cat

“Ah,” you gasped, your hand twitching on the mouse. “Dean!”

“Missed you, sweetheart,” he murmured against your skin.

Practice had run long, he'd been yelled at by Coach twice, and all he'd wanted on the drive home was to bury himself inside you. he just hadn’t realised he’d have to compete with a computer screen for your attention.

You tried to squirm away from him, keeping your eyes glued to the monitor. “Babe, give me like an hour then I’m all yours.”

“An hour?” He groaned. “The sims can wait; I can’t.”

He pressed his lips directly to the sensitive spot right behind your ear.

“You’re so needy,” you said, feeling proud of yourself for holding back a moan as he lightly nipped at your earlobe.

“I haven’t seen my girlfriend all day,” he said mouth moving to your neck, “I have no shame in admitting that I’m needy.”

It wasn’t that you weren’t eager to see him too, but inspiration had hit and you were finally creating the perfect Sim.

“I’m making a Sim for my Sim to fall in love with,” you explained, purposely ignoring his dramatic pout as you dragged a slider to adjust the nose of the Sim. “I’m tired of looking at uggos.”

Dean lifted his head to squint suspiciously at the character you were creating on the screen before looking at you. Giving up the pouty act, he moved from behind your chair and shimmied his too big frame into the narrow gap between the desk and your seat. He perched himself on the edge of the desk, effectively straddling your legs and completely blocking your view of the monitor.

“Dean,” you whined.

“Isn’t that why we spent three hours last week making my Sim? Have your Sim fall in love with my Sim,” he demanded. He rested one hand on the arm of your chair while his other hand cupped your chin, tilting your head up to force you to look at him.

“But your Sim made ugly children.”

Dean let out a dramatic gasp, pretending to look deeply offended.

“I’m serious,” you continued. “I had to delete the whole save file and restart. Now, move.”

He leant forward slightly, crowding your space. “So, you’re not going to chose me over the game?”

“No.”

You tried to duck your head to look around his torso, but your boyfriend was having none of it. Instead, he leant forward, closing the distance between you in a silent ask for a kiss... an invitation you couldn’t help but oblige.

His mouth came down on yours, warm and heavy with the desperation of someone who had been thinking about you all day. Your hands automatically wrapped around his neck, pulling him closer as your tongue swiped over his.

As he kissed you, calloused hands ran over your body, sliding up your thigh and under the hem of your shirt. His thumb flicked over your hardening nipples. A soft moan escaped your lips, and you could feel Dean’s victorious smile against your mouth.

 “Don’t mind me,” he whispered against your lips. “You just keep playing, okay?”

Before you could even formulate a response, Dean shifted your chair back just enough to slide off the desk and drop to his knees right in front of you.

“Dean,” you protested, even as you lifted your hips to help him take off your shorts. “I can’t concentrate if you’re–.”

You gasped as his fingers slid beneath the elastic of your underwear, already finding dampness in your panties.

“You have your fun, I have mine,” he said, pushing your legs further apart.

He leant forward, burying his face in your lap. He pressed a wet kiss right through the fabric of your underwear, his hot breath fanning through the material. You did your best to focus on the game, one hand on the mouse and the other in his hair, urging him on as he continued kissing your lips through your damp panties.

Truthfully, it was pointless having your hand on the mouse, you hadn’t so much as looked at the screen from since Dean knelt between your legs.

“Smells so good,” he praised, nose rubbing against your clit through the panties.

The praise went right to your clit, which was throbbing needily. You let out a breathy moan as you shifted your position on the chair to give him better access, your heel coming to rest on his back.

“Need more,” you pleaded. “Please~.”

A broken whimper left your lips as he pulled your panties to the side and moved his tongue against you. He kitten licked through your folds, lapping up your arousal before he flicked his tongue against your clit.

The hand you had in his hair tightened, and he tried to supress a moan as you pushed his face deeper between your legs. Your hips started moving on their own volition, chasing relief for the ache you felt.   

As he sucked your clit into his mouth, his free hand ran through the slickness of your folds. Giving up on trying to downplay your moans, you wantonly moaned, not caring if his housemates were home and could hear you. honestly, it was nothing they hadn’t heard from you before.

Dean pushed two fingers inside of you as a reward for your moans, pumping and curling them against your walls.

“Oh, fuck, Dean~,” you rasped, your head lolling backwards as you panted.

“Are you still focused on the game?” Dean teased, his voice muffled between your legs. He flicked his tongue against your clit again, his fingers picking up pace inside of you.

You didn’t reply, couldn’t reply, your mind too focused on the pleasure he was giving you. Your thighs shook around his head, nails digging into his scalp as you felt yourself building closer to orgasm.

“Fuck, Dean~,” you whined.

“Gonna cum for me?” he asked. He didn’t need to ask, by now he could tell the signs when you were close. He just wanted to hear you say it.

“I will, I’m gonna cum for you,” you promised.

Dean pulled back and looked up at you. His chin and lips were glistening with your arousal as a cocky smile flashed on his lips. “Bet you wish you were cumming around my dick.”

As if to prove him right, you clenched around his fingers. He chuckled, low and mean. “Thought so.”

Your pussy clenched again, trying to keep his fingers in as he slid them out of you. he immediately replaced the loss with his tongue, tracing your hole with his tongue before plunging it into you. simultaneously, he pressed down on your clit, rubbing in a tight circle.

Your entire body tensed as you came with a cry of his name. he continued caressing you through your orgasm, mumbling compliments about how beautiful you looked cumming for him and how good you tasted.

It’s only when you came down from your high did he pull his fingers out of you. he offered his coated fingers to you. “Want a taste?”

Keeping your eyes on his, you leant forward and sucked his fingers into your mouth. you made a show of licking his fingers clean, tasting yourself on him.

“Fuck,” he whimpered as he watched you.

He reached over with his free hand and deliberately slammed the laptop lid shut.

The loud groan of the fan died out; the only remaining sound in the room were your ragged breaths as you watched each other.

“The Sims can wait,” Dean whispered as he stood up, his fingers already moving to the waistband of his trousers.

You looked up at him, pussy clenching again with anticipation for what was to come. “It can wait,” you agreed.

If you enjoyed, please consider leaving a comment, ask, reblog etc. it means a lot x

Request:

The apartment is quiet when Quinn gets home, the late hour doing nothing to diminish the energy still thrumming through him after another playoff win.

"Hey," he says, dropping his bag by the door with a heavy thud. "What are you still doing up?"

You shrug, sitting up as he approaches. "Couldn't sleep."

Quinn leans down to kiss you and your fingers immediately find their way to his face, tracing the rough hair that's been growing thicker with each passing week of the postseason.

The beard is darker than his usual clean-shaven look, a bit wild and absolutely irresistible.

"You're obsessed with this thing, aren't you?" he murmurs against your lips, a smile in his voice.

"Maybe a little," you admit, your thumbs stroking the hair along his jawline. "It suits you."

"Yeah?" He pulls back slightly, his eyes crinkling with amusement. "Even though it's getting out of control?"

"It's playoff beard season," you say firmly. "It's supposed to be out of control."

Quinn laughs as he settles onto the couch beside you. His arm wraps around your shoulders, pulling you close. The scent of his shower still clings to him, clean soap with a hint of his natural musk.

