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By the millionth trip to the hallway mirror, you dropped all pretenses and admitted you weren't fixing anything, just needed somewhere to channel all that restless heat.

The earrings caught the low light as you tilted your head, and your mind instantly supplied the filthy image of them swaying and tinkling while Clark’s hands fisted your hair, guiding you as you rode his cock deep and desperate.

Your perfume had warmed against flushed skin, the pulse beneath it fluttering wildly at every elevator groan or passing footstep—imagining his face buried there instead, licking, sucking, nipping marks into your throat while he growled your name.

Even your lipstick, a shade worn with the purpose to make Clark stammer half his sentences and forget all the manners Ma drilled into him, remained exactly where you’d painted it. No matter how many times you licked and pressed your lips together.

You leaned closer to the mirror, pouting, dragging your palms down your waist and over your hips exactly the way you wanted his to: rougher, needier, gripping, squeezing, digging hard enough to leave faint bruises that would heal under his apologetic kisses later. You adjusted one strap, one that hadn't even moved a single inch, imagining his fingers slipping beneath and yanking it down, too.

Pathetic, you thought. Absolutely pathetic. Dressed up and wound this badly for him.

You pictured exactly how he would’ve gone. He’d come through the door giddy and grinning, still windblown from the city, broad shoulders filling the entryway, keys clinking into the bowl. One shoe off, hand still on the doorknob, glasses slipping down his nose as a sweet greeting died in his throat: “Honey, I’m ho—oh gosh,” in that deep, raspy voice.

Or, “Sweetheart," in that strained, drawn-out way that somehow sounded like profanity.

Or your name, whispered as if he’d just found nirvana in the hallway of his own apartment.

His eyes would’ve gone to your face first because he was a good man, but not that good. They would've dropped to your throat. Then your dress, to the inviting plunge of cleavage, the curve of your waist beneath your own restless hands. Then, inevitably, helplessly, back up to your shaded lips that made him so lovesick and stupid.

In two strides, Clark'd pressed you against the wall, hands sliding under your dress to find you already soaked, fingers teasing your clit while he groaned against your lips and you moaned reminders about dinner plans.

Nothing big or expensive.

Just you and him, a candle-lit table, his hand warm at the small of your back, thumb brushing the curve of your hip, fingers pinching the meat of your ass whenever he thought no one was looking. You’d lean into him, swat his chest playfully, tug him down by the collar to kiss the hinge of his jaw, and feel the sharp catch of breath against your cheek. Let your ankle stroke against his inner thigh under the table. Watch him try to keep his voice steady while you playfully smiled at him over your menu, like you hadn’t already decided the night would end with a much sweeter, messier kind of pie for dessert.

But by minute fifty-three, a new scenario had taken over.

A slow turn in the hallway.

A sharp, lifted brow.

Maybe a wounded little, "Oh, baby. You remembered where we live?" if you felt especially cruel enough.

You’d make Clark work for your smile, let him chase you around the apartment with those apologetic, puppy-dog eyes, scolding him to freshen up. Let him put those big hands on your hips, press up behind you, and murmur apologies against your neck until you believed him. Maybe allow him to press a kiss or two to your shoulder, your wrist, the corner of your mouth.

Maybe you’d even let him drop to his knees and eat you out right there against the wall, your fingers in his thick mess of hair, riding his tongue until you came with his name on your lips.

Maybe allow him to do it over and over, until you finally let him off the hook like always.

Because this wasn't the first time, and wouldn't be the last.

It came with the territory of loving Clark Kent, and the heavier territory of loving Superman. Missed reservations, movies paused halfway through, solo showers. Sometimes the whole city seemed to reach for him at the same time you did, and the cruel, noble thing was that you usually stepped back first.

You knew that. You loved that about him. You hated that about him a little tonight.

And because you knew Clark, because you loved him, because you were not interested in building any argument out of a rescue he couldn’t ignore, you hadn't checked the news.

Hadn’t opened your phone to search "Superman". Hadn’t refreshed the Planet’s breaking alerts or texted Lois. Hadn’t doom-scrolled shaky footage of smoke or sirens or blue-and-red blurs cutting through the sky.

You’d left your phone face down next to your purse like that made you mature, responsible, as if ignorance could quiet your wild imagination from filling in every possible reason he wasn’t home yet.

If there was a reason, he would tell you.

If there was blood, he would hide it badly.

If there was guilt, God, it'd be written all over his face.

-

You were still leaning toward the mirror, blotting your lipstick again, when the balcony door exploded inward.

Okay, not literally, but the force of Clark’s landing hit the apartment like a thunderclap. The curtains snapped like a whip. Your lipstick tube jumped clean out of your fingers and struck the floor, rolling beneath the console table as you stifled a yelp.

Then came the frantic scrape of the door, the rush of cold night air, and Clark’s boots hitting concrete, then hardwood, too fast, too heavy, every step like a hammer striking stone.

Your heart lurched into your throat as you spun around, shocked silent.

Clark was already pacing, one hand dragged through his raven hair hard enough to displace the stubborn curl at his forehead. His chest rose and fell like he’d flown across the edges of the vast universe holding his breath. He looked wired. Furious. Worn down to the bone. Like whatever happened out there sunk its claws into his shoulders and followed him home.

Every thought of playfully guilting Clark vanished clean out of your head.

"…Clark? Baby?" you breathed, nose crinkling as a burnt aroma curled around your senses. "What's wrong? Are you—?

At the sound of your voice, he turned so sharply he nearly tripped over his own boots.

It nearly broke your heart, the way his frantic blue eyes settled over you, softening just a touch. The dress. The earrings. The lipstick. The two miserable hours written all over your face. For one suspended second, he looked exactly like the Clark you’d imagined in the hallway, stunned, lovesick, and ruined by the sight of you.

Then guilt struck his features like lightning.

"Sweetheart, I'm so sorry," the words tumbled out in a breathless rush before you could say another thing. "I know I'm late. I know. There was a—a chemical fire and—and the containment team couldn’t get close enough without getting hurt, so I had to—the whole building was about to—Gosh, the entire east wall was ready to buckle, and I tried to be fast, I really did, but if I moved too fast the firefighters would probably turn to mush—and I couldn't do that—-"

He gestured helplessly, pacing again, the apologies and explanations spilling out of him like an avalanche burying any hope of organizing his thoughts.

That’s when you noticed the scorch marks.

His blue suit stretched tight across his shoulders, dark with sweat and smoke. His cape fluttered behind him in a singed, ragged mess, the bottom edge frayed. Black streaks of soot smeared across his chest, across his family crest, across the strong line of his jaw. It was his abdomen that made your stomach twist.

The fabric had been eaten clean through, the edges curled and blackened like something caustic splashed him. Beneath it, his skin was whole. Thank goodness. Smooth and unbroken under the ruin, still Clark, still impossibly untouched in the ways that should have reassured you.

But it didn’t. While the suit was destroyed, your Clark was still shaking.

“—and I knew we had dinner reservations,” he bemoaned, both hands moving now, one pinching the bridge of his nose, the other clenched around something you hadn’t got a good look at yet. “I knew, I swear I knew, and I kept thinking I could still make it if I just got everyone out. Then a second tank ruptured, and I thought, "Good Gosh, are there no other heroes out tonight," then I felt horrible thinking that, so I went back in, and—”

You frowned, worried.

