock pulse deep inside you. The sound of skin slapping grows louder. He pulls his mouth off your chest, face flushed, hair wild from your hands. His eyes are dark with hunger and adoration. "Don’t you dare fucking stop," he growls, voice rough. "We don’t stop until we both cum. Be a good girl—make me cum deep in you."

Without warning, the couch creaks as Matt flips you beneath him, laying you out against the cushions. "I need to take control. Make you feel this cock the way I want." He crashes his mouth to yours—messy, rushed, heated—spit slick between you, tongues tangling wildly.

You barely have time to catch your breath before Matt pins your wrists to the couch with one hand, giving you a devilish smile. His other hand finds your throat, thumb stroking your pulse, pressing just enough to draw a moan from you. He hovers over you like that, eyes burning with possessiveness and awe, just soaking in the fact that you are his. He bends to your ear, breath hot.

“I think it’s time we both cum now,” he whispers, pressing a soft kiss to your ear.

He thrusts back into you, filling you with every inch. Your back arches and you moan, “Oh—Matt, shit.” Each thrust is deep and hard, his hips slamming into yours. You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him even deeper. He finds that sensitive spot and hits it over and over, drawing whines and gasps from you until you’re a mess beneath him. Your body tightens with every stroke.

Each time he pulls out almost completely, your body clenches at the last second, trying to hold him in. Then he drives forward, filling you. As you gasp, he kisses you, pulling your tongue into his mouth and sucking on it. This is a Matt you rarely see—purely here to claim you in every way possible.

“I need you to look at me.” He commands as he moves faster. You bring your eyes up to his and give him a soft look. His hips stutter at what he sees. "Oh, fuck. So fucking perfect.” His hips snap against yours faster now, trying to find a release.

“Come on, baby. I know you want to cum. Cum on my cock for me,” he coaxes, voice softer now. Little whimpers and moans spill from your lips.

You can feel him getting close too, his rhythm turning shaky and desperate. You drag your nails down his back, making him groan. "Sweet girl, I’m going to cum. Think we can cum together? I want that."

“Yes. Together. Please,” you moan, lost in him and the feeling.

As soon as the word 'please' leaves your mouth, he thrusts into you one more time, his cock paused deep inside you. You feel him fill you with his hot cum, the sensation tipping you over the edge. Your whole body convulses from the pleasure, clenching around him, and you cum. His motions slow down, riding your orgasm out until he knows you’re good, then he pulls out gently. He smiles as he looks down and sees it leaking out of you. Giving you a quick kiss, he gets up, grabs a towel, and wipes you clean.

“I’ll be right back. Don’t move,” he says, disappearing while you lie there, catching your breath.

When he comes back, he has a pair of basketball shorts and a hoodie. He carefully helps you into them, laughing as the clothes completely swallow you. “Cute—I always did love it when you wore my clothes,” he says, pressing a kiss to your head.

Matt pulls his sweatpants back on and then curls behind you on the couch. One arm tucked behind your head as a pillow, the other wrapped around your waist. He peppers soft kisses onto your neck, nuzzling you affectionately.

You hum and scoot closer, just soaking in his warmth and presence after everything.

“Sooo, my hair really did it for you, huh?” he teases.

You roll your eyes and scoff. “I refuse to freak out like those girls on Tumblr.”

Matt lets out a loud laugh. “Yeah, sure, baby. Even though you are one of those Tumblr girls.”

You stick your tongue out playfully, “That’s beside the point, Matthew.”

He grins, “Speaking of freaking out… the whole daddy thing is new.”

You groan, covering your face in embarrassment. “Please, god, don’t remind me. It just slipped out.”

He kisses your head again, gently pulling your hands away and giving you a soft smile. “I like it. Maybe not all the time, but tonight? Perfect. Maybe we should text your dad and tell him you found a new daddy.”

“OH, MY GOD! ABSOLUTELY NOT! ARE YOU CRAZY?!” you sit up on the couch fast.

His face flushes bright red, hand covering his mouth as he tries (and fails) not to laugh. He’s completely messing with you, and you glare at him, but it only makes him laugh harder.

“I really hate you, Sturniolo.”

“No, you don’t.”

You couldn’t hate him. Not even with his terrible taste in jokes.

M yaps: Heheh hope you guys enjoy this and the humor! Call out to my tumblr girls cause it made me giggle.

Requests are open! 

╰┈➤ Likes/reblogs are greatly appreciated!

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╰┈➤ Masterlist here!

As always: Have a great day, be kind -M

You looked back at him, catching the hint of a smirk. The sun was dipping, casting golden shadows; it caught the brightness in his eyes. He looked relaxed, with damp hair slicked back by a hat, but watched you intently.

"I don't choke, Sturniolo," you shot back,smirking teasingly, adjusting your grip on the ping-pong ball. "Just make sure you don’t cry too much when you see how good I am at this."

He chuckled quietly—a dry, raspy sound—and stepped even closer. His hand briefly brushed your bare waist—light contact, but in the heat of the game, it felt thrilling.

You took the shot. The ball arched through the air, clipped the rim of the back cup, and splashed perfectly into the one in front. Gabi, Chris, and Nick let out a roar from the sidelines, but your focus was entirely on the boy standing next to you.

"Told you," you shrug in a nonchalant way, smirking softly.

"One glass left," he spoke quietly, his eyes dropping to your lips for a split second before snapping back to yours. "What do I get if I sink the last one?"

"If you sink it?" you challenged, crossing your arms and leaning back against the edge of the damp table. "You get to pick where we go when this is over. No arguments. Don’t choke."

Matt let out a huff of a laugh, shaking his head as he stepped up. He didn't even look at the cups; he kept his eyes focused on yours as he tossed the ball. It swished effortlessly into the cup right next to yours.

The group's roar was instantaneous, but Matt didn't join in. He stepped into your space, cutting you off from the rest of the party.

"Game over," he uttered, his voice falling into that low, gravelly tone. He leaned down, his mouth hovering just inches from your ear. "I’m picking the guest room. It’s too loud out here, and I’m tired of sharing your attention."

He didn't wait for an answer. His fingers locked firmly with yours. He led you through the crowd, pushing past the laughing bodies without looking back once. He knew you were following.

The AC inside the house chilled the air, causing a shiver through you that Matt noticed immediately. He pulled you closer as you headed toward the stairs.

"Cold?" he asked, his eyes moving down to look at the bikini you were still wearing from earlier. The only actual piece of clothing you had on was your denim shorts, which served as a quick cover-up.

"A little," you admitted, your voice steadier than you felt.

"Don't worry," he said, his thumb tracing a slow, teasing circle against the small of your back as you reached the dark hallway upstairs. "I'll change that for you."

He stopped at the bedroom door and pressed it open.

The room was dark. The only light came from the rising moon shining through the sheer curtains, sending long, silvery streaks across the bed. Matt let the door click shut behind you, cutting off the last of the outside world.

"Finally," he breathed, the word caught somewhere between a sigh and a growl.

He paused in the shadows, back against the door, watching you with an intensity that made the air feel heavy. The "quiet" Matt was gone, replaced by someone focused, his gaze tracking your breath.

"You're quiet now," he noted, his voice falling into that low voice that caused a strong wave of heat through you. "Where'd all that talk from the pong table go?"

You took a step toward him, your heart beating against your ribs. "I think I said everything I needed to say out there."

Matt let out a short, dark laugh before reaching forward, his palm finding the back of your neck. His thumb caressed the line of your jaw, his skin warm from the sun, giving a jolt of heat straight to your stomach and lower. With a gentle but possessive grip, he tilted your head up, forcing you to meet his gaze.

"Good," he uttered, his mouth hovering so close you could almost taste him. "Because I'm done talking." His lips brushed yours, the barest tease, before he finally closed the gap with a hungry, wanting kiss.

He tasted like a mix of the cold soda and alcohol he’d been sipping. It was addictive.

Matt’s hand slid from your jaw to the back of your head, his fingers running through your hair and tugging just enough to tilt your head back. His tongue pressed inside your mouth, exploring you as you sank into him. He walked you backwards, step by step, until the backs of your knees hit the bed and you tumbled onto the mattress with him following, his weight hanging above you.

The room stood silent save for the rhythm of your breathing and the muffled vibration of a bass pulse from the pool deck below.

"You have no idea," he muttered, voice harsh and husky. He broke the kiss, forehead resting against yours as he caught his breath, eyes dark in the moonlight. "How many times I almost took you at the pong table."

His hands followed the underside of your bikini top, your waist, your shoulders—leaving a trail of fire. Every touch felt like a wordless dialogue, finally getting to its point.

He leaned down again, his lips grazing the skin just below your ear, causing a shiver through your entire frame. "Still cold?" he asked quietly.

"Not anymore," you managed to breathe out, your hands sliding up his chest to pull him closer.

The kiss turned messy and hungry, all tongue and teeth, until you gasped into his mouth. His hand squeezed your breast through the bikini top, thumb rolling over your nipple until it peaked hard under the wet fabric. You whimpered, arching up against his palm. “Matt, quit playing.”

Matt’s response was a low sound that was half-laugh, half-groan."I'm not playing," he muttered against your skin, his teeth biting gently into your neck. "Trust me, I stopped playing the second we walked through that door."

His hand remained on your bikini top, tightening his grip to the point of near-pain, his thumb rolling your nipple with slow, practiced pressure. Each movement sent bolts of pleasure through your body, your back arching involuntarily. The sensation was sharp, hot, made more intense by the damp, cool fabric and the heat of his palm.

"Matt—" you gasped, your fingers digging into the muscles of his shoulders.

"Sweet girl," he uttered, his mouth moving back to yours to swallow your next breath. He broke the kiss just enough to look down at you, his eyes dark and blown out, focused entirely on your mouth. "You were so loud out there by the table. Let’s see if you can keep that same energy in here."