"We've got a few days off before the next round," he says, his fingers tracing patterns on your arm. "Any plans?"

"I can think of a few things," you reply, turning in his arms to face him fully. Your fingers continue their exploration of his beard, mapping the way it grows thicker along his chin and jaw.

His eyes darken slightly, the shift from playful to predatory subtle but unmistakable. "Oh yeah? Like what?"

"Like this," you whisper, leaning in to press kisses along his jawline. The rough texture against your lips sends a shiver through you.

Quinn's hand moves from your arm to the back of your neck, holding you gently but firmly as you continue your exploration. His breathing hitches slightly when you nip at the sensitive skin just below his ear.

"You really do like it," he murmurs, his voice lower now.

"I really do," you confirm, pulling back to look at him. "I like how it feels against my skin."

A slow smile spreads across his face. "How about we find out how it feels somewhere else?"

Before you can respond, he's moving, shifting you effortlessly until you're lying back on the couch with him hovering above you. His beard brushes against your neck as he kisses you, the sensation sending sparks straight to your core.

"Quinn," you breathe out, arching against him.

"Yeah?" He kisses down your neck, the rough hair creating a delicious friction against your skin.

"Touch me."

"Where?" His voice is muffled against your collarbone.

"Everywhere."

He chuckles, the vibration traveling through your entire body. "That's a big order."

But his hands are already moving, sliding under your shirt to trace the curve of your waist, then higher to cup your breasts through the thin lace of your bra. Your nipples peak instantly at his touch.

"Like that?" he asks, though he already knows the answer.

You can only nod, words failing you as his thumbs circle your nipples, sending jolts of pleasure through you.

"More," you manage to say.

Quinn obliges, his mouth following the path his hands just took. The contrast between the soft wetness of his tongue and the rough texture of his beard against your sensitive skin is intoxicating.

When he captures a nipple through the lace of your bra, you gasp, your fingers tangling in his hair.

"Sensitive tonight," he observes with a smirk.

"Blame the beard," you retort, pulling him closer.

He laughs again, then shifts his attention to your other breast, giving it the same thorough treatment. By the time he's done, you're writhing beneath him, desperate for more.

"Quinn, please," you beg, not even sure what you're asking for anymore.

He lifts his head, his eyes dark with desire. "Please what?"

"Use your mouth."

"Already am," he says, though he understands what you really mean.

"Lower," you clarify, your voice breathless.

Quinn's smile widens. "As you wish."

He moves down your body, his beard creating a trail of sensation against your skin. When he reaches the waistband of your shorts, he pauses, looking up at you.

"These need to go," he says, his fingers hooking into the elastic.

You lift your hips to help him and he slides the shorts down your legs, tossing them aside. Your panties follow quickly, leaving you completely exposed to his gaze.

"Beautiful," he murmurs, his eyes roaming over you. "Always so beautiful."

Then he's lowering his head and the first touch of his beard against your inner thigh makes you gasp. The rough texture against such sensitive skin is almost overwhelming, but in the best possible way.

"Quinn," you breathe out, your hands finding their way into his hair again.

He doesn't respond, just shifts slightly, his mouth finally finding where you want it most. The first stroke of his tongue against your clit has your back arching off the couch.

"God, yes," you moan, pressing his head closer.

Quinn takes his time, exploring you with thorough attention. His tongue circles your clit, then dips lower to tease your entrance before returning to focus on the sensitive bundle of nerves. All the while, his beard creates a delicious friction against your inner thighs, a constant reminder of his presence.

Your hips begin to move of their own accord, seeking more of the pleasure he's offering. Quinn responds by sliding two fingers inside you, curling them just right to hit that special spot that makes your toes curl.

"Right there," you gasp, your grip tightening in his hair.

The combination of his tongue, his fingers and the rough texture of his beard is pushing you closer and closer to the edge.

"Quinn, I'm going to..." you start, but the words dissolve into a cry as your orgasm crashes over you.

Quinn works you through it, his mouth never leaving you. When you finally come down, you're trembling, completely spent.

He lifts his head, his beard glistening with your arousal and grins. "Good?"

You can only nod, too breathless to speak. Quinn shifts to lie beside you, pulling you into his arms.

"Give me a minute," you say, your voice shaky.

He was laughing with Garrett over something, beer bottle hanging loose from his fingers, but his eyes were still on yours. The second he notices you looking, he mouthed, “Upstairs?”, tilting his head towards the stairs.

“No,” you mouthed again.     

This time, you moved from his line of sight, away from temptation and to the makeshift dance floor in the middle of the living room. It was a useless effort, not even two minutes passed before Logan followed you to the dance floor. His hands found your waist as your hips moved to the music.

“Logan,” you warned, even as you ground back into him.

“Let’s go upstairs,” he begged, warm breath tickling your neck. “I’m so thirsty.”

“Then have a glass of water.”

The world blurred for a dizzying second as he spun you around so you could face him.

The corner of Logan’s mouth pulled up into a wicked smirk. “I’m not that kind of thirsty.”

You wrapped your arms around his neck. “You’re insatiable.”

“And that’s entirely your fault,” he said it solemnly, as if it were a rational thing. “I think I deserve compensation.”

You let out a soft laugh, the vibration caught between your chests as the bass from the living room speakers thudded around you. “Is that so? And what exactly does compensation look like, Logan?”

“You know exactly what it looks like,” he murmured. His hands shifted from your waist, to the strip of bare skin exposed by your short skirt. The touch sent a familiar rush through you, enough to make it harder to remember why you'd been saying no in the first place. “Upstairs.”

“This would be like the fourth party I’ve missed,” you pointed out, though your fingers were already tangling into the short hairs at the back of his neck, betraying your own words.

“I’ll be quick,” he promised, though his voice lacked a shred of sincerity.

You knew he was lying. Logan had been finding excuses to eat you out every chance he got lately and he always took his time. It was like he'd somehow forgotten that he'd already won you over, and was trying to prove his worth.

Without waiting for a third no, Logan tugged at your arm, and you easily followed. Dean and Tucker let out a loud ‘Woop!’ as Logan hauled you past them and up the steps. He ignored them, entirely focused on getting you into his room, but you felt a warmth flood your cheeks.

The bedroom door had barely closed before Logan pinned you against it, boxing you in.

He kissed you like a man starved, and like he hadn’t just finished doing so two hours ago. A low and needy groan rumbled deep in his throat when your hands scrambled up his chest, clutching at the fabric of his shirt just to keep your balance.

His knee slid in between your legs as he continued kissing you and you shamelessly ground yourself down on it. For all your protesting downstairs, heat pooled at the bottom of your belly quickly, panties dampening. It wasn’t long before the throb between your legs became unbearable, desperate for real stimulation.

“Logan,” you gasped against his lips. “How do you want me?”

“Bed,” Logan grunted.

The best was yet to come, but that didn’t stop the soft whine that left you as he removed his leg from between your legs and pulled back. A second later, his hand was slipping underneath your skirt, hand on the waistband of your panties. He impatiently tugged at the fabric, tutting loudly when it got caught on your thighs.   

“Let me,” you laughed. Batting his hand away, you pulled your panties off and stepped out of them, leaving them on the floor.