Of course you were.

Always, when it came to your Clark.

But standing there with your pulse in your throat and between your thighs, taking in the ruined suit clinging to him like a second skin, the ash on the same cheekbones you kissed this morning, the heat coming off his body in waves, the raw, breathless guilt in his voice…some low, terrible, needy part of you curled awake and wanted.

Wanted him closer. Wanted your hands on him. Wanted to peel the ruined suit off inch by inch and find out how much of that frantic, superhuman energy he could spend on you.

You bit the inside of your cheek, frowning deeper, looking as grave as Clark felt.

Then his left hand shifted against the moonlight, and you finally saw them: flowers.

A bouquet of deep red roses, crushed almost beyond dignity in his tense fist. The stems were bent. A few petals had scattered across the balcony tiles during his landing, bright as little drops of crimson against the concrete and hardwood.

“Clark," you interrupted, lips slightly parted.

He stopped mid-stride.

You pointed. “Flowers?”

He blinked, looking down at his own hand as if he’d never seen it before.

"Fl—oh. Yeah." He sighed, shoulders sinking. "Bought them just after clocking out. Called ahead, was supposed to drop them off, have the waiter bring them out before the appetizers, or when you sat down. I hadn't decided. I was going to pretend I had no idea what was happening, which sounds so silly saying it aloud— because—because you always know when I’m lying, but I thought maybe if I did it badly enough, it would be charming—"

Endearing, utterly charming, painfully attractive word vomit paired with disheveled hair, ragged breaths, smoke-smudged skin, and the kind of rippling muscles the ruined suit was doing absolutely nothing to hide.

Shit. You wanted him now.

"—I guess we’ll never know, because I’m two hours late and the roses are destroyed and I smell like a poorly managed high school chem lab—"

"Clark, stop!" you called, firmer than you meant to.

The rambling died in his throat.

His eyes lifted to yours, then moved over you slowly this time, not in panic or apology, but with a stunned, helpless heat that landed everywhere his hands desperately wanted to. Your face. Your lips. The line of your throat. The dress hugging your waist, your hips, the soft rise and fall of your breasts as your breathing changed under his attention.

Ah, there he was. Not exactly the fantasy. Arguably better.

Very late, soot-streaked, holding ruined flowers, staring at you like the whole burning city had fallen away and left him with nothing but this apartment, this hallway, and you.

Your thighs pressed together before you could stop them.

"Sweetheart,” he swallowed faintly, drawling it out like a curse.

Swallowing a moan, you asked instead. "Did everyone make it out alive? Safe?"

He nodded, still staring.

"Then it's okay, everything is okay, promise." Clearing your throat, you stepped toward him quickly. "What's important is you are home, too. Alive and safe. What you need is to get out of that suit. It's ruined."

"I can fix it,” he countered, still watching your lips with that dazed expression. "The suit, I mean. Gary can—"

"The Fortress is thousands of miles away."

You stopped right in front of him, close enough to smell the smoke and something metallic and sharp tingle in your nostrils. Close enough to feel the warmth rolling off him, to see the soot caught in the laugh lines and dimples beside his mouth, to watch his unmarked skin shift and tense beneath the torn, ruined fabric every time he breathed. "We can deal with it tomorrow."

Clark glanced down at himself, brows pinched. "Right. Tomorrow. I'm sorry, I should probably—"

"Clark?" you nearly whimpered.

"Yeah? What is it?"

"Shut up."

You rose onto your toes, caught the back of his neck, and pulled him down, snuffing further protests.

For half a second, he held still, too careful, too Clark, one ruined bouquet hanging limply at his side, and the other hand hovered near your shoulder. Then you kissed him harder, one hand sliding into the damp hair at his nape while the other curled into the collar at the front of his suit, and whatever restraint he had left cracked.

Clark groaned against your lips, the sound vibrating through your chest.

His free hand found your waist, still trembling with leftover adrenaline, and yanked you flush against him, no longer gentle. You felt every hard inch of him: the solid wall of his chest, the ridges of his abs through the torn suit, and the thick, unmistakable bulge of his cock already straining against your belly. He tilted his head, lips parting wider, tongue sliding hot and urgent against yours.

The kiss quickly turned hungry, messy, open-mouthed with his apology, with your impatience, with the two hours you’d spent wanting him and the whole ruined night he’d carried home in his chest.

Soot from his jaw smudged your cheek. Your lipstick smeared across his mouth and chin as he chased the connection, sucking on your tongue before nipping your bottom lip hard enough to make your knees buckle and a fresh wetness to flood your panties.

One of his hands slid down to grip your ass, squeezing the flesh and pulling you tighter so you could grind against the rigid length of him.You moaned into his mouth, nipples tightening against his chest, your soaked cunt throbbing with every roll of his hips.

God, you wanted nothing more than for Clark to rip the dress off and fuck you right here, bent over the console table or legs wrapped around his waist with your back pressed against the windows, taking every thick inch until you were dripping down his cock and screaming his name.

You broke the kiss only enough to breathe against his lips, one hand still fisted tight in his hair, tugging just the way you knew made him weak.

“Baby,” you murmured huskily, lips brushing his. “I can help take the suit off.”

Bracing his thighs, you lowered yourself to your knees before he could argue, the movement making your earrings sway and tinkle softly just as you'd imagine.

The position put you at eye level with the scorched gash in his suit. You reached up, fingers hovering over the blakened edges, and began carefully peeling it away from his skin. The material, though thick and clinging stubborn even in pieces, gave way under your persistent hands.

Beneath it, Clark's abdomen was warm. Whole. Trembling when your knuckles grazed along his hip bone.

Above you, Clark made a sharp, strangled groan and immediately looked away, jaw rigid, the ruined bouquet still clutched in his white-knuckled grip as the last thread of his composure.

Pursing your lips to stifle a giggle, you worked the torn section free, exposing more of him: the ladder of his ribs, the hollow of his pelvis, the dark trail of hair that disappeared beneath the waistband. You let your gaze follow that trail hungrily, licking your lips.

Sure, the suit was always tight, but now it was impossible to miss the pronounced ridge of his erection, pressing against the red fabric of his briefs, curving and straining upward, the thick head already leaking.

Oh, your poor, guilty, late, soot-streaked Superman, trying so hard to be polite when his body had very clearly remembered what yours had been aching for the last two painstaking hours.

"Hmm, I know you like what you see," you purred, looking up at him through your lashes, pulse fluttering wildly at your throat.

A choked sound tore from his heaving chest.

"I—you—it's the dress," he stammered, his free hand hovering near your cheek, fingers twitching. You spared him the pain and leaned into his touch, letting him cup your face.

"The dress?" you blinked up, wide-eyed, mock-innocent, drawing your shoulders forward so your cleavage spilled forward.