He hooked his fingers into your shorts and peeled them down your thighs, then moved to the side ties of your swimsuit bottoms, knuckles dragging hotly along your bare skin. He paused for a second, his gaze flickering up to yours, silent but hungry, waiting for your consent.

When you nodded, his smirk returned—sharper, darker—and he tugged on the string.

The bottoms fell away, leaving you bare, your pussy wet with arousal just from his kissing and hands. Matt’s mouth parted, eyes dark as he knelt between your thighs. "Fuck, you’re already soaked for me." His hands slid up your legs, thumbs rubbing your inner thighs as he spread you open, exposing every inch. He lingered, then lowered his mouth to press a hot, open-mouthed kiss to your hipbone, teeth scraping the sensitive skin. His tongue licked a slow, wet path down your thigh, pausing to breathe you in. "Been dying to taste you, baby," he groaned, finally letting his fingers stroke up your slit, circling your clit with feather-light precision.

You arched involuntarily, a needy gasp escaping you as your hips bucked up toward his mouth. Matt grinned at your reaction. “There’s the reaction I was hoping for.” He trailed kisses along your inner thigh, his breath hot and teasing over your slick folds. Then, with a single, agonizingly slow motion, his tongue brushed over your clit—soft at first, then firmer, swirling lazy circles that set you on fire. His fingers joined in, stroking your folds before slipping inside you, stretching you open while his mouth never left your clit. You let out a desperate whine as Matt moaned against you, the vibration making you shudder.

“Fuck [Y/N], you’re so tight. So wet, such a sweet girl for me.” His fingers moved in a slow, even rhythm, letting you feel it all, the wet sounds filling the room along with your gasps. He curled his fingers inside you, pressing against your sweet spot until you bucked, desperate for more.

As Matt moves his fingers, you sit up slightly and start to unzip his jeans, looking at him for permission. He nodded once, a short, jerky movement, his jaw set so tight you could see the muscle jumping in his jaw. "Do it," he rasped, the command barely more than a broken whisper.

As the teeth of the zipper gave way with a low, metallic rasp, the sound seemed loud in the space between you. You slowly pull his jeans and boxers down; his fingers have stopped moving momentarily as you do this.

His cock sprang free as you tugged his boxers down, thick, flushed, and already leaking precum. You moaned at the sight, heat gathering between your legs. You wrap your hand firmly around his length, using his slick precum as lube, stroking him with slow, twisting motions. Your grasp tightened just enough to make him groan, his abs flexing under your gaze. His hips jerked up, cock pulsing in your palm, while his fingers slid back to your clit, stroking you in a desperate motion. Matt whimpered, “fuck. Jesus Christ, that feels so good.”

Matt pumped his fingers faster, curling them expertly to make you cry out, your grip squeezing around his cock in pleasure. He was heavy and twitching in your hand, every movement making him groan. “There we are. That’s the loud girl I wanted to hear.” He bit and sucked at your neck, teeth scraping the skin, his breath hot as sin. The room was filled with filthy, wet sounds—his fingers thrusting into you, your hand stroking him in sync, both of you moaning, panting, the air thick with the smell of sex.

“Fuck. Matt. I’m close, you’re gonna make me cum.” You whimper as his fingers move faster. You grab onto the back of his neck with your other hand as you stroke his cock faster with the other one, matching his pace. He groans and smiles, “Good girl. I got you. Let go.”

You were lost in the sensation—the heat of him, the friction, and the way his name felt just like a prayer on your lips. “Oh god. Fuck Matt, fuck.” Your body felt like it was on a different planet as you came. His actions slow down, he smiles softly, and he gently kisses you all over your face. “That’s my girl. But, I need more.”

You smile, sated but ready to keep going. You watch as he gets up and goes to a bag in the corner. He pulls out a condom, rips it open, and slides it onto his length. He walks back over, sits on the bed with his back against the headboard, and pulls you to him. “ I want you to ride me like you own this dick. You got me?”

You tremble with eagerness as you nod, slowly climbing onto his lap, straddling his thighs. Locking eyes with him, you brace your hands against his shoulders, the heat of his hands anchoring you as you guide his cock to your entrance. The swollen head presses at your slick folds, and you sink down inch by inch, feeling him stretch you open. Every movement is slow, deliberate, each inch more overwhelming than the last.

Matt’s breath falters, a helpless sound. His hands clutch your waist, fingers digging in hard enough to leave bruises, his eyes locked on where your bodies join. You pause, taking in the fullness, your walls fluttering around him as you finally come to rest with him buried all the way inside. The pressure is a burning, addictive stretch that leaves you gasping.

He groans low in his chest, head thrown back, throat straining as he fights to keep control. His sweet smile is gone, replaced by a look of raw hunger and pleasure. “God,” he chokes out. “You feel so fucking good. So perfect.” He pulls you down into a deep, messy kiss, tongue sliding against yours, his grip possessive.

You whimper into his mouth. Slowly, Matt lifts your hips, guiding you to rise and fall with a slow rhythm, his cock dragging along your walls. “Fuck, [Y/N], you’re so tight. You’re driving me crazy.” His hands help you move, but soon you take control, rolling your hips, grinding down to take him even deeper.

Your hands hold onto his chest for leverage as you set your own pace. The friction builds, hot and relentless. Matt’s head lolls back, a string of curses and moans tumbling from his lips. He’s lost in you, his hands coming up and untying your bikini top. Your breasts fall out and he immediately grabs them.

You moaned, “Matt… god, don’t stop. You’re so deep—fuck—” You rode him harder, grinding your hips in tight, needy circles, feeling every inch of his cock drag against your sensitive walls. The sound of skin against skin became louder, echoing through the room as he moaned beneath you, thrusting up to match your rhythm. His mouth latched onto your nipple, licking, sucking, and nipping until you cried out, his teeth tugging gently at the peak before flicking it with his tongue until you were wild with pleasure.

He rips his mouth from your chest, his face flushed and hair messy against the pillow. His eyes are nearly black, pupils blown with hunger and adoration. "I’m not… stopping," his voice rough. "I’ve got you. Keep going—don’t you dare stop."

He arches his hips, thrusting up into you, meeting every roll of your hips with a deep, steady pressure that leaves you trembling. The pressure in your core grows, the friction of his cock dragging in and out nearly overwhelming. Your hands dig into his shoulders, desperate to keep pace as you ride the edge of bliss.

Without warning, Matt flips you beneath him, your head sinking into the pillows. "My turn to take control, pretty girl." His smirk is feral as he crashes his mouth to yours—fast, hungry, claiming with need.

He doesn’t let you catch your breath. In a heartbeat, he pins your wrists above your head, his large hand locking them to the mattress. His other hand finds your throat, thumb stroking your pulse, holding you in place as his hips drive you into the sheets. He hovers over you, chest pounding, gaze burning with wild heat.

"You’ve been such a good girl," his voice coarse in your ear. "But it’s my turn now."

He moves with a ruthless force, thrusting into you with a rhythm that leaves you gasping. Every thrust is deep and hard, his hips slamming into yours, the bed shaking beneath you. He angles his hips to hit your most sensitive spot over and over until you're whimpering, your body wound tighter and tighter.

Each time he pulls out, your body clenches, desperate for him to fill you again. He devours your broken moans with a kiss. The careful Matt is gone—this one is all dominance and need, filthy in his praise and worship.

"Look at me," he commands, pulling back to lock eyes with you, his hair falling forward in damp, wild strands. He fucks you at a punishing pace—ungodly sounds filling the room, skin slapping against skin. His hand squeezes your throat just enough to make your voice tremble as you gasp, "Oh, fuck."

The friction is dizzying, making your toes curl in the sheets. He finally releases your wrists, and your hands fly to his forearms, clinging as he powers into you. His stare never leaves yours, hungry to watch you fall apart for him.

"You’re close, aren’t you? Gonna cum for me? I want you to cum on my cock, baby.” His voice is dark and relentless, drawing whimpers and desperate moans from your lips.

You feel him nearing the edge—his rhythm falters, thrusts turning rough and ragged. You drag your nails down his back, making him groan, "I'm gonna cum. I want you to cum with me, think you can do that sweet girl?"

“God. Yes. Please, Matt,” you moan, lost in him.

At your plea, he plunges into you one last time, groaning as he lets go, his body shuddering above you. The sensation tips you over the edge, pleasure crashing through every nerve, your whole body convulsing as you both come undone. His motions slow, drawing out your orgasm before he finally pulls out, leaving you trembling and breathless, his pleased grin the last thing you see before he rolls off of you.

“Let me throw the condom away. I’ll be back.” He runs off. Once he is back, he slides into bed next to you, pulling the covers over the two of you.

He pulls you flush against his side, his skin still humming with that post-adrenaline warmth. The duvet was heavy and cool, a perfect shield against the world outside that door.

"Better," he sighed, the word vibrating through his chest. He sounded completely wrecked in the best way possible, his voice back to that soft, boyish tone.

He tangled his fingers with yours under the blanket, his thumb tracing the back of your hand in a slow, gentle motion. For a few minutes, neither of you said anything, just listening to each other’s heartbeats settle back into a normal pace.

"My brothers are definitely going to have something to say about us disappearing for an hour," he spoke quietly, a hint of humor returning to his voice. He shifted, tilting his head to press a lingering, soft kiss to the top of your head. You smile, “best pool party ever in my books.”

M yaps: The people have spoken. I'm newish to smut so please be nice lol.

Requests are open!

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As always: Have a great day, be kind -M

Chris gave you a look. He was warning you to stop while you were ahead. But you just rolled your eyes.

“God, that look is horrible. Quit it. I can complain about something like a normal human being.” Your voice was slightly raised. You were just so irritated.

He looked at you, then sighed softly, “I wasn’t trying to say you can’t. But you just always—”

You shoot him a sharp glare and cut him off. “Always what? Please finish that thought. Always complain? Always argue? Always change my mind? Hmm, which is it?”