Anticipation, and impatience, clung to Logan like a second skin, mouth practically salivating as he watched you settle on the edge of the bed and spread your legs wide.

Kneeling on the floor at the foot of the bed, he hiked up your skirt further, eyes hungrily tracking the way your arousal glistened on your pussy lips.

“I’ve been waiting all day for this,” he murmured as leant forward, pressing his nose where you ached most.

“You literally ate me out this morning.” Your voice came out breathily as he used his nose to circle your throbbing clit.

“It’s not enough,” he sighed. His warmth breath fanning your pussy had your hole clenching around nothing.

Calloused hands came to the backs of your thighs, pushing them slightly wider so you were even more exposed to him. The cold air hit your pussy, and your hips shifted on the bed.

“You promised to be quick,” you whined.

At that, Logan’s tongue darted out, licking at your clenching hole. It took everything you had to contain your moans to a reasonable level as he circled your hole with his tongue. All the while his nose kept bumping against your clit.

Your back arched off of the mattress as his tongue plunged into your hole.

“Fuck~.”

“Feel good, baby?” He asked, tongue vibrating against your hole as he spoke.

You responded with another moan, lewd and loud as your fingers slipped between your legs. With two fingers, you spread your folds wider for him, toes curling as his nose nudged your exposed clit.

It was almost overstimulating how his nose rubbed against where you were most sensitive again and again. You cried out, back arching off of the mattress. The sounds coming from your mouth only encouraged him to move harder and faster against you.

“I’m too close,” you gasped. The pleasure felt too good, and you so desperately wanted to prolong it. “I don’t want to come yet.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Logan pulled his tongue from your hole and begun licking flat and long stripes up your pussy. He paused on your clit, sucking it into his mouth before moving back down your pussy again.

“Yes~ Loge. Yes~!” You purred.

Blunt nails dug into the flesh of your thighs as he pressed you back further, lifting your hips higher off of the bed. Logan hummed and cooed around you, loudly slurping and sucking up your slickness. He was purposely messy with it, letting your juices coat the lower half of his face.

“Mmmm, delicious, baby,” he groaned against you. “Wish I could bottle this up, have a taste whenever I want.”

“How much more do you need?” you laughed, only half-joking though. In the past week alone, you couldn’t remember how many orgasms he’d pulled out of you from just his tongue alone. most times, he didn’t even want anything in return, entirely content to get high off of your scent.

“24/7, baby.”

He emphasised that by pressing an all to chaste kiss to your pussy lips. Raising your head, you looked down between your legs, watching as he continued pressing delicate kisses and soft licks between your legs. For some reason, that turned you on more than anything and your clit throbbed.

“Need to come. Now,” you said, head falling back against the mattress.

Logan got to work immediately, tongue flicking against your clit relentlessly and sloppily as he eased two fingers into you. the room was filled with his soft moans of delight and the sounds of his fingers squelching within you.

Your eyes rolled back as you felt the orgasm build up, starting as a knot in your stomach before tightening and exploding electric pleasure throughout your body. You came with a loud cry of his name, hips gyrating on his tongue.

His mouth stayed on you the entire time, licking up every drop that you could give him.

Despite his promises that he’d be quick, he’d make you cum several more times before he had his fill, and it was yet another party that you missed because your boyfriend was insatiable.

"Holy shit," someone mutters as you pass, and you smile to yourself. This is exactly the reaction you wanted. You came here tonight to have fun, to feel wanted, to remind yourself that you're not sitting at home pining over your ex-boyfriend.

Even if that ex-boyfriend is somewhere in this house.

It was his best friend’s frat throwing the party, so you were sure you’d end up seeing him. You didn’t let that deter you, though.

You push the thought of Dean Di Laurentis out of your mind as you make your way toward the makeshift bar in the kitchen. You're not here for him. You're here for you.

The kitchen is marginally less crowded, and you're reaching for a cup when a guy in a vampire costume slides up next to you. He's cute in a generic way—dark hair, easy smile, the kind of confidence that comes from never being told no.

"Let me guess," he says, looking you up and down with obvious appreciation. "Sexy vampire?"

You laugh, shaking your head as you pour yourself a drink. "Santanico Pandemonium. From Dusk Till Dawn?"

"Never seen it, but I'm suddenly very motivated to watch it." His grin widens. "I'm Tyler."

"Dangerous movie for a guy dressed as a vampire," you tease, taking a sip of your drink. The vodka burns pleasantly down your throat.

Tyler leans against the counter, angling his body toward yours. "I like danger. Can I get you another drink? That one looks a little weak."

You're about to respond when you feel it—that prickling awareness at the back of your neck, the sensation of being watched. You glance toward the kitchen doorway and your breath catches.

Dean.

He's leaning against the doorframe, red solo cup dangling from his fingers, dressed as the devil in a way that makes the costume look like it was made for him. Fitted black dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up, black pants that hug his frame perfectly, and a pair of small red horns perched on his blonde hair. Red accents trace along his collar and cuffs—details that somehow make him look more dangerous, not less. Even from across the room, you can see the tension in his jaw, the predatory way he's watching you. Dean Di Laurentis has always had a presence that draws attention without trying, but right now, with that dark intensity in his eyes, he looks absolutely lethal.

Right now, that attention is focused entirely on you.

His dark eyes rake over your costume, lingering on the curves of your body, the expanse of skin on display, and something hot and possessive flashes across his face. You watch his grip tighten on his cup, watch the muscle in his jaw tick.

Good, you think with a surge of vindictive satisfaction. Let him look. Let him see what he fumbled.

You deliberately turn back to Tyler, offering him your brightest smile. "Another drink sounds perfect."

An hour later, you're on the dance floor, and you've completely lost yourself in the attention.

Tyler lasted through three songs, his hands respectful on your waist as you swayed together, before he leaned in close to your ear. "You're fucking gorgeous, you know that?" You'd smiled and danced close enough that your bodies brushed with every beat. When his friend called him over, you'd watched him go with a little wave, already scanning the crowd for your next distraction.

You didn't have to wait long.

Marcus appeared almost immediately—a football player with broad shoulders and a pirate costume that showed off his arms. "Dance with me," he'd said, not really asking, and you'd let him pull you back into the throng of bodies. His hands were bolder than Tyler's, settling low on your hips. You'd turned in his arms, pressing your back against his chest, and rolled your hips to the beat.

"Damn," he'd breathed against your neck, and you'd felt the heat of Dean's stare intensify from across the room.

You didn't look. You didn't need to. You could feel him watching, could practically feel the jealousy radiating off him in waves, and it made you move with more confidence, more deliberate sensuality.

When Marcus's hands started wandering toward your ass, you'd spun away with a laugh, letting the music carry you deeper into the crowd. A guy in a Ghostface mask caught you, steadied you with hands on your bare shoulders.

"Careful, beautiful," he'd said, and you'd grinned up at him.

"I'm always careful."

"Somehow I doubt that." His hands slid down your arms, and you let him pull you close, let your body move against his. The mask was creepy up close, but his body was solid and warm, and when his hands found your waist, you didn't stop him. You raised your arms above your head, swaying, letting the gold embellishments on your costume catch the light, knowing exactly how you looked.