"And the earrings. Plus, your smile. Your voice. That lipstick," he finally admitted, almost desperate. "And you. Mostly you. Entirely you, actually. You're so beautiful. I couldn’t stop thinking about you. Even during the fire, I kept picturing you waiting for me, and I was late, and the reservations, and the roses, and—"

He swallowed hard, Adam's apple bobbing, abdomen tensing. “The reservations. Can we still—”

“Dinner’s not happening tonight,” you explained gently, glancing at the wallclock with exaggerated sorrow. “The restaurant stopped seating twenty minutes ago. Hell, even fifteen minutes after our reservation lapsed.”

His shoulders sank once more, thumb stroking your cheek with heartbreaking tenderness when you glanced up at him. "Yeah, I figured."

"But," you continued, curling your fingers into the waistband of his suit, tugging it down. "I am hungry."

The sound Clark made when his thick, flushed, slick-at-the-tip cock sprang free was half groan, half profanity prayer.

You wrapped a hand around the base, fingers barely meeting. The sight of him, so hard and leaking in your palm made your mouth water with primal anticipation.

Leaning in, you licked a slow, wet stripe up the underside, tracing every vein from root to tip. He was proportional to everything else about him. Which meant he was a lot, and received a lot of licks. Clark’s entire body jerked with every drag of your tongue. The hand grasping the flowers eventually let go. Petals scattered as he gripped the back of your neck with that perfect blend of gentleness and desperate strength you’d fantasized about.

"Oh," he begged. "Hon, please."

Drawing a breath, you took him past your plush lips and into your warm mouth.

For a moment, you stayed still to feel the weight of him on your tongue. To savor the taste of salt and skin. You sighed dreamily, eyes rolling back, hollowed your cheeks, and sank down, down, down, until your nose buried into the thatch of dark hair at the base, until the head nudged the back of your throat and you had to pull back just enough, gasping, gagging, drawing more breath.

Your eyes watered, paying no mind to wipe them away. Saliva pooled messily down your chin, over his balls, dripping onto the valley of your breasts. You went right back, messier, wetting, pushing further until your throat fluttered and squeezed around his thickness. Your earrings tinkled with every enthusiastic bob of your head.

“Baby—you're— incredible,” Clark managed, each word bashful and strained between ragged breaths.

The hand cupping your cheek slid down your shoulder with a grunt, thumb tracing your collarbone before tugging the strap of your dress gently until it fell, then the other. The fabric peeled away onto your waist, baring your breasts to the cool air. His broad, callused palm groped one immediately as he groaned.

"Your mouth, the way you take me—so deep—that lipstick—"

You whimpered around his cock at the praise, the high-pitched vibrations making his hips twitch. Lipstick smeared across his shaft in streaks, marking him exactly the way you’d imagined while waiting. You took him to the root again, throat fluttering around his thickness, swallowing deliberately so the tight muscles milked him. Your pulse raced against his cock with every heartbeat.

"Gosh—" His hips bucked involuntarily harsher that time. He immediately stilled, a flush creeping up his neck. “Sorry, sorry, hon, I didn’t mean to—”

Clark’s hand tightened at the back of your neck, the other gripping your shoulder, holding you steady as his thighs trembled beneath your touch, with the willpower not to fuck your face the way he fucked your cunt.

“No—more—sorry's,” you quickly warned when he tried to apologize for another sharper buck, sucking harder in retaliation despite the radiating ache in your cheeks and jaw.

The wet, rhythmic squelching of your mouth working him filled the room. You pulled off just long enough to lap at his slit, tongue swirling through the leaking fluid, then took him whole again.

His hand on the back of your head, then loosened, then tightened again, like he couldn’t decide whether to pull you closer or push you away. He was babbling praises now, sweet praises spilling from his lips between raspy moans.

"You’re so good to me—so darn good—how are you so good at this—your mouth, your tongue—" A guttural sound broke his sentence in half when you swirled your tongue at the base, curving your head. "You look so beautiful like this. W-with that darn lipstick, I said that — alright r-right? I wanted—I want you all night. All day. Every second I was out there. I couldn't stop—"

Through his ramblings, his generous, callused fingers dragged through the thick strings of saliva dripping down your chin and onto your chest, using the messy spit as slick, warm lube to glide over your skin. He spread it across your stiff nipple in slow, meaningful circles, making them glisten.

His palms traded sides, giving attention to the neglected breast, sending sparks straight to your clenching cunt, the perfect counterpoint to the frantic, greedy rhythm of your mouth. The wet heat of your mouth, the cool air on your skin, the rough pad of his thumb made you moan louder and longer than before.

"Yes," Clark hissed. "Yes, jus'—just like that, hon. I love—when you sound like that. I love—when I can feel it. When you—”

You pulled off just long enough to lap at his slit, tongue darting out and swirling, then sank back down, taking every inch until your nose pressed against his pelvis and you swallowed around him.

Clark’s eyes fluttered shut, chest heaving, jaw clenching so tight the muscle jumped beneath his filthy sweat-slicked skin. "I’m—I can’t—Hon, you’re going to make me—I'm gonna—ohh sh—shoot—"

His words dissolved into breathless moans. Low. Broken. The kind of sounds you'd happily spend eternity coaxing from him. You felt him familiar throb against your tongue, thick and pulsing. His hand fisted tighter in your hair, the other gripping your shoulder hard enough to leave faint bruises that would be soothed under his kisses later.

With a broken cry that rattled through his chest, Clark came.

Hot, thick spurts flooded your throat in heavy waves. You swallowed every drop, throat fluttering and milking him while your lipstick left fresh smears along his length.

You kept sucking gently long after, nursing him through the oversensitivity until his legs shook and soft, whimpers slipped from his lips.

Only then did you pull off with a wet pop, thin gleaming strings of saliva and cum connecting your swollen, glossy lips to his still-twitching cock, dripping meassily onto your breasts.

Clark stared down at you like you’d hung the moon, the stars, and made the sun rise every day just for him, blue eyes dazed, tender, overflowing with love. His hands trembled as they cupped your face, thumbs brushing away tears and spit from your cheeks and lipstick-smeared lips as you gasped your breath, all while whispering hushed words of praise and affection.

Suddenly, he lifted you by the waist, pressing your bare back against the cool window. The glass fogged beneath your heat as he dropped to his knees, rucking your dress high up onto your waist. Your legs draped instinctively over his wide shoulders, heels digging between his shoulder blades.

"I need—" he started, and then stopped, nuzzling against the soaked crotch of your panties, inhaling deeply, lips nipping at your swollen clit through the fabric with silent, pleading permission.

"I know, baby," you cooed, carding your fingers through his thick, messy curls, tugging just right. Your voice was deliciously raspy from how thoroughly you’d taken him. "You’re hungry. I can help with that, too."

The soot-stained suit still hung off him in tatters.

Scattered rose petals littered the floor around you both like crimson confetti.

And the night had barely even started.

.

.

You hadn’t actually been introduced to him yet, but you’d felt his suffocating vibe the moment he walked through the door. He looked like absolute thunder. Briar had dropped a frustrating, tight game that evening, and while Garrett was channeling his nervous energy into playing the charismatic host, Logan was wearing his irritation like armor. Leaning against the kitchen counter with a dark scowl that practically screamed at people to stay away, his knuckles were white around his glass, his eyes scanning the room as if looking for a reason to snap.