Chris decided that if he couldn’t reason with you, he would try to turn it into something funny to ease the tension. You were not having any of it. Every little thing he suggested, you had some kind of argument for it. What to order, how to set the table, and when he handed you the remote so you could pick the movie, because he was tired of fighting you, you threw it right back at him. “I don’t want to pick the damn movie.”

He was really trying to be patient with you. Clearly, you were dealing with something. But he couldn’t take it anymore. “You just really love pushing it tonight, don’t you?”

You cross your arms, lean back, and shoot him a wicked little smirk with a raised eyebrow. “What are you gonna do, Christopher? Ground me? Take away my phone? Or finally admit that you can’t handle all this?” Sarcasm hanging off every word.

His jaw clenched, and a heated gaze filled his eyes—the look clearly showing you that he was done playing the nice boyfriend.

You keep going, tossing jabs all through the movie. “Honestly, if I wanted to listen to a man grunt for two hours, I'd just watch you wrestle with Ikea furniture.” You laugh, ignoring the glare he is tossing your way. “I mean, come on, who thinks spandex is even a smart option?!”

Chris slammed the remote down onto the coffee table. “Enough.”

You rolled your eyes and let out a scoff. You folded your arms across your chest, heart beating fast. You couldn’t tell if it was from nerves or excitement. “Or what, Christopher?” You whispered, knowing you were really in for it the minute his full name fell from your lips.

Chris stood up, and in a second, he was looming over you. Staring down at you. “You going to fucking stop or are you going to deal with the consequences?”

You paused, shocked at the words that fell from his mouth. Your stomach is flipping at the possibilities. “You wouldn’t dare…”

A sinful, heated smile forms on his face. His eyes are now becoming heated. “Oh, we both know I would.”

Before you can really even react or protest, he grabs you. Pulls your pants down and places you across his lap. Your face is down, and you're glaring at the ground. You try to fight against it, but his grip is firm. You can feel the sarcasm dripping from your voice: “You’re being ridiculous, Chris. It’s just a movie—”

You’re cut off by a firm smack coming in contact with your ass. The sound fills the room, leaving you completely speechless. “That’s for being a fucking brat all day,” he whispers into your ear. He rubs the spot gently, silently showing you that he still cares about your well-being.

Before you can even really process what just happened, his hand comes down and spanks you again, leaving a pleasurable stinging sensation behind it. Every spank you receive is filled with equal parts heat, discipline, and softness. Your back arches with each smack. Soft whines and whimpers fall from your mouth, a small smirk forming on Chris’s face. "Fucking count for me," he commands.

You feel your face get hot, and the heat travels to your core. "One," you whisper. The next smack lands, harder this time. "Two." You let out a soft moan, his hand gently rubbing the spot. He groans, “We are going to five, and then maybe I’ll consider letting you go.”

His hand spanks you again, and you moan. “Three. Chris, please.”

He bends down and kisses your now-raw skin. “Shh. You can handle it, baby. I know you can.” He lands two more spanks, then admires his work. Your ass is practically glowing under his touch. He gives gentle rubs, soft kisses, and a smirk. “Good girl. Maybe next time you’ll remember who’s in charge, huh?”

You shiver at his tone. Your body is hot. You’re so turned on, and you can guarantee he can see the wet spot that formed on your underwear. “Y—yes… I promise.” You whisper.

He helps you up, thumb tracing lazy circles on your thigh, then your sore skin. “Still alive?” he teases, pulling you into his lap for a slow kiss that melts the brat right out of you.

The kiss is gentle, a soft reminder that he still loves you even if you were being an asshole all day. You whine softly into the kiss. “I think you know not to be a brat now.” He laughs softly, pushing hair behind your ear.

Chris looks at you, knowing what just happened was a lot to take in. Especially for someone who is new to anything sexual, he eyes you with uncertainty.

“Baby, are you okay?” he asks softly, his hands at your hips now, rubbing soft circles.

You nodded and blushed. “I think.. I think I want to try more.”

“Are you sure? You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.” Chris whispers, but you can see hope shining in his eyes.

You nod, “Yeah. I’m sure.”

He smiles. It’s gentle and heated. “Good girl.. Ok, take it at your pace.”

You slowly slide down to your knees, your hands resting gently on his knees. You can feel the submission coming out of you, wanting to show him you’re sorry for how today has gone. Wanting to make him feel good. Your hands shake as you go to the button on his jeans. You look at him, silently asking if it’s ok. Chris lets out a soft breath, his fingers gently brushing through your hair, and his hands carefully cover yours. He slowly helps you undo the button. He lifts his hips as you push his pants and boxers down.

His cock is released, and it’s bigger than you thought. You stare at it for a moment, just taking it all in with your eyes. The tip is red and swollen, wetness slowly leaking from it. Light veins along the side. You suddenly feel anxious because you want this to be good for him.

“[Y/N], we don’t have to do anything if you don’t want to.” Chris’s voice is soft as he looks at you with a softness you haven’t seen today.  

“I want to.” You say firmly.

You gently grab him, your thumb rubbing over his tip. He lets out a quiet hiss, and you freeze, thinking you did something wrong. You look up at him, and he’s shaking his head no, so you continue. You slowly start to stroke him, bringing your hand all the way to his tip, then bringing it back down. A moan falls from his lips.

“S’good. Just like that baby, feels really fucking good.” His eyes shut in pleasure as you keep doing it.

You do that for a while, then, finally, getting bolder, you lower your mouth and press a slow, soft kiss to the  tip. You taste salt and skin, feel him twitch against your lips. His hips buck toward your mouth, his hands twisting in your hair, a needy groan falling from his mouth. A soft whine comes deep from your throat, both nervous and thrilled. “Shit, sorry, baby. But I might lose it if I don’t feel your mouth around me.” His voice is needy, and it makes goosebumps rise on your body.

You smile and part your lips, letting him slide over your tongue. He was hot, heavy, and throbbing. Inch by inch, you take him deeper, feeling his cock stretch your mouth more than you thought it would, the weight pressing your tongue down. Your eyes water as you fight your gag reflex, taking as much as you can, your lips slick and wet around him. You finally pause, looking up at him with a tear down your face but eyes wide, waiting for some sort of direction.

He brushes his thumb on your cheek, smiling. His other hand gently gathers your hair into a ponytail. “Start sucking, baby. Don't stop sucking daddy's cock until I say so. Show me what a good fucking girl you are.”

You listen, hollowing your cheeks as you suck, your tongue swirling around him, tasting salt. His moan is loud, his head falling back as he grips your hair tighter and guides you up and down. His hips rock gently, searching for more friction, and you moan around him, the vibrations going through him. “That’s it. Take what you can. Try using your tongue,” he commands, his voice rough with want.

You swirl your tongue around the shaft, trying to get every side of him, tracing every vein. You whimper as his grip tightens on your hair, heat coursing through your body. With one hand, you circle his base, stroking in time with your mouth, your fingers slick with spit and precum, your jaw aching as you try to take him deeper.

He watches you with dark, hungry eyes. Chris then gently guides your head lower, testing how far he can take you. When the tip hits the back of your throat, you gag, but you don’t pull away. He brings you back up and pauses, checking if you want to stop, but you hold his gaze and push down again, letting yourself choke a little, spit pooling at the corners of your mouth and falling onto his shaft. He groans. “Fucking dirty girl. Shit, I love you.”

You find a rhythm, bobbing your head, spit and precum making everything slick. Every now and then, you push yourself deeper, the stretch and feeling making you whimper around him. His hands tangle in your hair, hips rolling to meet you, his moans getting louder. “Shit, [Y/N]. Feels so fucking good, please don’t stop.” Chris’s head falls back against the couch, his breath quickening in small, fast bursts.

You smile around him, pulling off with a pop, then run your tongue slowly up the underside, tracing every vein. You let a line of spit fall from your mouth onto his cock and spread around, stroking him with your hand, making everything wetter and messier. He whines, hips jerking up into your hand, eyes wild.

“Am I doing ok?” You ask softly, still a bit unsure, even though you know his moans mean you are doing well.

“Holy— yeah, fuck. You’re doing great, baby, Jesus.” Chris says fast before he’s moaning again.

Your hand moves slightly faster, squeezing at the top. Wet, slick sounds fill the room, mixed with his moans. He bends down as you stroke him and captures your lips in a kiss. His tongue immediately slips into your mouth and tangles with yours, causing your hand to stutter. You moan against his mouth, gently biting his bottom lip and sucking on it. His hand covers yours, which is wrapped around his cock, and he starts to guide you into a better rhythm that feels good to him, squeezing your hand so it squeezes his cock.

“There we go. Just like that. Fuck.” He pants against your mouth.

He is patient and gentle as he continues to guide you. Finally, he lets go, and you move yourself. “Baby, spit on me again. I liked feeling how wet it was.” He begs softly.

You nod, spitting onto his cock again, the warmth from it mixed with his body heat makes his hips thrust up again. “I won’t last long; it feels too fucking good.”

“Want my mouth back on you?” You ask softly.

He nods, gathers your hair again, and watches as you take him back into your mouth. Less hesitant this time, more focused on having him cum. You start to suck and lick again, alternating, taking him deep into your throat. Chris is gasping now, feeling that sensation deep in his stomach. He’s close.

“[Y/N]. I can’t. Shit. Gonna cum—” He moans, his hands going to your shoulders to hold onto something.

You moan and nod, letting him know that you want him to let go. He lets out a loud gasp. You feel his cock twitch inside your mouth, and then he’s spilling into it. He gently rocks his hips into your mouth, riding out his high. The taste is warm and salty.

Once he rides it out, you pull off of him. Your mouth is full; his thumb traces your bottom lip as he whispers, “swallow.”

You do as he says, hearing him let out a low groan as he watches you swallow his cum. He gently pulls you up from the ground and into his lap. He kisses you softly, tasting himself on you but not caring in the slightest. When he pulls away, he has the biggest smile on his face.

You blush and curl into his chest, hiding your face as if that’ll save you from teasing. He snorts, ruffling your hair. “My brat is suddenly shy? That’s new.”