Knowing Dean was still watching.

You caught a glimpse of him through the crowd—still in that same spot by the wall, his entire body rigid with tension. Even from here, you could see the darkness in his expression, the way his jaw was clenched so tight it had to hurt.

Good.

Let him hurt the way you'd hurt.

Ghostface leaned down, his mask brushing your temple. "You're the hottest girl here, you know that?"

"Oh yeah? Tell me more," you purred, and he laughed, his hands tightening on your waist.

You danced with him through two more songs, let him get comfortable, let his hands wander. When he tried to kiss you—or at least press the mask against your neck in some approximation of a kiss—you finally pulled away, breathless and flushed.

"I need another drink," you told him, and slipped away before he could follow.

But you didn't make it to the bar.

A hand caught yours, spinning you around, and you found yourself face-to-face with a guy in a leather jacket and slicked-back hair—some kind of 50s greaser costume. He was handsome in a clean-cut way, with a charming smile that probably worked on most girls.

"Where are you going?" he asked, pulling you back toward him. "I've been watching you all night."

"Have you?" You let him reel you in, your hands landing on his chest. The leather was smooth under your palms.

"Hard not to. Your energy is fucking magnetic." His hands found your hips, and he started moving with you, matching your rhythm perfectly. "I'm Jake."

"Nice to meet you, Jake."

"You gonna tell me your name, or are you going to stay mysterious?"

You just smiled, turning in his arms so your back was pressed against his chest. His hands slid around your waist, holding you close, and you let your head fall back against his shoulder as you moved together. The position was intimate, almost obscene, your ass grinding against him as his hands splayed across your stomach.

"Fuck," he muttered, his lips brushing your ear. "You're killing me."

You were killing Dean, too. You could feel it, that burning attention that hadn't wavered all night. You turned your head slightly, just enough to catch sight of him through the crowd, and your breath caught.

He wasn't leaning against the wall anymore. He was standing now, his body coiled tight, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. Even from across the room, you could see the fury in his expression, the barely-contained violence.

Your current dance partner—a tall guy in a Clark Kent costume who'd smoothly cut in after Jake got pulled away by his friends—has his hands on your hips, and you're moving against him to the heavy beat, putting on a show you know Dean is watching. Superman is handsome enough, enthusiastic, his hands confident as they grip you.

"You're incredible," he murmurs in your ear, and you smile, arching your back slightly, pressing closer.

You feel it again. That gaze, burning into you from across the room, hotter and more intense than ever.

You don't have to look to know it's Dean.

He's been watching you all night; you've felt it. Every time a new guy approaches, every time someone's hands wander a little too low, you've felt the weight of his stare. Part of you wants to confront him, to tell him he has no right to look at you like that anymore. But another part of you—the petty, vindictive part—enjoys it.

Enjoys knowing he's watching you have fun without him.

Enjoys knowing it's driving him absolutely insane.

Superman's hands slide lower, and you're about to step away when suddenly he's gone. One second he's behind you, the next he's being physically moved aside, and Dean is there instead.

"Hey, man, what the fuck-" Superman starts, but one look at Dean's face shuts him up. Dean doesn't say a word, just stares at him with an expression that promises violence, and Superman backs off with his hands raised.

You whirl around, fury igniting in your chest. "What the hell, Dean?"

"We need to talk." His voice is low, rough, and his hand wraps around your wrist.

"I'm busy," you snap, trying to pull away, but his grip is firm.

"Now."

The possessiveness in his tone makes your blood boil. You let him pull you off the dance floor, but only because you're about to rip him a new one and you'd rather not do it in front of everyone. He leads you down a hallway, away from the pulsing music and crowds, until you're in a relatively quiet corner near the stairs.

You yank your wrist free the moment you're alone, and the force of it makes you stumble back a step. "What the fuck is your problem?"

"My problem?" Dean's laugh is harsh, humorless, and he takes a step toward you, closing the distance you just created. "My problem is watching every asshole in this house put their hands on you all fucking night."

"They're not assholes, they're just guys having fun at a party. And last I checked, you don't get a say in who touches me anymore." You cross your arms over your chest, which only serves to push your breasts up higher in the low-cut bikini top. Dean's eyes drop for a fraction of a second before snapping back to your face, his jaw tightening.

"Don't do that," he says, his voice dropping lower.

"Do what? Exist? Have fun? Move on with my life?" Each word is sharp, pointed.

"Having fun," he repeats, his voice dripping with bitter sarcasm. "Is that what you call letting their hand roam over your skin? Letting them whisper in your ear while your grind your ass against them?"

Heat floods your cheeks—part anger, part something else you don't want to name. "I was dancing. People dance at parties, Dean. It's kind of the whole point."

"You were putting on a show." He takes another step closer, and you can see the muscle jumping in his jaw, the way his hands are clenched into fists at his sides. "Don't pretend you weren't. You were practically fucking them with your clothes on. No, more like you were fucking them with that string on. You-"

"I'm single, Dean. I can do whatever the fuck I want." You glare at him, your heart pounding in your chest.

"You wore that on purpose."

"I wore this because I look hot in it and I wanted to feel good about myself. Not everything is about you, you- you fucking asshole!"

"Bullshit. You knew I'd be here. You knew exactly what you were doing."

"You are so fucking arrogant!" Your breath is coming faster now, your chest rising and falling rapidly. "You're being ridiculous—"

"Am I?" He's close enough now that you can smell his cologne, that familiar scent that used to mean safety and home. "Because from where I was standing, it looked like you were trying to make me lose my fucking mind. And congratulations, babydoll, it worked."

"Don't call me that," you snap, but your voice wavers. "And don't act like you have any right to be upset. You broke up with me, remember? You're the one who said we wanted different things, that the timing wasn't right, that you needed space-"

"I know exactly what I said, and I've regretted it every single day since. But that doesn't mean I can just stand there and watch other men touch you like they own you."

"They don't own me. Nobody owns me." You're breathing hard now, your hands trembling with anger and adrenaline. "And you know what? Maybe I did want you to see. Maybe I wanted you to know what it feels like to watch someone you care about slip away. To feel helpless and jealous and-"

"You wanted me to be jealous?" Something flashes in his eyes—triumph mixed with fury. "You admit it."

"So what if I did?" You're goading him now, you know you are, but you can't stop. Weeks of hurt and anger are bubbling up, demanding release. "You deserve to feel like shit, Dean. You deserve to watch me have fun without you. You deserve to see other guys want me and know that you gave up your chance-"

"I didn't give up anything." His hand shoots out, wrapping around your upper arm, and he pulls you closer. Not rough enough to hurt, but firm enough that you gasp. "I made a mistake. A stupid, fucking mistake because I was scared of how much I needed you, and I've been trying to fix it ever since."

"By doing what? Staring at me from across rooms? Showing up at places you know I'll be?" You try to pull your arm free, but his grip tightens. "That's not fixing anything, that's just being a creep."

"I was trying to give you space. Trying to find the right moment to talk to you, to apologize, to-" He breaks off, his other hand coming up to grip your other arm. "But then you walked in tonight looking like every guy's wet dream, and I couldn't- I can't-"

"Can't what?" Your voice is breathless now, and you hate it. Hate how your body is responding to his proximity, to the heat of his hands on your bare arms, to the desperation in his voice.