​Navigating that crowded, chaotic kitchen with a brim-filled, sticky mixed drink was your first mistake. Your second was catching the rubber toe of your sneaker on the lifting edge of a rogue anti-fatigue mat near the sink.

​You stumbled forward, your arms flailing wildly in a desperate, ungraceful bid for balance. You didn’t fall, but your cup did a violent, mid-air flip, slipping from your fingers. A torrential wave of sticky, dark rum and cola splashed directly across the pristine gray fabric of Logan’s Henley shirt, soaking through the chest, darkening the material instantly and dripping down the front of his dark jeans.

​​Logan froze. His head snapped down slowly, looking at the huge, dark stain spreading across his clothes, and then his gaze lifted to yours. His eyes were blazing, a dangerous brown, entirely unamused and dripping with venom. "Oh, fuck!" he snapped, his voice cutting right through the ambient noise like a knife. He pulled the wet, heavy fabric away from his skin with two fingers, a look of pure annoyance twisting his features. "Are you serious right now? Watch where the hell you're going."

​The sheer aggression in his tone caught you completely off guard, instantly sparking your own deeply ingrained, stubborn nature. You had been about to apologize profusely, the words of remorse already forming on your tongue, but the bite in his words choked them right out of your throat. You squared your shoulders, refusing to back down under his glare. "It was an accident," you retorted, pulling a few crumpled, napkins from the counter and shoving them toward his chest. "You don't have to be a complete dick about it. It’s just a shirt, I'm pretty sure you'll survive."

​"It's a wet, sticky shirt at the end of a terrible, exhausting fucking day," he growled, his voice dropping an octave as he batted your hand away with a harsh flick of his wrist. He didn't take the napkins; they fluttered uselessly to the floor. Instead, he leaned down slightly, giving you a long, icy glare that made you feel about two inches tall, his jaw clenching so hard you could see the muscle tick. "Next time, look up from your feet." Without waiting for a response, he turned on his heel and storming down the hallway toward the stairs, muttering curses under his breath.

​You stood there rooted to the spot, your cheeks burning with a toxic mixture of intense embarrassment and sudden, deep-seated dislike. Garrett materialized at your side a split second later, a sympathetic, slightly apologetic grimace on his face as he patted your shoulder gently. "Hey, don't sweat it," Garrett reassured you quietly, glancing warily toward the stairs where Logan had disappeared. "Logan’s just in a brutal mood because of the game, and he hates losing more than anyone. He's usually a great guy, I swear. He’ll have forgotten all about it by tomorrow morning."

​You forced a tight, fake smile and nodded, but as you looked down at your empty, sticky hands, a bitter taste lingered in your mouth. Spoiler alert: he wouldn't forget. and neither would you.

Two — "Fuck you"

A few weeks later, the initial friction hadn’t dissolved; it had hardened into a permanent, icy chill. You tried your best to play nice for the sake of Hannah and Allie, but Logan made it incredibly difficult. You saw how he was with the rest of their circle—fiercely loyal, easygoing, and warm. He was the kind of guy who quietly made sure Allie and Hannah got home safe from their late shifts and spent his free afternoons helping Jules with media stuff. He was patient with the entire world. But the exact millisecond you walked into a room, his posture stiffened and his jaw set. You hated being the sole exception to his good nature, so you simply stayed out of his way.

​The breaking point came on a gray, rainy Tuesday afternoon. You and Hannah had walked over to the hockey house to help Tucker untangle a massive, soul-crushing history assignment he was drowning in. The three of you were spread across the dining table, surrounded by a chaotic mess of highlighters, laptop cords, and heavy library textbooks.

​The back door clicked open, and Logan walked in. He was wearing his Briar athletic gear, a damp towel slung over his shoulders from a post-practice shower, his hair messy and wet. He looked exhausted, his shoulders tense, carrying the unmistakable hangover of a brutal morning practice. Instead of walking past to the kitchen, he paused by the table, leaning over Tucker’s shoulder to scan the open pages. He let out a heavy, deliberate sigh. ​"You’re using the wrong primary sources for that era, Tuck," Logan said, his voice dropping into that effortless, uninvited authority. "You need the economic logs from the eastern front, not these political manifestos. You’re going to tank your thesis statement with those."

​Tucker blinked up, looking miserable. "Wait, really? I thought—"

​"We checked those, Logan," you interrupted, keeping your voice level and calm as you kept your eyes on your notebook. "We've got it handled," you smiled, trying to remain polite.

​Logan didn't move. His eyes slid slowly down to the side of your face, unamused. "Right. Because you're an expert on 20th-century economic trade?"

​"No," you said, your pen pausing on the page. "But I can read a syllabus. If you're so worried about Tucker's academic results, you could have sat down and helped him yourself already."

​Logan’s jaw tightened, a sharp spike of tension instantly replacing his usual easygoing demeanor. He took his hands out of his pockets and leaned forward, bracing his palms on the edge of the table, firmly invading your space. Tucker shot Hannah a wide-eyed, panicked look across the textbooks, both of them suddenly bracing for impact.

​"I gave him my old notes weeks ago," Logan shot back, his voice dropping into something smaller, tighter. "But sure, ignore the guy who actually passed the class because you're too stubborn to take a note from me."

​"I'm not being stubborn, you're just being a patronizing prick," you retorted, leaning back in your chair. "You’ve been hovering over this table for five minutes just looking for a problem because you had a bad day and want to take it out on someone."

​Logan let out a harsh, dry laugh, though there was a flicker of genuine frustration in his eyes—the look of a good guy who couldn't understand why he kept letting you bait him. "Take it out on someone? Trust me, if I wanted to take anything out on someone, I wouldn't waste my time on you. I'm trying to keep my friend from bombing a midterm because he made the mistake of letting you organize his thoughts."

​"My thoughts are perfectly fine, Logan," Tucker muttered quietly under his breath, his eyes glued to his laptop screen, desperately trying to dissolve into the background.

​"They're fine when you're left alone, Tuck," Logan said, keeping his eyes locked onto yours, completely ignoring his teammate's plea. "Not when you're letting someone drag their own contrarian agenda into your coursework."

​"A contrarian agenda?" You stood up, your chair scraping loudly against the hardwood floor. Hannah flinched at the sharp noise, withdrawing her hands from the table and motioning for Tucker to leave the potential future crime scene. They both complied quickly, knowing you both well enough to understand that trying to reason with you in that moment would be pointless. "Are you actually insane? I'm sorry that anyone else having a brain in this house threatens your need to micromanage every single thing that happens under this roof."

​"It doesn't threaten me at all," Logan said, standing up straight and towering over you, using his height to crowd your space until his shadow completely blocked out the light from the window. The sheer, uncharacteristic anger rolling off him was suffocating; Tucker actually slid his chair back a few inches, completely done with trying to intervene at this point. "It annoys me. You annoy me, actually. I'm not going to walk on eggshells in my own dining room because you can't handle a basic correction."

​"I can handle a correction if it's respectful," you shot back, your heart hammering against your ribs, but you refused to take a step away from him. "You don't want to help Tucker. You just want to feel like the smartest guy in the room and that is annoying."