“Shut up.” You grumble but smile.

“I think I might like you being a brat if it means I get my dick sucked.” He teases.

You smack his chest playfully, a small giggle falling from your lips.

“Next time, don’t be a brat. But I think you learned that lesson, huh?” Chris looks at you.

You roll your eyes and snuggle against him. "How about next time, just don’t be annoying." Chris lets out a groan, knowing he will never win.

M yaps: Well.... uh here is this. Enjoy! You filthy animals... I love y'all lol

Requests are open! Maybe some angst, fluff, or song ones?

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As always: Have a great day, be kind -M

it all started when you had arrived home with shaking hands and teary eyes. alarmed, chris pulled you into his lap, wiping your tears and coaxing you to open up about the awful day you had had at work. he held you tight as you rambled about a particularly rude customer and a misplaced order of books. once it was all out of your system, chris kissed your cheek gently and said, “you want me to make it all better?”

it was a selfless act, really. chris just wanted to fuck you so dumb that you’d forget everything that had been upsetting you. he knew a fuzzy brain was just what you needed right now.

now, he was pushing his fingers a little deeper into your mouth, pressing against your tongue as you whimpered. you gripped his wrist tightly and pulled his hand away from your mouth as you tried to form words.

“mmf— chris… i, i need—”

you cut yourself off with another needy moan, and chris laughed at you. “what is it, baby? can’t speak?” 

you tried again, but your brain was too foggy for words now. you simply shook your head.

“then show me, angel. what is it?”

you slowly blinked open your eyes and grabbed his hand, guiding it down between your two bodies, pushing it down between your slick thighs. chris tutted in disappointment and shook his head, pulling his hand away.

“y’want my hand? can you say please?”

you let out a shaky whine. “pl—please, chris…”

he hummed as if in deep thought, his thrusts inside you starting to slow down. “i don’t know. i just feel like you don’t mean it. y’gotta reaally beg.”

you let out a choked sob and continued to plead for him. “chris, come on… please… i am begging…”

“yeah, just a little more. then i’ll know you really want it.”

you let out a frustrated whine. “ugh, daddy…”

chris stopped all movements, gazing down at you with wide eyes. it took your brain a couple seconds to catch up with your mouth, but once you realised what you had said, what you had called him, you gasped and covered your mouth with both hands.

chris let out a tiny, quiet huff. he stayed still for what felt like hours before he spoke again. “oh, i’m daddy now?”

your eyes filled with tears again and you shook your head. you were mortified. you didn’t know where it had come from, didn’t even know where you had heard it before. it just spilled out of your mouth like instinct.

chris pulled your hands away from your face, trying not to laugh at your horrified expression. “don't be embarrassed. it was cute.”

“it was… weird.”

“s’not weird at all. makes perfect sense, actually.” he smirked and started thrusting again, this time slow and deliberate. “cause i am your daddy, if you really think about it.”

you frowned and tried to squirm away. “no… i don't like it…”

“don’t like getting fucked by daddy?” chris pouted mockingly.

you whimpered and shook your head, your cheeks burning with shame. “it’s not right…”

chris smiled and stopped again. “huh. s’funny, cause, uh – your pussy’s grippin’ me tighter than usual.”

“chris!” you whined, partly out of embarrassment and partly out of desire for chris to keep going.

“nah, i get it. y’want more, yeah?”

you nodded in relief. finally, he was getting somewhere.

“uh huh. can you ask daddy nicely?”

you let out an exasperated sigh. he clearly wasn’t gonna let up on this any time soon, and you knew you had to do something if you wanted him to keep fucking you.

“if i do, will you promise never to bring this up again?”

he smirked. “sure. whatever you want, princess. just tell me what i wanna hear.”

“daddy… please – please fuck me…” you whispered, suddenly feeling a wave of self-consciousness overcome you.

“fuuck, that’s it.” chris groaned and picked up the pace again, reaching down to rub at your aching clit, finally giving you the pressure you were craving. he would never say it to you, but the humiliated, ashamed look on your face only sent more blood rushing to his cock.

your jaw fell open as his cock hit that special spot inside you, and suddenly all feelings of embarrassment dissipated as you slipped back into that fuzzy, warm state. you could hear chris laughing softly at you, but you felt too good to care.

“that’s it, angel. takin' daddy's cock so good, fuck.”

you whined and reached for him, craving closeness now more than ever. when chris felt your arms tugging at his shoulders, he immediately complied and laid down on top of you, wrapping his arms around your body to hold you close.

you sighed softly and melted further into the mattress. all of a sudden, calling chris daddy didn't seem like an issue at all. you pressed a sweet kiss to his neck before whispering,

“can i have more please, daddy?”

chris's breath hitched and his movements faltered. he was content to never hear the word leave your mouth again. if anything, he thought you’d be mad at him for pushing you to repeat it. he certainly hasn't been expecting you to say it again all by yourself, and the surprise had him reacting in a way you had never seen from him before. 

his whole body was trembling above you, and you could hear faint whimpers spilling from his lips.

“are you okay, daddy?” you tried to sound as oblivious as you could, but you knew the effect you had on him now, and you weren't going to let him off easy.

“fuck, baby – y’gotta stop that… can't–” he whined.

“but i thought you wanted to be my daddy?” you pouted and looked up at him with wide, teary eyes. you could feel his cock twitching inside you at that, and he let out a strained gasp.

“gonna make me – mmh, embarrass myself, baby. playin’ dirty.”

“i don't understand,” you whined, starting to really enjoy playing with him like this.

chris exhaled roughly through his nostrils, starting to pick up on your teasing. he picked up the pace, his hips snapping into yours with rougher thrusts. 

“y’know exactly what you're doin', huh? can't fuckin’ believe you.”

but his frustration immediately melted away at the sound of your little whimpers and moans filling his ears. god, he really was weak for you. 

“feels so good…” you sighed softly and hugged him closer.

“yeah? gonna cum for me, baby?”

“mm…” you hesitated, hiding your face in his shoulder.

“what is it, doll?”

“can i have a kiss first?”

“oh, jesus–” chris’s hips jolted erratically. he really struggled to handle himself when you made such sweet requests. “that’s what you need, baby? a kiss from daddy to make it alll better?”

he leaned down and pressed his lips to yours, the soft warmth of his mouth acting as a welcome contrast to the force with which his cock was slamming into you. your moans mingled with his as you came, your nails digging into the flesh of his back, leaving marks which would make you gasp later when you finally regained control of your thoughts.

chris let you ride out your high before pulling out and releasing across your stomach, only adding to how soaked your skin already was.

he stayed like that for a minute, kneeling above you and taking in the sight of your messy, fucked-out state. beautiful.

“so, what’s it gonna take for you to start calling me daddy full-time?” he murmured with a grin.

“shut up, chris…” you mumbled, turning your face to hide your smile in the pillow. 

the neon glow of the in-n-out burger sign flickers softly through the windshield, casting red and yellow light across chris’s face. you’re both sitting in his car, engine idling, the receipt crumpled in the cup holder while you wait for the ready-for-pickup-text.

it should feel normal. you’ve done this a hundred times. late-night food runs, laughing over nothing, stealing fries from each other. but tonight feels…off. quieter.

he drums his fingers against the steering wheel, jaw tight, eyes fixed ahead. “you’ve been quiet,” he mutters.

you shrug, picking at a loose thread on your hoodie. “just tired.”

“you’re a bad liar,” he says instantly, smiling.

you glance at him, heart thudding a little harder than it should. “and you’re annoying.” that earns a small huff of a laugh, but it fades quickly. the silence comes back, heavier this time.

you don’t know who moves first. maybe it’s you shifting in your seat. maybe it’s him turning just slightly toward you. but suddenly, you’re both looking at each other…really looking. and something snaps.

“what?” you whisper, barely audible.

he shakes his head once, like he’s trying to stop himself. “nothing.”

“chris—”

“don’t,” he cuts in, voice lower now. rougher. “if i start, i’m not stopping.”

your stomach flips. “start what?”

he lets out a slow breath, eyes dropping to your lips for half a second before snapping back up. that’s all it takes.

“you’ve been looking at me like that all night,” he says quietly. “you think i didn’t notice?”

heat floods your face. “i wasn’t—”

“you were.”

his voice isn’t teasing, it’s certain.

your chest rises and falls a little faster. “so what if i was?”

his hand tightens on the steering wheel. “then you’re playing a dangerous game,” he murmurs.

the air in the car feels too thick. too small.

“chris, you know we can’t.” you say, but it comes out weaker than you meant it to. you don’t even really know what you’re referring to when you say “can’t,” it just slips out.

he lets out a quiet, humorless laugh. “yeah,” he says. “that’s the problem.”

your breath catches. the words hang between you, heavy, undeniable. you should say something. you should laugh it off. you should open the door and step out into the cool night air and pretend none of this is happening. instead, you lean closer, just a little.

his eyes flick down again—to your lips. and this time, he doesn’t look away. “tell me to stop,” he says, voice barely above a whisper.

you don’t. you can’t. and that’s all the permission he needs. his hand comes up, hesitant for half a second before cupping your jaw, pulling you in. the kiss is messy. not soft—not careful. it’s years of tension, of stolen glances, of what ifs crashing into one moment.

you gasp against his mouth, fingers gripping his shirt without thinking, and he exhales sharply like he’s been holding it in for too long.

“shit,” he mutters against your lips, forehead pressing against yours for a second. “we shouldn’t—”

you kiss him again to shut him up, harder this time. that hesitation? gone. his hand slides from your jaw to your waist, pulling you closer across the center console, the awkward angle not stopping either of you. “mmm fuck—you’re gonna be the death of me,” he murmurs, voice rough, almost shaky.

“then stop me,” you whisper back. he doesn’t. instead, he leans back slightly, eyes scanning your face like he’s trying to memorize it, like he can’t believe this is actually happening.