"Can't watch you leave here with someone else." His voice cracks slightly. "Can't stand the thought of another man's hands on you, another man making you laugh, another man taking you home and-" He stops, his jaw clenching so hard you can see the muscle jump. "Fuck."

"That's not your decision to make anymore." But even as you say it, you're not pulling away. You're standing here, trapped between his body and the wall behind you, your breathing ragged, your skin burning where he's touching you. "And it's not my problem."

"I know." His grip on your arms loosens slightly, his thumbs stroking over your skin in a gesture that's achingly familiar. "I know I don't have any right to feel this way. I know I'm the one who fucked everything up. But watching you tonight—watching Tyler lean in close to you at the bar, watching Marcus's hands slide down your hips, watching that asshole in the Ghostface mask press against you, watching Jake's hands on your stomach while you moved against him-" His voice is getting rougher, more raw. "It was fucking torture."

"Good," you whisper, but there's no heat in it anymore. "You deserve it."

"I know." One of his hands slides up from your arm to your shoulder, his fingers brushing against your collarbone. "I know I did. But that doesn't change the fact that I wanted to rip every single one of them away from you. That I wanted to be the one touching you, the one making you smile, the one you were grinding against on that dance floor."

Your breath hitches. "Dean-"

"Do you have any idea what you look like in this?" His eyes drop, taking in the dark red top, the way it barely contains your breasts. "Like a fucking fantasy. Like something I don't deserve to even look at, let alone touch. But I can't stop looking. I haven't been able to stop looking at you all night."

"Then maybe you should have thought about that before you dumped me." Your voice is weaker now, and you can feel your resolve crumbling. "Before you told me you needed to focus on hockey, that a relationship was too distracting, that-"

"I was an idiot." He steps even closer, and now you're fully backed against the wall, his body crowding yours. "I was scared because I'd never felt that way about anyone before. Because you made me want things I didn't think I could have—a future, a life beyond hockey, something real. And instead of dealing with that like an adult, I panicked and pushed you away."

"You broke my heart." The words come out barely above a whisper, and you hate how vulnerable you sound. "You made me feel like I wasn't enough, like I was just some distraction you needed to get rid of."

"No." His hand comes up to cup your face, his thumb brushing over your cheekbone. "No, baby, you were never- fuck, you were everything. You are everything. That's why I got scared. Because losing you would destroy me, and I thought if I ended it first, if I was the one to walk away, it would hurt less." His laugh is bitter. "Turns out I was wrong about that too."

You can feel tears pricking at your eyes, and you blink them back furiously. "You don't get to do this. You don't get to show up here and say all the right things and expect me to just-"

"I don't expect anything." His other hand comes up to frame your face, and now he's holding you like you're something precious, something he's terrified of losing. "I just need you to know that I'm sorry. That I've been miserable without you. That seeing you tonight, seeing other guys touch you and look at you and want you-" His voice drops to almost a growl. "It made me realize I can't do this anymore. I can't pretend I'm okay without you. I can't watch you move on."

"That's not fair." Your hands come up to grip his wrist, but you're not pushing him away. "You can't just decide you want me back because you got jealous at a party."

"It's not just tonight." His forehead drops to rest against yours, and you can feel his breath on your lips. "I've wanted you back since the moment I walked away."

Your heart is hammering so hard you're sure he can feel it. "Dean-"

"Tell me you don't feel it too." His voice is desperate now, pleading. "Tell me you don't still think about us, about what we had. Tell me you didn't wear this costume partly because you knew it would drive me crazy. Tell me you didn't dance with all those guys hoping I was watching."

You open your mouth to deny it, but the words won't come. Because he's right. You did know he'd be here. You did choose this costume partly because you knew how he'd react. You did dance with those guys knowing his eyes were on you the whole time.

"I hate you," you whisper, but it sounds more like a confession than an accusation.

"No, you don't." His thumb brushes over your lower lip, smudging your dark lipstick. "You hate that you still want me. That's not the same thing."

"You're such a fucking dick-"

"And you're so fucking beautiful it hurts to look at you." His voice is rough, raw with emotion. "I need you. Breaking up with you was the biggest mistake of my life, and I've been trying to find the right way to tell you, the right moment, but seeing you tonight-" His body presses closer, pinning you fully against the wall now. "I can't wait anymore. I can't watch you walk away. I can't let another man touch you when all I want is to-"

"To what?" Your voice is barely a whisper.

His eyes are dark, intense, burning into yours. "To make you mine again. To remind you how good we were together. To erase every other man's touch from your skin until the only hands you remember are mine."

Your breath catches. You can feel the heat radiating off his body, can see the genuine anguish in his eyes beneath the jealousy and possessiveness. This close, you can see everything—the dark circles under his eyes that suggest he hasn't been sleeping well, the tension in his shoulders, the way he's looking at you like you're water and he's been dying of thirst.

"You can't just say that. You can't just-"

"I know I can't." His forehead drops to yours, and you can feel his breath on your lips. "I know I have no right. But I'm saying it anyway because I can't keep it in anymore. I want you back. I need you back."

You should push him away. You should tell him it's too late, that he hurt you too badly, that you've moved on. But your body is betraying you, swaying toward him, and when his lips brush against yours—barely a kiss, just a whisper of contact—you don't pull back.

"I seriously hate you," you breathe against his mouth, but it doesn't sound any more real than when you said it earlier.

"I know." His hand slides into your hair, tilting your head back. "Hate me all you want. Just don't leave with someone else tonight… Please."

And then he's kissing you for real, and it's nothing like the gentle kisses you used to share. This is desperate, claiming, his tongue sliding against yours as he presses you back against the wall. You should stop this. You should-

But your hands are fisting in his shirt, pulling him closer, and you're kissing him back just as desperately. All the anger, all the hurt, all the weeks of missing him are pouring into this kiss, and when he groans into your mouth, the sound goes straight between your legs.

"Upstairs," he mutters against your lips. "Now."

You should say no. You should walk away, go back to the party, find Superman or Tyler or literally anyone else. But Dean's hand is sliding down your side, fingers tracing the curve of your waist, and your body is screaming for more.

"This doesn't mean I forgive you," you manage to say.

"I don't care." He grabs your hand, pulling you toward the stairs. "Hate me while I make you come."

He guides you through the crowd of people and up the stairs to Beau’s bedroom door.

“This is ridic-” You start to come to your senses for a brief moment. You can't fuck your ex in his best friend's bedroom.

That’s a new low

But he shushes you, pushing the door open and pulling you in behind him without allowing you to finish your thought. The bedroom door barely closes before Dean is on you again, his mouth crashing against yours with bruising intensity. He walks you backward until your legs hit the bed, his hands everywhere at once—sliding up your thighs, gripping your ass, pulling you flush against him so you can feel exactly how hard he is through his pants.

"Do you have any idea what you've been doing to me all night?" he growls against your neck, teeth scraping over your pulse point hard enough to make you gasp. "Watching every asshole downstairs eye-fuck you while you danced like that? I was going mad."

"Good," you manage to say, even as your head falls back to give him better access. "You deserved it."