​"I dont—," Logan started, a nervous scoff escaping his lips. "You don't know anything about me. Please let's keep it this way, since you clearly can't stand me anyway."

​"You're the one who treats me like an absolute inconvenience the second I breathe in your direction!" you yelled, the weeks of being ignored, brushed off, and glared at finally boiling over into raw, unadulterated anger. "If you hate me being here so much, just say it. But stop acting like I'm the one bringing the venom into this house when you're the one dripping it."

​The air between you turned completely volatile, thick enough to choke on. A strange, angry electricity snapped between you, the argument completely detached from history or homework now, exposed and raw. Logan stared down at you, his breathing heavy and uneven as he tried to swallow down the sheer frustration rolling off him in waves. ​He leaned down slightly, bringing his face inches from yours, his jaw clenching so hard a muscle violently ticked in his cheek.

"Fuck you," he whispered.

​The words hit with a cold, deliberate weight that vibrated in the dead-silent room. ​Before you could fire back, Tucker's voice boomed from the kitchen archway, stern and completely done with both of you. "Enough! Both of you, cut it the hell out."

​But the damage was done. The look in Logan's eyes made something tight and painful twist in your chest. You refused to sit there and breathe the same air as him for another second. Blindly turning around, you grabbed your laptop and notebook, shoving them into your backpack with rigid, uncooperative hands.

​"I'm leaving," you muttered, keeping your eyes glued firmly to the floor as you pushed past Hannah’s reaching hand on the way out. You grabbed your jacket from the hook and left through the front door, slamming it hard enough to rattle the frame, stepping out into the pouring, cold rain with the echo of his voice looping in your head like a curse.

Three — "Fuck off"

​For the next month, you became an absolute expert at avoiding John Logan. You turned it into an art form. If he was at a crowded house party, you stayed firmly in the kitchen or on the opposite porch. If the entire group gathered at Malone's, you ensured you sat on the exact opposite end of the long table, hidden behind Dean's loud gestures.

Because of this, you never saw the way his eyes silently followed you when you entered a room, or the almost guilty look that crossed his face whenever your name came up in conversation. He knew he'd crossed a line by cursing at you like that—but your unbreakable silence gave him absolutely no room to apologize, and his own stubborn pride kept him from forcing the issue.

​There were small signs of his guilt, though. One random Thursday afternoon, he showed up at the place you shared with Hannah and Allie, claiming he was just dropping off a spare hockey hoodie Garrett had left in his truck. You had stayed in your room with the door cracked just an inch, watching through the tiny gap as he lingered by the entrance, his eyes constantly drifting toward your door,  silently checking to see if you'd come out. You hadn't moved an inch, holding your breath until he finally left.

​Eventually, Hannah and Allie staged a full-blown intervention. A brand-new club had opened downtown, and they absolutely refused to let you stay home and rot in your room, even though they openly admitted the boys were all coming along. You finally relented, numbing your spiking anxiety by pouring yourself two heavy pre-game vodka crans before leaving the house.

​The club was a massive sensory overload—flashing neon lights, artificial fog, and heavy, chest-thumping bass that made communication impossible. By midnight, everyone was comfortably, heavily drunk. You were leaning your back against the sticky mahogany bar, sipping a gin and tonic, when you finally caught sight of him through the pulsing crowd.

​Logan was laughing at something Beau said, a dark red bandana tied tightly around his messy hair, looking effortlessly, devastatingly handsome in a black fitted t-shirt. As if sensing the weight of your gaze, his head turned. His dark eyes locked directly onto yours across the smoky crowded room. He didn’t look away. He held your stare for a second, then two, then three — a strange, intense, unreadable heat settling over his features before a group of dancers blocked your view.

A few minutes later, a guy from one of the campus fraternities slithered up next to you on the edge of the dance floor. He was loud, sweaty, and smelled entirely too much like cheap cologne and whiskey — but a little bit of dancing could help taking your mind off of a certain hockey player, you thought. You enjoyed it at first, moving along, focusing on the music, the stranger getting closer and closer as the playlist progressed. But then, just as you started to feel good - just the right amount of alcohol in your veins to feel lighter and relaxed - he tried to grind his hips against yours. You tried to step back, laughing it off politely at first, pushing his hands away, but he didn't take the hint. His hands came down on your waist, his fingers digging into your hips, pulling you flush against him with a grip that was far too tight and aggressive.

​Before you could even raise your hands to shove his chest, a massive shadow loomed over both of you.

​A now familiar hand gripped the frat guy’s shoulder, spinning him around with enough force to make his sneakers squeak on the floor.

​"Fuck off," Logan snarled, his voice a low, lethal vibration that cut right through the heavy bass of the music. He leaned in until he was nose-to-nose with the guy. "Get your fucking hands off her and fuck off right now."

​The guy looked at Logan and wisely raised his hands in surrender, backing away rapidly into the foggy crowd without throwing a single punch.

​Logan’s breathing was heavy, his chest heaving, his fists still clenched tightly at his sides as his eyes scanned the immediate area like a wild animal looking for another threat. He looked ready to tear the entire club apart with his bare hands. Anxious that he might actually chase the guy down for a fight, you stepped directly into his line of sight, capturing his attention.

​"Logan," you breathed, your voice soft and entirely stripped of its usual sarcasm. Without thinking about the consequences, you reached out, your bare fingers wrapping around his forearm.

​The exact millisecond your skin met the warm, rock-hard muscle of his arm, Logan froze entirely. It was the first time the two of you had ever willingly, gently touched, and the effect was instantaneous. The blinding anger seemed to drain out of him in a single breath, replaced by a sudden, sharp intake of air. He looked down at your small hand resting on his arm, his skin tingling where you touched him, and then he slowly, deliberately lifted his gaze to your eyes.

​The noisy club, the flashing strobe lights, the roaring bass, the alcohol—it all faded into irrelevant background noise. You stood face-to-face on the crowded dance floor, completely motionless, just looking into each other's eyes. Your heart was hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs, not from fear of the frat guy, but from a sudden, dizzying, terrifying realization. Looking into his wide, intensely focused eyes, you realized you didn't hate him. Not even close. And from the soft, almost vulnerable parting of his lips, he didn't hate you either. You weren't close to being friends yet, but the ice had officially shattered into a million pieces. 

Four — "What the fuck"

The shift between you was subtle, but it was absolutely undeniable. The sharp hostility was gone, completely replaced by a quiet, lingering, heavy awareness that neither of you knew quite what to do with.

​A week later, you were sitting in a sunlit corner booth at Malone’s. You were completely, entirely absorbed in a brutal, multi-chapter study session for your finals, a pair of heavy over-ear headphones clamped securely over your ears. The sweet, nostalgic melody of American Pie was playing through the speakers, and without even realizing it, you were softly humming along to the chorus, tapping the cap of your yellow highlighter rhythmically against the open pages of your textbook.

​You were so deeply focused on your notes that you didn't hear the diner's front door chime, nor did you see Logan walk in. He was there to finalize the last-minute details for the upcoming Hockey Fundraiser with Hannah and Della. But the exact moment his eyes scanned the room and spotted you sitting alone in the corner booth, he stopped dead in his tracks.