“you sure?” he asks quietly before escalating. there’s something softer there now. careful. real.

you nod, breath unsteady. “yeah.” his hand tightens on your waist, grounding you.

“we cross this line,” he says, voice low, “we’re not going back.”

your heart pounds. “good. i don’t want to go back.”

that does it. he pulls you over the console fully this time, guiding you onto his lap, the confined space of the car suddenly feeling even smaller, more intense. you let out a shaky breath, hands bracing on his shoulders as you settle against him, both of you pausing for just a second, taking it in.

“this is crazy,” you whisper.

“yeah,” he breathes.

his forehead rests against yours. “but i’ve wanted this for way too long to pretend i don’t.”

your chest tightens. you kiss him again, slower this time, deeper, your fingers sliding into his hair as his hands steady your hips. chris lets out a slow, sensual groan as he feels you start to grind against his lap, a bulge growing through his jeans.

“fuck baby,” he mutters against your lips. “you keep doin’ that i might just cum in my pants.” he smiles against your lips, you just wrap your arms around his neck, looking down at him.

“chris—” you murmur, desperation in your tone. “i need you—please i just—” you’re cut off by his lips slamming against yours again. you can feel his hand moving off you lightly, unbuckling his seatbelt. he lifts you off his lap just a little bit as he opens his car door.

“backseat,” he whispers, lifting you up with ease. you wrap your legs around his waist as he picks you up, getting out the car and opening the backseat door. he places you inside, laying you down on the seat before getting in back with you, shutting the door behind him.

you start to undress immediately, carelessly slipping off your shirt first, then your pants, and everything underneath until you’re completely bare beneath him. chris’s shirt is off, he tosses it to the front. you sit up, palming his bulge, he looks down at you with a captivating, and aroused gaze as he lets you unbuckle his belt and tug his jeans and boxers down, he slips it off impatiently, leaving it on the floor of the car.

“mm, you want this baby? you want me inside of you, don’t you?” chris teases, you nod immediately, laying back, bringing your knees up to create space in the confined space.

“please chris—i want you…” you whimper out, it sounds pathetic, but chris smirks regardless, the sound of your desperation like music to his ears.

chris doesn’t waste any time, his cock lines up to your entrance, and before you know it—he’s sliding himself inside of you. both of you gasp at the feeling—at the intense stretch—at the steel gate of “just friends” breaking at this very moment.

“you have no idea how long i’ve thought about having you like this…” chris grunts as he starts to thrusts into your soaked cunt, your moans slipping out without you even realizing it is. you’re enjoying every second of it—beneath him, completely soaked, already ruined and he’s barely even started.

your back arches as his thrusts grow faster, messy, sloppy, just desperate. you gasp as his thumb comes up to your bottom lip, slowly parting it. he looks in your eyes the whole time as his cock moves in and out of you, he slowly dips his thumb into your mouth, your eyes roll back as you take it in your mouth, sucking lightly.

“yeahhh, just like that…” chris whispers, head dipping down to your neck, kissing softly. “bet you’d love to suck on my dick like that, yeah? such a pretty mess for me…” he praises, murmuring against your neck.

“chris! gonna—gonna cum!” you squeal out, he nods as he straightens up slightly to give you room, thrusts more controlled, but getting deeper…and deeper…to help you reach your climax.

“don’t stop—don’t fucking stop—” you plead, eyes shutting as you feel yourself reaching your peak. chris’s hand comes up to your throat, just lightly squeezing to get your attention.

“eyes open. look at me while you cum, okay pretty girl?” he coos, hand moving to cup your cheek now. you nod and keep your eyes on him, his gaze filled with something you can’t quite place, but it’s dark…alluring…something you just can’t seem to look away from.

“oh—oh shit!” you let out a mixed gasp and moan as your orgasm hits you hard, releasing all over chris’s cock, triggering his own orgasm as his cum shoots into your cunt. the feeling is sensational, euphoric, like a breath of fresh air.

“fuck, that was hot…y’did so good for me..” chris mumbles, slowly easing himself out of you. you smile stupidly, sitting up more, leaning against the car door.

“that was…” you start, but you can’t seem to find the right words.

“intense?” chris asks, hand finding your waist to pull you closer.

“yeah, but…great.” you laugh. chris smirks, leaning in close, lips slowly finding their way back to yours. chris doesn’t even hear his phone buzz with an incoming message, he’s as oblivious as ever. because he’s dreamed of this exact moment, dreamed of watching his cock move in and out of you, dreamed of sharing such a special and intimate moment shared with you, his best friend of years.

and now? you both know there’s no going back.

©𝐃𝐄𝐋𝐈𝐋𝐀𝐇𝐒𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐎𝐋𝐎

The next hour was a whirlwind of direction and noise. You and your roommate were shuffled from room to room, told to mime conversations, to laugh at nothing, to dance. The music—a genuinely catchy beat with absurd lyrics—blasted on loop. Red cups were refilled with water. The heat of so many bodies packed into one space turned the house into a sauna.

You stole a moment during a reset, catching Matt’s elbow and tugging him behind a curtain serving as a makeshift backdrop. His body pressed close in the cramped space, chest nearly touching yours.

“Do they know?” you whispered.

Matt’s expression stilled. “Know what?”

“Don’t play dumb.” You searched his face. “About the three of us.”

The slow, knowing smile that spread across his face was answer enough. He shook his head, a strand of hair falling across his forehead. “Not really. I didn’t tell him. I talked about you at the party but didn't tell them anything after.”

“Why not?”

“Just cause.” He said it simply, without weight, and yet the words settled into your chest like stones dropped in water. “Wasn’t their business.”

Before you could respond, a director’s voice boomed through a speaker: “Alright, party scene! Everybody on the floor, energy up, let’s GO!”

Matt slipped away, his hand brushing your hip as he went.

You exhaled.

The music slammed on, louder than before. The room became a churning mass of moving bodies. Your roommate found you in the crush, her eyes bright with adrenaline. “This is insane,” she shouted over the bass.

You nodded, already being swept by the tide of extras toward the center of the room. Someone’s elbow jammed into your ribs. A splash of cold water hit your shoulder. You stumbled—and then a hand caught your waist, steadying you.

Chris.

He was suddenly there, materialized from the chaos, his body slotting against yours as naturally as if he’d always been there. The cameras were rolling. The music was deafening. And Chris was dancing with you, his hips moving in a rhythm that matched yours, his chest brushing your back, then your front, then your side as the crowd dictated the motion.

It was accidental friction at first. Shoulder to shoulder. Hip to hip. But then it became deliberate. His thigh slid between yours. His hand found the curve of your waist again, fingers spreading wide. You looked up and found him already looking down, those blue eyes glittering with challenge and want.

The heat that rolled through you was a physical force. It started in your stomach and bloomed outward, tightening your nipples, slicking the space between your thighs. The memory of Matt’s hands on you felt distant, eclipsed by the immediate, vibrating presence of his brother.

Chris leaned down, his mouth brushing your ear. “You’re a good dancer.”

“You’re okay,” you managed.

His laugh was a low vibration against your neck. The song built to its chorus. The crowd surged. His hand slipped lower, nearly to the curve of your ass, tightening possessively before releasing you into a spin.

The friction of the dance, the crush of bodies, the watching—because you knew Matt was somewhere watching, and Nick, and the entire room—it all compounded into a dizzying, electric tension. By the time the director called “CUT! That’s a wrap!” you were breathless, sweat-damp, and so turned on your knees were soft.

The crowd thinned fast. Crew members broke down equipment. Extras funneled toward the door, calling goodbyes. You were at the kitchen island, gulping water from a bottle, when Chris appeared at your elbow like a conjured thing.

“So,” he said, leaning against the counter, all casual angles and that infuriating dimple. “You heading out?”

“Yeah.”

“Shame.” He pulled out his phone, unlocked it, and held it out to you with the screen facing up. A new contact page. “Put your number in. I want to continue our conversation.”

“We weren’t having a conversation.”

“Sure we were. It was just… non-verbal.”

You smirked, took the phone, and typed in your number. Handed it back. “Don’t abuse it.”

“No promises.”

He was already typing as he walked away.

---

Back at the apartment, the adrenaline hadn’t faded. It hummed under your skin like an electrical current. You kicked off your heels. Your roommate collapsed onto the couch, fanning herself with a magazine. “Chris is… a lot,” she said, stating the obvious.

“He’s something,” you agreed.

Your phone lit up.

Chris: That dress should be illegal.

You: It’s just green fabric.

Chris: Green fabric that’s been haunting me since you walked in. So thanks for that.

You: You’re dramatic.

Chris: You’re gorgeous. We both have problems.

The banter was effortless, a verbal tennis match that had you grinning at your screen while your roommate watched with knowing eyes. He was fast, sharp, never letting a lob go unreturned.

Chris: What are you wearing now?

You: Wow. Straight to it.

Chris: I’m an efficient man.

You: A slip dress. Nothing special.

Chris: Bullshit. Everything you wear is special.

You: Smooth.

Chris: I’m sliding off my chair. That’s how smooth I am.

You laughed out loud, and your roommate leaned over to read the screen. Her eyebrows rose. “He’s good.”

“He’s something,” you repeated.

The conversation escalated. A dare here. A teasing jab there. The heat from the party hadn’t dissipated; it had just transferred into the phone, pixelated and crackling. You typed before you could second-guess yourself.

You: Come over.

Three dots. Then: Chris: Address.

You sent it.

Chris: In the car. Ten minutes.

---

The knock came in eight.

You opened the door to find Chris on your welcome mat, one arm braced against the doorframe, a black t-shirt stretched across his chest, gray sweatpants hanging low on his hips. The casual outfit was devastating precisely because it was casual. No pretense. Just him, his body, and the blatant heat in his stare.

“That was fast,” you said.

“I drive like a maniac.” He stepped inside, his presence immediately filling the dim living room. The only light came from a floor lamp in the corner, casting long shadows. “Nice place.”

“Thanks.”