He makes a rough, possessive sound deep in his chest, and then his hand is between your legs, cupping you through the thin fabric of your bikini bottoms. His fingers press against your clothed cunt, and you can't stop the whimper that escapes.

"Fuck," he breathes, his eyes going dark. "You're already soaked. I can feel it through the fabric."

Heat floods your cheeks, but before you can respond, he's pushing you back onto the bed. You fall onto the mattress with a soft bounce, and he follows you down, settling between your parted legs. His weight presses you into the bed, solid and familiar and intoxicating.

His mouth finds yours again, kissing you deeply while his hands roam your body. He traces the curve of your waist, the dip of your hips, then slides higher to cup your breasts through the sequined bikini top. His thumbs brush over your nipples through the fabric, and you arch into his touch with a moan.

"I've missed this," he murmurs against your lips. "Missed touching you. Missed the sounds you make."

His mouth moves down your neck, leaving a trail of hot, open-mouthed kisses. He pauses at your collarbone, sucking hard enough to leave a mark, and the possessiveness of the gesture sends a fresh wave of arousal through you.

"Dean-" you start, but he cuts you off by sliding his hand under the waistband of your bikini bottoms.

His fingers find you wet and ready, and he groans. "Fuck, baby. Were you this wet when those other guys were touching you?"

"Maybe," you lie, just to see what he'll do.

His eyes flash dangerously, and then he's hooking his fingers into the dark red fabric and dragging it down your legs. He tosses the bottoms aside carelessly, leaving you exposed from the waist down except for your heels.

"Liar," he says, his voice low and rough. He settles back between your thighs, his broad shoulders forcing your legs wider. "You weren't wet for them. You were wet for me. Because you knew I was watching."

Before you can respond, his mouth is on you.

The first touch of his tongue makes your back arch off the bed with a sharp cry. He licks a long, slow stripe up your slit, groaning at the taste of you, and the vibration goes straight to your clit.

"Fuck, I've missed this the most," he mutters against your flesh. "Missed how you taste. Missed making you fall apart with my mouth."

He's always been good at this, better than anyone else you've ever been with, and he's using every bit of that knowledge now. His tongue circles your clit with maddening precision, then dips lower to slide into you. The sensation is overwhelming, and your hands fly to his hair, fingers tangling in the dark strands.

"Dean- oh god-" You can barely form words as he works you over, alternating between broad strokes of his tongue and focused attention on your clit.

He pulls back just enough to speak, his breath hot against your wet flesh. "That's it. Say my name. Want everyone in this fucking house to know who's making you feel this good."

Then his mouth is back on you, and he's relentless. He sucks your clit between his lips, flicking his tongue over the sensitive bundle of nerves until you're trembling. One hand grips your thigh, holding you open for him, while the other slides up to tease your entrance.

"Please," you gasp, your hips rolling against his face. "Dean, please-"

He slides one finger inside you, and the stretch makes you moan. He works it in and out slowly, curling it to hit that spot inside you that makes your vision blur, all while his tongue continues its assault on your clit.

"So fucking tight," he groans against you. "Did you let anyone else touch you like this? Did you let anyone see how pretty you look when you're desperate?"

"No," you manage to say, your voice breaking. "No, just you-"

"That's right." He adds a second finger, stretching you further, and the satisfaction in his voice is palpable. "Just me. Only me."

He picks up the pace, his fingers pumping into you while his mouth works your clit with devastating precision. The pressure builds fast and hard, coiling tight in your belly, and you can feel yourself getting close.

"Dean, I'm- I'm gonna-"

And then he stops.

Your eyes fly open, and you look down at him in desperate fury. He's watching you with a smirk, his lips glistening with your arousal, his fingers still buried inside you but completely still.

"What the fuck-"

"Beg me," he says, his voice rough with desire and something darker. "I want to hear you beg."

"Fuck you."

"That's the plan." He presses a kiss to your inner thigh, his stubble scraping against the sensitive skin. "But first, I want to hear you beg. Want to hear you say 'Please, Dean. Please make me come.' Want to hear you admit that no one else can make you feel like this."

You try to hold out, try to maintain at least some shred of dignity. But you're so close, and you need this. Need him. Your body is screaming for release, and you can't think straight with his fingers still inside you, his breath hot against your cunt.

He presses a few more kisses to your inner thigh, trailing them up toward your core. Each one is soft, teasing, maddening. "Come on," he says softly, glancing up at you with that infuriating smirk. "Beg me, sweet girl."

He presses a soft kiss directly to your clit, and the gentle touch after all that intensity nearly breaks you.

"Please." The word tumbles out before you can even think to stop it, any restraint you had left completely gone. "Please, Dean. Please make me come. I need- fuck- I need you."

"That's my girl." The possessiveness in his voice should annoy you, but instead it sends a fresh wave of heat through your body. "That's exactly what I wanted to hear."

His mouth returns to your clit, and this time he doesn't stop. He works you relentlessly, his fingers pumping into you hard and fast, curling to hit that perfect spot with every thrust. His tongue flicks over your clit in rapid strokes, and the combination is overwhelming.

"Come for me," he commands against your flesh. "Come on my tongue. Show me how much you missed this."

The orgasm hits you like a freight train. Your back arches off the bed, your thighs clamping around his head as pleasure crashes through you in waves. You cry out his name, your hands fisting in his hair, your entire body shaking with the intensity of it.

He works you through it, his fingers and tongue gentling but not stopping until you're pushing at his head, oversensitive and trembling. When he finally pulls back, his chin is glistening with your arousal, and the sight of it makes your stomach clench with renewed desire.

"Fuck," you breathe, your chest heaving. "Dean-"

"I'm not done with you yet." He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, his eyes dark and hungry as he stands. "Not even close."

You watch through heavy-lidded eyes as he strips, pulling his shirt over his head to reveal the body you've missed more than you want to admit. His chest is broad and defined, his abs cut, and when he works his belt open and shoves his pants down, your mouth goes dry.

He's hard, his cock thick and flushed, and you remember exactly how it feels inside you. The stretch, the fullness, the way he hits every spot that makes you see stars.

"Turn over," he commands, and something in his tone, rough and authoritative, makes you obey without thinking.

You flip onto your stomach, and his hands are immediately on you. He reaches around you to untie your cape, tossing it to the floor, then unhooks your bikini top. The velvet fabric falls away, leaving you completely naked except for your heels and the smudged remains of your makeup.

"Fuck," he breathes, his hands running up the backs of your thighs, over the curve of your ass, up your spine. "You're so fucking perfect. Missed this body. Missed every inch of you."

His hands grip your hips, pulling them up so you're on your knees, face pressed into the mattress. The position leaves you completely exposed, vulnerable, and you feel a fresh rush of arousal at the thought of how you must look to him.

"This is how I've been picturing you," he says, his voice rough. "Every night since we broke up. On your knees for me, desperate and wet and mine."

You feel the head of his cock pressing against your entrance, and then he's pushing inside in one hard, deep thrust.

The sensation punches the air from your lungs. He's big—bigger than you remembered—and the stretch burns in the best way. It's been weeks since you've had him, and your body needs a moment to adjust to the intrusion.

"Fuck," he groans, his fingers digging into your hips. "So tight. Forgot how fucking tight you are."