​He didn’t approach right away. He just stood near the counter, watching you. A soft, genuine smile tugged at the corners of his mouth as he listened to your faint, slightly off-key humming.

​Prickled by the sudden, distinct sensation of eyes on you, you blinked and lifted your head from your textbook. Logan instantly wiped the smile from his face, clearing his throat roughly and pretending to read a missing cat flyer on the bulletin board.

​You pulled your headphones down, a small smirk playing on your lips. "You know, if you stare any harder, you're going to burn a hole right through my skull, Logan."

​Instead of snapping back with a sarcastic, biting retort like he used to, Logan let out a soft chuckle. He walked over to your booth and, to your surprise, slid into the bench by your side, his knee almost touching yours.

​"Just making sure you weren't torturing the rest of the innocent customers with your singing," he teased gently, his shoulder brushing against yours in the tight space.

​You rolled your eyes, but there was no spite left in your expression. "I happen to have the voice of a literal angel, thank you very much. You're just jealous."

​The playful banter slowly subsided into a comfortable silence. Logan looked at you, his expression turning a little more serious, his eyes softening as his voice dropped to a much quieter register. "Hey… are you doing okay?" Since what happened the other night, obviously implied by the way he looked at you right now, concern written all over his face.

You felt a warm flush creep up your neck and settle into your cheeks. "I'm okay, thank you" you smiled and he nodded, both silently agreeing not to discuss this unpleasant event anymore. You paused, looking down at his large hands resting on the table before forcing yourself to look back up. "How are you doing ? With the fundraiser and everything, I mean. You look like you haven't slept in a week."

​He seemed genuinely surprised that you were asking about him. Really, truly asking. He leaned back against the vinyl booth, a soft sigh escaping his lips as he completely opened up to you. He talked about the immense stress of managing the team's high expectations, his constant worries about Jules’ upcoming exams, and the suffocating pressure of the NHL scouts attending the next three games. You listened intently, never interrupting, offering gentle encouragement and a few dry, sarcastic jokes that had him laughing quietly into his palms. For a full hour, the two most stubborn, argumentative people at Briar University just… talked.

​"Well," you finally said, checking the diner clock and reluctantly packing your laptop into your bag. "I have to get to my shift at the library. Don't let Della bully you into paying extra for the tableware."

​"I won't," Logan said, his eyes tracking your every movement, lingering on your face. "See you around?"

​"See you around." You gave him a small, genuine smile—the first real one he'd ever received from you—and walked out into the crisp afternoon air, your heart feeling lighter than it had in weeks.

​Inside the booth, Logan sat completely still for a long, agonizing moment. He watched your retreating figure through the glass window until you turned the corner and disappeared from view. Slowly, he let out a shaky exhale, burying his face entirely in his hands. He rubbed his palms over his eyes, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs.

​"What the fuck," he whispered into the empty diner booth, his voice laced with a mixture of absolute awe and sheer, unadulterated panic. He was screwed. He was completely, utterly, hopelessly screwed, and he knew there was no turning back.

Five — "Well, fuck"

​The night of the Briar Hockey Fundraiser at Malone’s was a chaotic, high-energy, glittering success. The entire diner had been completely transformed for the evening—the regular tables had been pushed to the far perimeter to create a makeshift dance floor, strings of warm fairy lights hung across the ceiling, and a massive turnout of wealthy alumni, boosters, and students kept the bar utterly slammed.

​You had dressed up significantly for the occasion, wearing a form-fitting, emerald green silk dress that Allie let you borrow from her closet - of course. You spent the first half of the night talking to Hannah near the punch bowl, but your eyes kept unconsciously tracking a certain someone across the room.

Logan was entirely in his element—charming the older donors, laughing easily with his teammates, and looking entirely too edible for your own good.

​Around midnight, the formal event finally dissolved into a proper, rowdy college party. The DJ cranked up a heavy, slow, rhythmic pop song, the bass echoing through the floor, and the dance floor filled up with couples. You were navigating the edge of the sweaty crowd, trying to find Allie when a sudden, firm, yet gentle pull on your wrist guided you backward.

​You spun around on your heels, your chest bumping right into Logan’s broad torso. "You've been actively dodging me all night," he murmured, his deep voice vibrating right against your skin as his large hand settled naturally around yours. The casual, unhesitating intimacy of the gesture sent a fierce, blinding jolt of electricity straight down your spine.

​"I wasn't dodging you, I was letting you do your official host duties," you shot back, a wicked, playful smile spreading across your lips. The alcohol gave you a surge of confidence, and you looped your arms slowly around his neck, stepping closer into his personal space until there was absolutely no air left between you. "Besides, I didn't think you could actually handle me dancing with you."

​Logan’s dark eyes lit up instantly, a dangerous, competitive challenge flaring in his pupils. He pulled you a fraction of an inch closer. "Oh, really? Try me, sweetheart."

​You didn't hesitate. As the heavy beat of the music dropped, you shifted your weight, rolling your hips slowly, deliberately, and sinfully against his. You leaned in close, your lips brushing the warm shell of his ear as you whispered, "You're all talk, John Logan. Let's see if you can actually keep up with me."

​You pulled back just enough to look at him, your hands sliding down his chest to grip the crisp fabric of his shirt, tugging him rhythmically, tightly against your body. The friction was immediate, heavy, and intoxicating. Logan’s breath hitched audibly in his throat. A dark, intense flush crept up his neck, coloring his sharp cheekbones as his hands settled on your waist, his fingers digging firmly into your skin through the thin fabric of your dress. He swallowed hard, his eyes dropping helplessly to your parted lips, entirely overwhelmed and undone by the sudden confidence of your movements. He could feel exactly how much you were affecting him, his body reacting instantly to the touch of your hips.

A breathless, desperate laugh escaped him. He jerked his head back for a split second, fighting a losing battle for self-control. "Well, fuck," he muttered, his voice raw, completely devoid of its usual composure.

​"Did I break the big, tough hockey player already?" you cooed, tilting your chin up tauntingly, your noses almost touching as you continued to sway against him.

​"You wish," he groaned, his thumbs stroking the bare skin of your lower back where your dress dipped low. He didn't pull away. Instead, he pulled you even tighter against his lower body, matching your sinful rhythm perfectly, his dark eyes locked onto yours with a burning intensity that made it very clear the playful teasing was rapidly turning into something much more dangerous and inevitable. When the night finally forced you apart, it didn't feel like a goodbye — it was a promise.

Six — "Fuck"

Some things are bound to reach a breaking point, and the agonizing tension building between you for months was no exception. Three nights later, Briar won a massive game and the ensuing after-party at the boys' house was pure chaotic madness. The house was packed to maximum capacity, a sweaty, pulsing mass of drunken celebration, loud music, and screaming students.

​But you and Logan weren't paying any attention to the party. For the past two hours, you had been moving around the house like two high-powered magnets — constantly drawing closer, stealing long, heated glances across the crowded rooms, the unspoken, heavy weight of the fundraiser hanging between you.

​Seeking a brief moment of quiet to cool down your flushed skin, you headed down the dark back hallway toward the upstairs bathroom. Just as you reached out for the brass doorknob, the door swung open from the inside.