Your roommate was curled on the couch, drowning in an oversized hoodie that swallowed her whole. Her bare legs were tucked beneath her, and as Chris’s eyes adjusted to the light, he clocked the fact that she wasn’t wearing much else. Just the hoodie. Maybe panties.

He blinked. Recalibrated. Sat down on the opposite end of the couch with a deliberate casualness that didn’t quite hide the tension in his shoulders.

You settled beside your roommate, your thin spaghetti-strap sleeping dress barely covering the tops of your thighs. The air in the room thickened.

Talking was easier than it should have been. Chris’s energy was different from Matt’s—where Matt was quiet intensity, a gravitational pull, Chris was a live wire. He talked with his hands. He made you laugh so hard your stomach hurt. He asked pointed questions and actually listened to the answers. Your roommate opened up to him like a flower turning toward light.

And all the while, the undercurrent. The way his gaze would drift to your bare shoulder and stay there a beat too long. The way your roommate’s knees slowly fell apart beneath her hoodie. The way you caught your bottom lip between your teeth and watched him watch you.

Then your roommate leaned forward, her intuitive, bold gaze pinning him to the cushion.

“Do you find her pretty?”

The question landed like a grenade. Chris’s easy smile flickered, then resettled into something sharper, more serious. His blue eyes drifted over your body—the thin straps, the shadow of cleavage, the way your nipples were visibly peaked against the fabric—before meeting yours.

“Yeah,” he said, voice lower now. “I really do.”

Your roommate’s smile was slow and satisfied. “I dare you to kiss her if you mean it.”

Chris didn’t hesitate.

He leaned across the couch cushion, one warm hand landing on your jaw. His mouth met yours with a confidence that sent a bolt of electricity straight through your core. The kiss was deep, searching, his tongue sliding against yours in a way that was somehow both filthy and reverent. His fingers tightened on your jaw, tilting your head to deepen the angle. The wet sound of your mouths moving together was the only sound in the room.

When he broke away, you were breathless. His lips were slightly swollen. His pupils were blown wide.

“Do you find my friend hot?” you asked, your voice steadier than you felt.

Chris blinked. The confusion that crossed his face was genuine. His head turned slightly, as if trying to catch up with the sudden shift of the ground beneath him.

You offered a small, reassuring smirk. “It’s okay. It’s just a question.”

His eyes drifted to your roommate. And she chose that moment to move.

She stood up. Her fingers found the hem of her massive hoodie. In one fluid motion, she lifted it over her head, flashed him her bare breasts bounced slightly with the motion, full and impossibly perfect, the lamplight gilding her skin. Her low-cut panties were a scrap of white lace. Then she put the hoodie back on.

Chris’s hyper-talkative exterior cracked right down the middle. A flush crawled up his neck, his cheeks darkening. A smirk spread across his face—stunned, turned-on, hooked.

“Fuck yes,” he breathed, the word rough as gravel.

You leaned closer. “Now… I dare you to kiss her.”

Your roommate took control of the invitation like it was always meant to be hers. She stepped forward, bending over directly in front of him, her hands planting on his gray-sweatpants-clad knees. Her breasts hung heavy, swaying slightly. She tilted her chin up, offering her face, her lips, her everything.

Chris’s hands came up. His fingers dug into the soft skin of her jaw, pulling her down into a kiss that was somehow even fiercer than the one he’d given you. It was a claim. A seal. The sound of it was wet and desperate, breath huffed through noses, a tiny moan escaping her throat into his mouth.

The dynamic shifted, permanently, irreversibly.

She broke the kiss and climbed onto the couch, her thighs bracketing his left leg. The heat of her core pressed against his sweatpants. You mirrored her, your body moving before your brain caught up, kneeling on the other side so his right leg was trapped between your thighs. The worn fabric did nothing to hide the heat of your own arousal.

She looked at you. Her eyes were dark, pupils swallowing the iris. A question that wasn’t a question.

Simultaneously, you moved. She peeled her hoodie the rest of the way off. You pulled your slip dress over your head, the thin straps sliding down your arms, the fabric pooling at your knees. The cool air of the living room hit your bare breasts, tightening your nipples into aching peaks.

Chris stared. His mouth opened, but no sound came out for a long second. Then

“Fuck,” he whispered.

You both leaned forward, offering yourselves. His hands came up, one cupping your breast, the other cupping hers. The calluses on his palm created a delicious friction against your sensitive skin. His thumb traced your nipple, and a shudder rolled through you.

He leaned toward you first. His mouth closed over your nipple, hot and wet, tongue swirling in a tight circle. The sensation speared directly downward, a throbbing ache settling between your legs. You gasped, your fingers threading into his hair.

Then he released you and turned to your roommate. His mouth latched onto her nipple, laving at the tight bud with the same focused intensity. She moaned, long and low, her hips grinding instinctively against his thigh.

He pulled back, chest heaving. His eyes were wild now, the playful charm burned away by something rawer. “You two are going to kill me.”

“Not before you fuck me,” you said.

The words barely left your mouth before he was moving. He stood, pulling you up with him, and in the same motion, he turned you and bent you over the arm of the couch. The upholstery was cool against your stomach. Your ass was in the air, presented to him, your panties the only barrier.

He knelt behind you. His fingers hooked into the waistband of your panties and pulled them down your legs, the damp fabric peeling away from your skin. The first touch of his tongue against your wetness made you cry out—a flat, broad stroke that dragged from your clit to your entrance and back up again.

“You taste even better than I imagined,” he muttered against you, and the vibration of his voice made your thighs tremble.

Then he stood. And then the blunt, hot pressure of his cock pressing against your entrance. He teased your slit with the head first.

Then he pushed inside.

The stretch was exquisite. He was thick—thicker than Matt, though the length was similar. The girth filled you completely, demanding every inch of your attention. You gasped, your fingers clawing at the couch cushion as he sank deeper, deeper, until his hips were flush against your ass.

“Fuck,” you breathed. “Chris—”

He pulled back and thrust. Hard. The impact sent a shockwave through your body, your breasts swaying with the force. His hands gripped your hips, fingers digging into the soft flesh, anchoring you for the next thrust.

And the next.

And the next.

He fucked with a confidence that was utterly different from Matt’s quiet intensity. Chris took the lead without hesitation, setting a brutal, steady pace. Each drive forward was a claim. Each retreat left you empty and aching. The rhythm was relentless, the sound of it obscene—the slap of skin against skin, the wet slick of your arousal, the guttural groans tearing from his chest.

Your roommate watched from the couch, her hand between her own legs, fingers working furiously. Her eyes were glassy, fixed on the place where Chris’s body disappeared into yours.

“You’re so fucking tight,” Chris gritted out. He angled his hips, and the new position drove his cock against a spot inside you that made your vision white out. Your moan was more of a sob. “Right there? That’s the spot?”

“Yes—yes—”

He hammered into that spot mercilessly. The pleasure was blinding, a white-hot pressure building and building with no release in sight. Your legs were shaking. Your breath came in sharp, fragmented gasps. The world shrank to the stretch of his cock, the slap of his hips, the sweat dripping from his chest onto your back.

Your roommate crawled closer, her face level with yours. She kissed you—open-mouthed, messy, swallowing your moans as Chris continued to fuck you into the couch. Her tongue licked into your mouth, her hand cradling your jaw, her thumb stroking your cheek.

“He’s so good,” she whispered against your lips. “He’s fucking you so good.”

You couldn’t form words. You could only take it—the pounding rhythm, the driving pressure, the heat coiling tighter and tighter in your core.

Chris’s hand snaked around your hip, his fingers finding your clit. He pressed down with just the right amount of pressure, circling in time with his thrusts. The dual stimulation was too much. It was perfect. It was everything.

“I’m going to come,” you choked out.

“Do it,” he growled. “Come on my cock.”

The command tipped you over. Your orgasm shattered through you, a violent, full-body convulsion that arched your spine and ripped a scream from your throat. Your walls clamped around him in rhythmic, pulsing contractions, milking his length. Time blurred. Sound muffled. There was only the detonation of pleasure, stars bursting behind your eyelids.

Chris’s rhythm faltered. His thrusts became erratic, desperate. “Where—” His voice was strained. “Where can I—”

“Inside,” you gasped, still trembling through the aftershocks. “I’m on the pill—inside—”

He groaned, a sound of pure relief and surrender, and buried himself to the hilt. His cock pulsed, a hot, thick flood releasing deep within you. His body shuddered against yours, his forehead dropping to your spine, his breath harsh and ragged.

For a long moment, the only sound was breathing.

Then he pulled out, slowly, carefully, and you whimpered at the loss. Your legs gave out, and you slumped sideways onto the couch, utterly spent. Your roommate curled against you, her body a warm, soft line along your side. Chris collapsed on your other flank, his chest heaving, sweat glistening on his forehead.

He turned his head, blue eyes finding yours in the dim light. That dimple creased his cheek again, softer now, almost awed.

“So,” he said, still breathless. “Do I get to fuck her too?”

You lay limp on the couch for several moments, your body still tingling from the earlier intensity. The silence in the living room feels heavy, punctuated only by the distant sounds from the hallway. Your roommate stands up first, offering her hand to Chris. He takes it, their fingers lacing together, and she leads him toward her bedroom without a backward glance.

The door clicks shut behind them, leaving you alone in the living room. The heat still radiates through your body, making your skin feel sensitive and flushed. You push yourself up from the couch, legs slightly shaky as you head to the bathroom. After relieving yourself, you catch your reflection in the mirror—face flushed, eyes dilated, hair slightly mussed. You feel incredibly hot, almost feverish with desire.

Without second-guessing, you turn on the shower and step under the spray, being careful to keep your head tilted to avoid wetting your hair. The cool water cascades over your heated skin, providing temporary relief but simultaneously reigniting your arousal as it trails down your body. Your hands slide over your breasts and down your stomach, fingers grazing between your legs where you're still sensitive and swollen.