He doesn't give you time to adjust. He pulls out almost completely, then slams back in, setting a brutal pace that has you crying out into the mattress. Each thrust is deep and hard, the angle allowing him to hit spots that make your vision blur.

"This what you wanted?" he grits out, his hips snapping against your ass with each thrust. The sound of skin slapping against skin fills the room, obscene and intoxicating. "Wanted to drive me crazy until I couldn't take it anymore? Wanted me to see you dancing with all those assholes and lose my fucking mind?"

"Yes," you gasp, pushing back against him, meeting his thrusts. "Wanted you to- fuck- wanted you to see what you gave up."

He leans over you, one hand sliding up your spine to wrap around your throat. He pulls you back against his chest, changing the angle so he's hitting even deeper. His other hand splays across your stomach, holding you in place as he fucks into you.

"I know what I gave up," he growls in your ear, his breath hot against your neck. "And I'm never making that mistake again. You're mine. You've always been mine."

His hand slides down from your stomach to your clit, rubbing in tight, fast circles. The dual stimulation is overwhelming—his cock driving into you, his fingers on your clit, his hand around your throat, his voice in your ear.

"Did you think about me?" he asks, his voice rough. "When you were dancing with those guys, did you think about me watching? Did you get wet knowing I was losing my mind?"

"Yes," you admit, because there's no point in lying anymore. "Yes, I thought about you-"

"Good." His fingers move faster on your clit. "Because I was thinking about this. About getting you alone and reminding you exactly who you belong to."

You can feel another orgasm building, faster than you expected. Your walls are already fluttering around him, and he groans at the sensation.

"That's it," he encourages. "Feel how perfectly you take my cock? Like you were made for me. Like this pussy was made for me."

"Dean-" Your voice is high and desperate. "I'm close-"

"I know baby. I can feel it." He releases your throat, pushing you back down onto the mattress. Both his hands grip your hips now, and his pace becomes punishing. "But you're not coming yet. Not until I say so."

"Please—" You're begging again, but you don't care. "Please, Dean, I need—"

"You need what?" His hand comes down on your ass in a sharp slap, and the sting makes you cry out. "Tell me what you need."

"Need to come," you gasp. "Need you to make me come-"

"Say you're mine." His voice is commanding, desperate. "Tell me you're mine and I'll let you come."

You try to hold out, try to maintain some control, but you're so close and he feels so good and you can't think about anything except the need for release.

"Yours," you finally gasp out. "I'm yours, Dean, fuck- I'm yours."

"That's right." His hand slides around to your clit again, rubbing hard. "Mine. Always fucking mine."

The orgasm slams into you with devastating force. Your entire body convulses, your walls clenching around him so hard he curses. You scream into the mattress, your hands fisting in the sheets as wave after wave of pleasure crashes through you.

He fucks you through it, his rhythm faltering slightly. "Fuck, baby, you feel so good."

You're still trembling when he pulls out, and you whimper at the loss. But before you can protest, he's flipping you onto your back, hooking your legs over his shoulders, and driving back inside you in one smooth thrust.

The new angle has him hitting even deeper, and you cry out at the intensity. You're oversensitive from two orgasms, but the pleasure is still there, building again impossibly fast.

"Want to see your face," he says, his eyes locked on yours. "Want to watch you come apart for me again."

He leans down, folding you nearly in half, and the position has him grinding against your clit with every thrust. His face is inches from yours, his expression raw and desperate and possessive.

"You're so fucking beautiful," he says, his voice breaking. "Missed you so much."

Your hands come up to frame his face, and you pull him down into a kiss. It's messy and desperate, all tongue and teeth, and you can taste yourself on his lips.

"Dean-" You break the kiss to gasp for air. "I'm gonna-"

"Do it." His hips snap harder, faster. "Come on my cock. Show me how good I make you feel."

The third orgasm is almost painful in its intensity. Your body is so sensitive, so overwhelmed, that when it hits, you see stars. Your nails dig into his shoulders, your back arching off the bed, and you're pretty sure you scream his name loud enough for the entire party to hear.

The feeling of you coming around him is his undoing. His rhythm stutters, and then he's coming too with a guttural groan, his hips jerking as he spills inside you. You feel the warmth of it, the pulse of his cock, and it prolongs your own orgasm until you're both shaking and gasping.

He collapses on top of you, careful not to crush you with his full weight, and you wrap your arms around him. For a long moment, neither of you moves, both trying to catch your breath. Your heart is pounding so hard you can feel it in your throat, and your entire body feels like jelly.

"Fuck," he finally breathes against your neck. "That was..."

"Yeah," you agree, because you don't have the words either.

He carefully pulls out, and you both wince at the sensitivity. He rolls onto his side, immediately pulling you against his chest, and you're too exhausted and satisfied to resist.

His arms wrap around you, one hand splaying across your lower back, the other coming up to cradle the back of your head. Your cheek presses against his chest, and you can hear his heart still racing, feel the rise and fall of his breathing gradually slowing. Your own body is trembling with aftershocks, muscles quivering, skin hypersensitive everywhere he touches you.

The room is quiet except for your combined breathing and the muffled thump of bass from the party downstairs. Sweat cools on your skin, making you shiver slightly, and Dean pulls you closer, his warmth enveloping you. Your legs are tangled with his, one of your thighs draped over his hip, and you can feel the stickiness between your legs—evidence of what you just did.

What you just let him do.

The thought brings a complicated rush of emotions. Satisfaction, yes. Your body is sated in a way it hasn't been since the breakup. But there's also confusion, vulnerability, and underneath it all, that persistent ache of hurt that great sex can't quite erase.

Dean's hand moves to your hair, fingers gently working through the tangled strands. You'd lost the feathered headpiece accessory somewhere during the night, probably on the dance floor, and your carefully styled waves are now a mess. He doesn't seem to care. His fingers are gentle, almost reverent, as he smooths your hair back from your face.

"You okay?" he asks softly, and there's genuine concern in his voice.

You nod against his chest, not quite ready to speak yet. Your throat feels raw—from screaming his name, probably—and your emotions are too jumbled to put into words.

He presses a kiss to the top of your head, then another to your temple. His lips linger there, and you feel him breathe you in. "I've missed this," he murmurs. "Just... holding you. Being close to you."

Something in your chest tightens at the tenderness in his voice. This is the Dean you fell for—not the cocky hockey player or the jealous ex, but the one who could be soft when it was just the two of you. The one who made you feel safe and cherished.

The one who broke your heart.

"Dean," you start, but your voice cracks.

"I know." His hand moves from your hair to your face, tilting your chin up so he can look at you. His thumb brushes over your cheekbone, wiping away a smudge of makeup. "We need to talk about this. About us."

You meet his eyes, and the vulnerability you see there makes your breath catch. He looks almost scared, like he's terrified you're going to pull away now that the heat of the moment has passed.

Maybe you should. Maybe the smart thing would be to get dressed, walk out, and pretend this never happened.

But you don't move.

"Why did you do it?" The question comes out quieter than you intended. "Why did you break up with me if you... if you felt like this?"

Dean's jaw tightens, and for a moment you think he's going to deflect. But then he sighs, his hand moving to cup the back of your neck, his thumb stroking the sensitive skin there.