​Logan stepped out.

You nearly crashed straight into his chest, cutting your breath short as you ground to a halt mere inches from him. The hallway was swallowed by shadows, save for the frantic strobe lights bleeding in from the living room. Logan stared down at you, wide-eyed, his chest rising and falling in sync with the thick, suffocating heat pulsing through the house.

​Neither of you said a single word. The months of toxic banter, the vicious, screaming arguments, the desperate avoidance, and the agonizing teasing all converged into a single, breathless, breaking second.

​Logan reached out with lightning speed, his large hand wrapping around your waist, and shoved you backward into the bathroom, slamming the heavy wooden door shut behind you and twisting the lock with a sharp, echoing click.

​Before the sound of the lock could even fade, his mouth crashed onto yours.

​It was an absolute explosion. The kiss was passionate, borderline feral, a violent release of pure, pent-up, crazy frustration. You let out a muffled gasp against his lips, your hands flying up to rip into his dark hair, pulling him down toward you out of sheer desperation. He groaned deep in his throat, a sound of pure hunger, pinning your body flat against the heavy wooden door, his thick thighs crowding tightly between yours. His hands were absolutely everywhere—clutching your face, tracing the line of your throat, gripping your hips with a bruising, desperate force that felt incredibly, entirely right.

​"Logan," you whimpered against his mouth as he tore his lips away to kiss your jawline, your neck - his hands sliding down to frantically bunch up the silk fabric of your dress.

​With a sudden burst of strengh, he hooked his large hands under your thighs and lifted you effortlessly into the air. You wrapped your legs tightly around his waist as he deposited you onto the cold marble edge of the bathroom sink counter. He didn't waste a single second. His hands slid all the way up the bare, warm skin of your thighs, finding the edge of your underwear. His fingers quickly found your slick, burning, over-sensitized core, rubbing against you through the damp fabric with a rhythm that made your head tilt back and earned a large grin from him.

​You arched your back off the counter, a loud sob escaping your lips, your fingers digging deep into his shoulders.

​"You like that?" Logan growled against your neck, his voice dripping with lust. His fingers moved faster, driving you up a steep, agonizing cliff. "Tell me you want it."

​"Logan," you breathed out, "please," you cried out, your head tossing back against the large bathroom mirror. Your hands flew down to his waist, frantically, blindly fumbling with the button of his jeans. You shoved the denim down his hips until his length snapped free—thick, heavy, and pulsing with heat. The moment your fingers wrapped tightly around him, moving in a fast, desperate stroke, Logan’s eyes rolled back.

His jaw clenched so hard a muscle ticked violently in his neck. He couldn't endure the exquisite torture for long, his quiet moans matching your own, before his large hand clamped over yours, freezing your movement. "Stop, stop," he panted, his chest wild, his forehead pressing against yours. "I'm going to come right now if you keep doing that. I need to feel you, right now."

With trembling, frantic hands, he reached into the small drawer next to the sink—Dean’s emergency stash—and ripped open a foil condom wrapper, spitting the plastic away and rolling it onto himself in one fluid, desperate motion.

Then he stepped back between your open thighs. His hands gripped your hips with an iron hold, dragging you to the very edge of the marble counter. He aligned himself against you, waiting just long enough for your frantic nod of approval. With one heavy, unyielding, possessive thrust, he buried himself completely inside you.

The sheer, overwhelming pleasure of that sudden fullness hit you both at once, fracturing the quiet of the bathroom with a sharp, mutual gasp. Instead of slowing down, the friction only stoked the fire, drawing a long, ragged, shattered exhale from deep in Logan's chest. His pupils were completely dilated, dark and wild with pure lust as his forehead dropped heavily against your shoulder.

"Fuck," he groaned into the crook of your neck, his voice a raw, visceral prayer vibrating against your collarbone.

His hands tightened on your hips, his fingers digging into your skin like an anchor as he immediately established a rhythm. The restraint dissolved into pure instinct. He pulled you flush against him, his thrusts becoming powerful, deep, and utterly relentless from the very start. Every heavy drive forced a breathless cry from your lips, the sound echoing off the tiled walls. You rocked together on the cold edge of the marble sink, your bodies generating a feverish heat that defied the chilly stone beneath you.

The bass from the after-party still thudded through the floorboards, a distant, muffled reminder of the chaotic world outside, but within the locked walls of the bathroom, that world was entirely forgotten. There was only the slick, friction-heavy slide of skin against skin, the frantic tangle of your fingers in his hair, and the hot, primal rhythm consuming you both.

The friction was dizzying, driving you both toward a precipice that neither of you could fight anymore. Logan’s pace turned frantic, his breath coming in harsh, ragged stabs against your ear as his hips slammed against yours with an undoing, desperate urgency. Every stroke sent a white-hot wave of pleasure straight to your core, tightening the coil inside you until it was agonizing.

You choked out a breathless, broken sound, your hands clamping onto his biceps as your head thrashed back against the mirror once more.

He didn't need words to know you were right there. He buried his face in your hair, his teeth grazing your shoulder as he delivered three more devastatingly deep, relentless thrusts.

That was the final breaking point. Your walls clamped down around him tight and pulsing, fracturing your breath into a loud, ruined cry as your entire body shattered into a blinding, head-to-toe release.

Hearing you break completely ruined him. Logan let out a guttural, unhinged groan that vibrated deep in his chest. His jaw locked, his body rigid and trembling as he gave one last, deeply possessive shove, throwing his weight into you as he came violently inside the condom. He held himself deep within you, his hips shuddering against yours as he rode out the waves of his own release, the two of you panting heavily in the quiet aftermath, entirely spent.

Seven — "Fuck it"

Roughly thirty minutes later, the two of you finally emerged from the bathroom. You had tried your absolute best to fix your chaotic appearance in the mirror—re-applying a bit of smudge-proof lip gloss, smoothing down the wrinkled fabric of your dress, and trying to tame your wildly tangled hair with your fingers—but the physical evidence of what had just occurred was written all over your faces. Your skin was flushed a deep unmistakable pink, your lips were incredibly swollen and red, and Logan was walking with a loose, stupidly contented, proud stride, his hair completely disheveled and sticking up in directions where your fingers had repeatedly torn through it.

​The exact moment you stepped back onto the floor of the crowded living room, a loud, piercing whistle cut through the air.

Dean was leaning against the back of the sofa, a beer dangling from his fingers and a knowing smirk plastered across his face. His eyes darted from you to Logan, zeroing in instantly on the faint trace of your lip gloss smeared along Logan’s jawline.

​"Well, well, well," he said, loud enough to be heard over the music. "Must have been a pretty intense plumbing emergency in there. Either that, or you two just went ten rounds with a blender. You might want to wipe your face, Logan."

Your cheeks instantly burned. You took a step back. "Dean, shut up, we were just—"

But Logan didn't let you finish the lie. He looked down at you, catching the slight panic in your eyes, and then looked over at Dean, who was practically vibrating with smug satisfaction.

Instead of getting defensive, Logan just let out a short, quiet laugh. The stubbornness, the secrecy, the remnants of your old feud—it all suddenly felt completely irrelevant. He was tired of hiding it.