After a few minutes, you turn off the water and dry off with a fluffy towel. The bathroom mirror fogs around the edges as you run your fingers through your dry hair. You can hear muffled sounds from your roommate's bedroom—moans and bed springs squeaking—and feel a pull to join them.

Wrapped in just your towel, you pad down the hallway to your roommate's door. You push it open and freeze at the sight before you.

Your roommate is on her back, legs spread wide with her calves resting on Chris's shoulders. His hips move with powerful thrusts, driving deep into her as his dark head is bent to her chest, lips attached to one of her huge breasts. Her fingers are tangled in his hair, back arched as she cries out with each movement.

"Fuck, Chris!" she moans, her head thrown back against the pillows.

The sight sends a fresh wave of heat through you. Without hesitation, you climb onto the bed, kneeling beside them. Your towel loosens and falls away, leaving you completely exposed to the cool air of the room.

You reach out and gently grasp Chris's hair, pulling his face up from your roommate's breast. His eyes are dark with desire when they meet yours, lips swollen from his earlier attention to your roommate. His rhythm falters for just a moment before he resumes, never pulling out of her.

You lean down and capture his lips in a searing kiss. He responds immediately, his tongue tangling with yours as the kiss deepens. His hand slides from your roommate's hip to your body, fingers finding your already wet center.

"Still so wet for me," he murmurs against your lips, grinning as his fingers begin to stroke you with practiced expertise. "Best fucking night ever."

His thumb circles your clit as his fingers slip inside you, curving to hit that spot that makes your breath catch. The dual stimulation—watching him fuck your roommate while touching you—creates an overwhelming intensity.

Needing more, you shift your position, standing on the mattress and gently guiding Chris's head between your legs. He follows your lead immediately, his hands gripping your hips as he buries his face in your pussy.

His tongue laps at your folds, exploring every inch before focusing on your sensitive bundle of nerves. The sensation is electric, sending waves of pleasure coursing through your body. Your fingers tighten in his hair as his tongue works magic, alternating between broad strokes and precise flicks that have you trembling.

"God, Chris," you moan, head falling back as his talented mouth brings you closer to the edge.

Your roommate is watching now, her own pleasure evident in her flushed cheeks and heavy breathing as Chris continues to thrust into her while simultaneously devouring you. The intimacy of the moment, the shared pleasure between all three of you, creates an almost surreal experience.

After several minutes of blissful torture, Chris pulls away, his face glistening with your arousal. He withdraws from your roommate, eliciting a disappointed whimper from both of you.

"Kneel up," he commands, standing beside the bed. "Both of you."

You and your roommate obey without hesitation, positioning yourselves side by side on the mattress. Chris stands before you, his impressive erection on full display. At this angle, you can fully appreciate his size—long, thick, and already dripping with precum.

Your roommate reaches out first, wrapping her hand around his base and guiding him toward her mouth. She takes him deep, cheeks hollowing as she sucks with enthusiasm. Chris groans, head falling back as he enjoys the sensation.

You don't wait to join in, leaning in to run your tongue along his shaft while your roommate focuses on the tip. Your hands explore his thighs and ass as you both work together, taking turns with his cock, sometimes kissing each other around him.

The sight of his length disappearing between your lips, mixed with the sounds of pleasure falling from all three of you, creates an incredibly erotic scene. Chris's fingers tangle in both your hair, guiding you as he watches with hooded eyes.

"Fuck, that feels amazing," he breathes, his hips beginning to thrust gently.

After several minutes of shared attention, Chris pulls away gently but firmly. "I need to be inside someone again," he says, his voice rough with desire.

He positions your roommate on her back once more, her legs wrapping around his waist as he enters her with a powerful thrust. She cries out, nails digging into his shoulders as he sets a relentless rhythm. You kneel beside them, watching as he brings her closer to her peak.

His hand finds you again, fingers sliding between your legs as he continues to thrust into your roommate. The dual stimulation is almost too much, but you don't want it to end. Your roommate's breathing becomes erratic, her moans higher in pitch as her orgasm approaches.

"Don't stop, please don't stop," she begs, her body trembling.

Chris redoubles his efforts, driving into her harder and faster until she shatters beneath him, crying out his name as her body convulses with pleasure. He continues to thrust through her orgasm, drawing out every bit of sensation before finally slowing.

Before you can process what's happening, Chris is moving behind you, his chest pressing against your back as he positions you on your hands and knees. Your roommate lies beside you, still recovering from her intense climax as Chris lines himself up with your entrance.

He enters you with one smooth thrust, filling you completely. You gasp at the sudden fullness, his hands immediately cupping your breasts, fingers teasing your nipples as he begins to move. The angle allows him to hit deep inside you, stimulating spots you didn't even know existed.

"God, you feel so good," he murmurs against your ear, nipping at the sensitive skin of your neck.

Your roommate shifts to face you, reaching out to stroke your face and kiss you tenderly as Chris takes you from behind. The intimacy between all three of you intensifies the experience, creating a connection that goes beyond just physical pleasure.

"Fucking hot!", he exclaims at the sight of you and your roommate making out.

Chris's rhythm builds steadily, each thrust harder than the last. His hands grip your breasts firmly, using them for leverage as he drives into you. The sound of skin slapping against skin fills the room, mixing with your increasingly loud moans.

"Please, harder," you beg, pushing back against him.

Chris obliges, his movements becoming almost punishing as he chases his own release. You can feel your orgasm building, tension coiling in your stomach as he hits that perfect spot again and again.

"I'm close," you gasp, fingers clutching at the bedsheets.

"Let go for me," he commands, one hand sliding down to rub your clit.

That added stimulation is enough to push you over the edge. Your orgasm crashes over you, wave after wave of pleasure radiating outward from your center as you cry out. Chris continues to thrust through your climax, prolonging the sensation until you're completely spent.

His rhythm becomes erratic as his own release approaches. With a final, deep thrust, he buries himself inside you, groaning as he finds his release. You can feel him pulsing within you, filling you with his warmth as he collapses against your back.

All three of you collapse onto the bed in a tangled heap of limbs, breathing heavily as you come down from your shared highs. The room feels thick with the scent of sex and sweat, the air heavy with satisfaction.

After a few moments, Chris props himself up on his elbows, looking between you and your roommate with a mix of wonder and amusement. "You two are crazy," he says, a genuine grin spreading across his face. "You should meet Matt."

Matt was still on the couch, but he was sitting up, his broad back to you. The light came from his phone, illuminating the sharp line of his shoulder, the dark tattoo curling over his deltoid. He was wearing headphones, the faint tinny beat of music just barely audible. He scrolled slowly, absorbed.

A smile touched your lips. You moved silently across the rug, your steps making no sound. You reached the back of the couch and leaned over, gently tapping his shoulder.

He jumped, a full-body flinch, whipping his head around. His eyes were wide in the phone’s glow. He yanked the headphones down around his neck. “Jesus,” he breathed, a hand going to his chest. Then he recognized you, and his expression softened into warmth. “What’s up? You okay?”

“Just had to pee,” you whispered, smiling. “Room’s missing a bathroom. What are you doing up?”

He glanced at his phone, then back at you. “Just… couldn’t sleep.”

You rounded the couch and sat on the edge of the cushion beside him, tucking your feet underneath you. The fabric of his gray sweatpants was soft against your thigh. “Is it the couch? It looks cozy but maybe it’s not—”

“No, no,” he interrupted, shaking his head. “Couch is great. Seriously. Just… mind won’t shut off.” He looked at you, his gaze intense even in the low light. “Too much good stuff to think about, I guess.”

The implication sent a warm shiver through you. You bit your lip. An idea, bold and simple, formed. “You could… come sleep with me,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t mind. The bed’s big enough.”

He stared at you for a long moment. You saw the conflict in his eyes—the desire warring with his inherent, careful respect. “I shouldn’t,” he said finally, his voice rough. “Chris said you should have your own space. You need to rest.”

“I’ll rest better,” you insisted, leaning into him slightly. Your hand found his on the cushion, your fingers intertwining with his. “Please? I’m offering.”

That word, please, did it. The resistance in his shoulders melted. He let out a slow breath, a surrender. “Okay,” he murmured. “Okay, baby.”

He stood, offering you his hand. You took it, letting him pull you up. You led him back to your dark room, the moon casting long silver rectangles across the floor through the slats of the blinds. You both slid under the duvet. He settled on his side, and you turned your back to him, wiggling backward until your body aligned with his. His arm came around your waist, heavy and secure, pulling you snug against the solid, warm wall of his chest. His beard scratched gently at the nape of your neck. His other arm tucked under your own, his hand coming to rest on your stomach, just below your ribs.

You sighed, the tension you hadn’t even realized you were carrying seeping out of you. His body was a furnace, enveloping you. His breathing, deep and even, fanned the hairs at the back of your neck. Within minutes, you heard it—a soft, rhythmic snore, so quiet it was more a vibration against your spine than a sound. It was profoundly comforting. His breath, his warmth, his solid presence, lulled you back down into a deep, peaceful sleep almost immediately.

*

Morning came not with a jolt, but with a slow, golden seep of awareness. You woke because the room was bright, sunlight pouring through the window. You blinked, checking the time on your phone on the nightstand: 8:17 AM.

Then you felt him.

He was still wrapped around you, but in sleep, his hold had shifted, deepened. His arm was no longer just around your waist; it was draped fully over you, his hand having crept up under the thin fabric of your tank top during the night. His palm was resting, heavy and warm, directly over your breast, his fingers loosely curled. You could feel the rough pad of his thumb resting just beside your nipple.

His face was buried in the space between your neck and shoulder, his beard a delicious, prickly scratch against your sensitive skin, raising goosebumps in its wake. And pressed firmly against the curve of your ass, unmistakable even through the layers of fabric, was the hard, thick length of his morning erection.

A slow, liquid heat pooled low in your belly. You lay perfectly still for a moment, savoring the intimacy, the raw, sleepy masculinity of him. Then, almost without conscious thought, you gave a slow, subtle roll of your hips, grinding your ass back against his cock.