"You know what? Fuck it," Logan muttered.

Before you could process the words, his hand slid around the back of your neck, his thumb resting against your jaw as he pulled you flush against his chest. Right there by the sofa, he leaned down and kissed you.

Dean threw his arms up in a dramatic, sweeping gesture. "About damn fucking time! Graham, you owe me twenty bucks!"

When Logan finally pulled back, his eyes were bright, a relaxed, genuinely happy smile playing on his lips as his thumb brushed your cheek. You looked up at him, the noise of the party fading into the background, finally realizing that the long, argumentative journey of seven dirty words had brought you exactly where you were supposed to be.

just posted a new John Logan fic <3

Dean chuckled at the noise, before snapping his hips against your ass; his fat cock stretching your gummy walls open, making you coat his shaft with more juices. 

He pressed his torso fully against your back then, sweat and skin touching, and you arched toward him. The angle changed then, as Dean’s tip rubbed against your entrance each time he pulled out of your sloppy pussy; a moan so loud left your mouth and you were sure everyone downstairs had heard it, which was impossible with the volume of the music. “Fuck, y’want them to hear us or something? Want them to come take a look?” He joked, groaning as you clenched around his cock.

The hand Dean had to cup your jaw moved away, his thumb leaving your drooling mouth in a wet pop before traveling down to your tits. Saliva coating his digit and he used it to rub around your areola, making your nipple peak up. “Y’so fucking pretty… Goddamn.” He whispered in your ear, cock buried deep inside you for a second, tip kissing your cervix so gently.

“Dean fuck…” You voiced back at him, head all dizzy from the way he was fucking you. The hockey player had always taken his time to make sure and pleasure you first, watching what made you moan and come. You sighed as his hand on your hip also moved to your tits, and he groped both of them in his large and warm palms; he squeezed the fat, pinched your nipples, rolled them in between his fingers before tugging softly.

Moans and whines escaped you, showing how good you felt at that moment.

“You like it, pretty girl? You like me touching you like that?” He asked, both in a mocking and genuine tone—like he wanted to make sure you were having fun like he did. You nodded at his question, panting while replying. “I love it so fuckin’ much, yeah. I love when you touch me.” And it was enough for Dean to get cocky again, snapping his hips in fast and quick thrusts against your ass, making it bounce. You gasped, arching up to feel him more inside you. 

“I want to make you come on my cock, what do you think? You want to come on my cock?” He asked, pinching your nipples again and you struggled to reply for a second, and especially when the room was filled with squelching noises coming from your sloppy pussy. The noises were perverted, mixing with skin slapping skin and moans from the both of you.

Dean’s hands ended up moving to your hips, grabbing them to pull you back onto his cock faster. Your juices were coating his balls, making them slap and stick to your clit each time he thrusted back inside you. 

“Yeah, yeah, I want to come on your cock!” You cried out, one hand searching backward to grab Dean’s forearm just to feel him. He groaned, cursing under his breath when you clenched around his shaft once more. His tip rubbed and pushed against your g-spot as he lifted your hips up slightly. “You’re such a good girl, yeah? Y’want to come where? I can’t hear shit with the music.” He asked, mocking you just so you’d repeat it. 

You groaned in annoyance, turning your head to look at him from above your shoulder; he had his usual cocky smile on, face sweaty from the efforts, blonde hair falling on his forehead. “Fuck off, Dean…” He laughed out-loud at your answer, nodding his head before fastening his pace. The thrusts now sent you forward, your weight making the desk creak as Dean fucked you.

One of his hands also traveled between your thighs, his fingers teasing your clit with a feather-light touch before he started rubbing circles onto it, digits smearing wetness around with how slick you were. Your thighs shook as the pleasure coursed through your body, your mouth opening wide and you cried out Dean’s name; thankfully the loud volume of the music and karaoke behind the doors covered it. 

“Y’so fucking loud, baby, you really want them to hear you, uh? Just tell me if that’s what you want.” You heard Dean say as he kept snapping his cock inside your pussy; juices covering all his length to his bushy base and making his skin glisten. You didn’t reply, too busy focusing on your orgasm coming.

Warmth pooled inside your stomach, your pussy clenched tight around Dean’s cock and your thighs started to shake. He must have realized, because the circles he rubbed onto your clit fastened and his thrusts were quicker.

“Dean, fuck, I’m about to come!” You whined, arching toward him again and he cursed, his hips making your ass bounce. “Yeah, I can feel it, baby.” He said, his tip rubbed the sweet spot at the entrance of your pussy.

You only needed a few more thrusts before crying out loudly, muscles trembling as you came onto the hockey player’s cock; his fingers still rubbing at your sensitive clit. You squirmed, mouth wide open and drooling onto Dean’s desk while being overstimulated. “Oh, fuck, I’m going to—” He groaned, hips slapping your ass, the tip of his cock still rubbing your g-spot. “Dean! Dean, fuck!” You cried out, pussy clenching as you suddenly squirted from the amount of pleasure you felt.

Your juices flowed out, drenching Dean’s cock, his thighs, both your feet and the floor of his room. He gasped, cursing as he kept going just to bring it all out of you, his fingers rubbing your clit faster. “Fuck, fuck, that’s it, good girl.” You heard, before your upper body fell onto the desk, you were all spent.

Only then, you felt Dean pull out of your sloppy hole, him groaning behind you before you felt the warmth of his semen hitting your lower back; the ropes of it slowly dripping to your ass. You were both breathing loudly, silence took over—if you forgot about the loud music of the party—before Dean’s hands moved to grab your hips. “You were so fucking good.” He said, pressing kisses to your sweaty skin; from your shoulders to your nape.

“Was I?” You chuckled at him, looking at his face from above your shoulder. “Yeah, you were, duh. You always are.” He only replied.

You watched as he moved away, grabbing his boxers and putting them on before turning around to grab tissues from his bed table. He came back, slowly hit the floor to be on his knees and started to clean the mess between your thighs and the semen off of your skin. You smiled at his actions, feeling his lips on your skin; kissing your thighs or the back of your knees, you waited for him to give you the go before moving away from the desk too. 

He got up from the floor, grabbed your panties before giving them to you. “You staying a bit or you want to get back to the party?” 

You hummed, still half-naked and now sitting on his bed. “Thought about staying here for a bit, what do you think?” He smiled, throwing the tissue away before grabbing a hockey jersey with his name and number on it. He threw it to you, licking his lips like he already thought about you in his shirt. “Here, you can keep it or whatever.” He shrugged, sitting next to you in the bed.

You chuckled before putting the shirt on, and rolled to lay on your stomach. Dean imitated you, blue eyes focusing on the view he had of you. He hummed before speaking again. “Yeah, I like that view. You’re pretty like that.” You rolled your eyes at the compliment even though you knew they were genuine coming from Dean.

“You know I made a mess on the floor, right?” You simply replied back to him and he shrugged. “Yeah, I’ll take care of that, don’t worry about it. Right now I’m just having ideas with you wearing my jersey.” He leaned over, pressing his lips against yours for a single kiss before pulling away. 

“Yeah, I think you should wear it all the time, just saying.” 

“In your dreams, Di Laurentis.”