A low, sleepy hum vibrated through his chest and into your back. His fingers on your breast twitched, then gently squeezed. Not enough to wake you, but a reflexive, possessive response.

You did it again, a more deliberate grind.

This time, the hum became a murmur, his voice thick with sleep. “Mmm… mornin’.”

“Good morning,” you whispered back, your own voice husky.

His hand began to move. Not frantically, but with a slow, sensual purpose. His palm rubbed over your breast, the friction of your cotton tank top against your nipple making you suck in a sharp breath. His fingers found the peak and pinched gently, then rolled it between his thumb and forefinger. A bolt of pure pleasure shot straight to your core, and you pressed back against him harder.

You turned in his arms, wanting to face him, to kiss him. As you moved, your lips seeking his, he gently placed two fingers against your mouth.

He gave a soft, gruff chuckle. “Morning breath,” he rumbled, his eyes still heavy-lidded but now alight with a smoldering focus.

You both laughed, a quiet, intimate sound. The spell wasn’t broken; it was heightened. This was real, unvarnished, and deeply sexy.

Instead of kissing him, you pushed yourself up, swinging a leg over his hips. You straddled him, sitting on his lower stomach, the thin blanket and your sleep shorts the only barrier. You could feel the hard ridge of him beneath you. His hands came to rest on your thighs, his gaze traveling up your body, taking in your sleep-tousled hair, your flushed face, the way your tank top stretched over your curves.

You leaned forward, bracing your hands on his chest, and began to move. You rocked your hips, grinding down against the prominent bulge in his sweatpants. His eyes fluttered shut for a second, a sharp inhale hissing through his teeth. His hands slid up to your waist, gripping you, helping you find a rhythm.

“Fuck,” he breathed, his voice raw.

He sat up a bit, propping himself on his elbows, not breaking the contact. With one hand, he shoved the waistband of his sweatpants and briefs down just enough to free his cock. It sprang out, thick and flushed, the head already glistening. The sight made your mouth water. At the same time, he ducked his head, catching the hem of your tank top with his teeth and pulling it up. He didn’t bother taking it off. He just found your breast, now bare to him, and took your nipple into his hot, wet mouth.

You cried out, the dual sensation of his mouth on you and the visual of his cock beneath you driving you wild. You scrambled off him for just a second, pulling your shorts and panties down your legs and kicking them off, then yanking your tank top over your head and tossing it aside. Now you were both naked from the waist up, you completely bare below.

You climbed back onto him, this time settling your knees on the mattress on either side of his hips. You reached between your bodies, your hand wrapping around his girth. He was so hard, so hot. You gave him a few slow, firm strokes, watching his face contort with pleasure. Then you guided him to your entrance, which was already slick and eager.

You held his gaze as you sank down.

It was a slow, breathtaking invasion. He was big, and you were still tender from the night before, but the stretch was exquisite, a filling, claiming pressure that made you see stars. You took him inch by glorious inch, until your ass met his thighs and he was buried to the hilt inside you. A guttural moan tore from both of you simultaneously.

For a moment, you just sat there, impaled, feeling him pulse inside you, feeling your inner muscles flutter around him as you adjusted. His hands flew to your hips, his grip bruisingly tight.

Then you began to ride him.

You started slow, lifting yourself almost all the way off before sinking back down, setting a deep, rolling pace. His hands moved over you—gripping your ass, squeezing handfuls of your flesh, then sliding up to span your waist, his thumbs rubbing circles on your lower stomach. He sat up further, capturing your mouth in a searing, breathless kiss, his tongue tangling with yours. This kiss tasted of sleep and him, and it was the most erotic thing you’d ever experienced.

His hands moved to your breasts, weighing them, his thumbs brushing over your nipples with each bounce of your body. The sensations multiplied, overlapped. The friction of him sliding in and out of your soaked core, the scratch of his chest hair against your nipples, the desperate, hungry sound of his kisses.

You found a faster rhythm, bouncing on his cock, using your thighs to drive yourself up and down. The bed began to creak softly in time. His groans became ragged prayers against your skin. “That’s it… fuck, just like that… you feel so goddamn good… ride me, baby, take it…”

You were close, so close, the coil in your belly tightening to a snapping point. Your movements became more frantic, less controlled. You were panting, sweat slicking your skin where your bodies met.

The bedroom door swung open.

Chris stood in the doorway, hair mussed, wearing only a pair of low-slung black boxers. He rubbed his eyes, then froze, his hand falling slowly to his side as he took in the scene: you, naked and gleaming, bouncing on his brother’s cock, Matt’s hands full of your ass.

“Looking for you,” Chris said, his voice husky with sleep but sharp with sudden awareness. His eyes were dark, locked on where your bodies joined. “You weren’t on the couch.”

Matt didn’t stop your movement, his hips meeting your downward thrusts. He grinned, a smug, possessive thing. “My sweet baby girl let me sleep in here,” he growled, his voice strained. “Couldn’t let me suffer on the couch.”

You hadn’t stopped moving, your rhythm only faltering for a second before you continued to ride Matt, driven by the need for your climax and the thrilling exposure of being watched.

Chris’s expression shifted from sleepy surprise to a theatrical pout, but his eyes blazed with pure, unadulterated heat. “Not fair,” he whined, but it was a predator’s whine. He strode into the room, his boxers already tented prominently.

You smiled at him over your shoulder, a breathless, inviting smile.

That was all the invitation he needed. He came to the side of the bed, then climbed onto it behind you, kneeling. His hands landed on your hips, his chest pressing against your sweaty back. He buried his face in your neck, biting down gently on the tendon there before soothing it with his tongue. His hands slid up your sides, over your ribs, and cupped your breasts from behind, his fingers finding your nipples and pinching, rolling, pulling.

The addition of his touch, his presence, was overwhelming. You moaned, your head falling back against his shoulder. You were still riding Matt, but Chris’s hands were everywhere, his mouth was on your skin, and his hard cock was pressed against the small of your back.

One of Chris’s hands left your breast and trailed down your stomach, through your damp curls, and found your clit. He rubbed tight, fast circles directly on the swollen bud, his fingers slick with your arousal.

It was too much. The dual stimulation—Matt pounding up into you from below, Chris working your clit from behind—shattered your control.

“I’m—Chris, I’m gonna—” you choked out.

“Come,” he commanded in your ear, his voice a rough whisper. “Come on his cock. Now.”

The orgasm exploded through you with violent, shocking intensity. Your back arched, a silent scream on your lips as your vision whited out. Your inner walls clamped down on Matt’s length in a series of frantic, milking pulses. The squeezing pressure was too much for him. With a ragged shout, he gripped your hips and lifted you off him, his cock sliding out just as he came. Hot stripes of his release painted your lower back and the back of your thighs as you trembled through the aftershocks.

Before you could even catch your breath, Chris was moving. He gently pushed you forward, towards Matt, until you were bent over, your hands braced on Matt’s chest. Your freshly fucked, dripping pussy was now exposed to Chris, presented to him.

Matt, still breathing hard, wrapped his arms around you, holding you close, his come cooling on your skin. He nuzzled your hair, whispering, “So good, baby… so perfect.”

You felt Chris’s hands on your hips, positioning himself. You felt the broad, slick head of his cock nudge against your entrance—the same entrance Matt had just vacated. It felt impossibly sensitive, swollen, and used. He pushed in.

It was a different stretch. Chris was a fraction thicker, and he didn’t go slow. He sheathed himself in one long, brutal stroke, burying himself to the hilt in the wet, warm clutch of you that his brother had just claimed. A broken cry fell from your lips. It was overwhelming, a relentless fullness that bordered on pain before tipping back into mind-numbing pleasure.

“Fuck,” Chris groaned, his voice shuddering. “So fuckin’ tight… still so tight for me.”

He didn’t wait for you to adjust. He set a punishing pace from the first thrust, pulling almost all the way out before slamming back in. The force of it drove you forward into Matt’s embrace with every drive. Matt held you steady, his hands stroking your back, your hair, whispering encouragements.

Chris’s hands were possessive on your hips, then one hand came down on your ass with a sharp, stinging smack. You jolted, a gasp punching out of you. He did it again, on the other cheek, the pain blossoming into a deep, submissive heat. He spanked you in time with his thrusts, each slap making you clench around him, which drove him wild.

“My turn,” he grunted, each word punctuated by a deep, driving plunge. “You… take… him… so… pretty… but you’re… mine… right… now…”

He was fucking you harder than Matt had, harder than anyone ever had. The angle was devastating, hitting places deep inside you that made you see sparks. The spent sensitivity from your first orgasm was being ruthlessly pushed into a second, coiling peak. The slaps on your ass, the feel of Matt holding you, the animalistic sounds Chris was making—it was a sensory overload that short-circuited your brain. You were just a body being used for their pleasure, and it was the most liberating thing you’d ever known.

“Gonna come again,” you sobbed, the words muffled against Matt’s chest. “Please…”

“Do it,” Matt urged, kissing your forehead. “Come for him.”

Chris hooked an arm around your waist, pulling you back onto his cock even harder, his thrusts becoming shorter, more erratic. “Cream on my cock, baby,” he snarled. “Now!”

The second orgasm tore through you, a seismic wave that left you boneless and screaming into Matt’s shoulder. Your body convulsed around Chris’s length, and with three more ragged, deep thrusts, he pulled out of you completely.

Hot, wet splashes hit your back as he came, groaning loudly, painting your spine with his release. He collapsed forward slightly, his head resting between your shoulder blades, his chest heaving against your back.

The room was filled with the sound of ragged panting, the smell of sex and sweat and salt. You were a mess between them—Matt’s come on your back and thighs, Chris’s adding to the wet, cooling patch on your spine, your own arousal slick between your legs.

Matt was gently stroking your hair. Chris was nuzzling your back, placing soft, almost apologetic kisses on your stinging skin.

Your bleary, satiated gaze drifted toward the doorway.