"I was scared," he admits, and the honesty in his voice surprises you. "You made me feel things I'd never felt before. Things I didn't know how to handle."

"So you ran away." There's no accusation in your tone, just statement of a fact.

"Yeah." He looks away, shame flickering across his features. "I told myself it was about hockey, about needing to focus on the season. And that was part of it—Coach had been on my ass about my performance, and I was stressed about scouts and the draft and all that shit. But the real reason..." He pauses, his throat working as he swallows. "The real reason was that I was falling in love with you, and it fucking terrified me."

Your heart stutters in your chest. He's never said those words before—not even when you were together. You'd felt it, sensed it in the way he looked at you, touched you, but he'd never actually said it. He'd said he loved things about you, but never that he was in love with you.

"I'd never been in love before," he continues, his eyes finding yours again. "Never wanted a future with someone, never thought about what comes after college, after hockey. But with you, I started thinking about all of it. And instead of talking to you about it, instead of being a fucking adult, I panicked and pushed you away."

You're quiet for a long moment, processing his words. Part of you wants to be angry—and you are, still, that anger simmering beneath the surface.

But another part of you understands.

"You really hurt me," you finally say, and your voice breaks on the last word. "I thought what we had meant nothing to you. That dating me was a mistake."

"No." His grip on you tightens, almost desperate. "Fuck, no. You were everything. You are everything. That's why I got so scared."

A tear slips down your cheek before you can stop it, and Dean catches it with his thumb. He leans down, pressing a soft kiss to your cheek where the tear had been, then another to your jaw, your temple, your forehead. Each kiss is gentle, apologetic, full of unspoken emotion.

"I'm so sorry," he whispers against your skin. "I'm so fucking sorry for hurting you. For making you feel like you weren't enough when the truth is I didn't think I was enough for you."

You pull back slightly to look at him, surprised. "What?"

"You're incredible," he says simply. "You're smart and funny and beautiful and you have your shit together in a way I don't. You know what you want, where you're going. And I'm just... I'm a hockey player who's good at hitting pucks with sticks. I didn't know how to be what you needed."

"I never asked you to be anything other than yourself," you say softly. "I just wanted you to be honest with me. To let me in instead of shutting me out."

"I know." He closes his eyes briefly, and when he opens them again, they're bright with unshed tears. "I know, and I fucked it up. But I'm asking you—begging you—to give me another chance. Let me prove that I can do better. That I can be better."

You want to say yes immediately. Your body is still humming with satisfaction, your heart aching with how much you've missed him. But you force yourself to think, to really consider what you're doing.

"What's different now?" you ask. "What's changed since you broke up with me?"

"I have." He shifts slightly, propping himself up on one elbow so he can look down at you properly. His other hand continues to trace patterns on your skin—your shoulder, your arm, your hip. "I've been miserable without you. I tried to tell myself I made the right choice, that I needed to focus on hockey, but it didn't work. I couldn't focus. Couldn't sleep. Couldn't stop thinking about you."

His hand moves to your face again, cupping your cheek. "I talked to my dad about it. About you. About how I felt. And he told me I was being an idiot, that if I found someone who made me happy, I should hold onto them. Not push them away because I was scared."

"Your dad said that?" You're surprised. Dean rarely talks about his father, and you'd only met him once.

"Yeah. He also told me that being in love doesn't make you weak—it makes you stronger. Gives you something to fight for." Dean's thumb strokes over your cheekbone. "And he was right. These past few weeks, trying to work up the courage to talk to you, to apologize... I've never been more terrified in my life. But I knew I had to try. Because losing you for good would be worse than any rejection."

You feel more tears threatening, and you blink them back. "You really hurt me, Dean. It's not just going to go away because we had sex."

"I know." He leans down, pressing his forehead against yours. "I know it's going to take time. I know I have to earn your trust back. But I'm willing to do whatever it takes."

"Whatever it takes?" You repeat with a raised eyebrow.

"Yeah," He says softly, a small smile growing on his lips. "I love you so fucking much and the way I handled things... that's not who I want to be."

You study his face, looking for any sign of insincerity, but all you see is earnest vulnerability. This is a side of Dean you've rarely seen—open, honest, willing to admit his flaws.

"I'm scared," you admit quietly. "I'm scared of letting you back in and having you hurt me again."

"I'm scared too," he says. "Scared of fucking this up again. But I'd rather be scared with you than safe without you."

Your hand comes up to rest on his chest, feeling his heartbeat under your palm. It's still elevated, matching your own. "If we do this... if I give you another chance then things have to be different. You have to actually talk to me when you're scared or stressed or feeling overwhelmed. You can't just shut me out."

"I won't," he promises. "I'll talk to you. Even when it's hard. Especially when it's hard."

"And the jealousy thing..." You raise an eyebrow. "Tonight was hot, but you can't go around threatening every guy who looks at me."

"I know. I'll work on it. But in my defense, you were basically putting on a show for me."

"Maybe I was," you admit, and his eyes darken slightly. "But that doesn't give you the right to act like a caveman."

"I know." He leans down, pressing a soft kiss to your lips. "I'll try to control it. But I'm not going to apologize for wanting you all to myself."

"Possessive," you murmur against his mouth.

"Only when it comes to you." He kisses you again, deeper this time, and you feel heat starting to build again despite your exhaustion.

When you break apart, you're both breathing harder. Dean's hand has drifted down to your hip, his fingers tracing the curve of your waist.

"So what does this mean?" he asks quietly. "Are we... are we trying again?"

You take a deep breath, considering. Every logical part of your brain is screaming at you to be careful, to protect yourself. But your heart—your stupid, hopeful heart—wants to give him this chance.

"We're trying," you finally say. "But Dean, I mean it when I say you have to actually put in the work. This isn't just going to magically fix itself because you confessed your love for me after we had amazing sex."

"I know." He pulls you closer, his relief palpable. "I'll put in the work. Whatever you need."

"I need honesty," you say firmly. "Complete honesty. If you're feeling scared or overwhelmed or like you need space, you tell me. You don't just disappear."

"I promise."

"And I need consistency. I need to know that you're in this, that you're not going to wake up one day and decide it's too much again."

"I'm in this." His hand moves to tangle in your hair. "I'm all in. I love you."

The words hang in the air between you, and your breath catches. He said it earlier, implied it, but hearing him say it directly makes it real.

"I love you," he repeats, his eyes locked on yours. "I should have said it before. Should have said it every day we were together. But I'm saying it now, and I'll keep saying it until you believe me."

Tears are streaming down your face now, and you don't bother to wipe them away. "I love you too," you whisper. "I never stopped. Even when I hated you, I still loved you."

He kisses you then, deep and slow and full of promise. It's different from the desperate, hungry kisses earlier—this one is tender, reverent, like he's trying to pour all his feelings into it.

You lie there for a while longer, just holding each other, trading soft kisses and gentle touches. Dean's hands roam your body, but it's not sexual—it's exploratory, like he's relearning the map of your skin. You do the same, tracing the lines of his muscles, the scars from various hockey injuries.

"I really did miss this," he murmurs, his lips brushing your shoulder. "Just being close to you. Touching you."

"I missed it too," you admit. "More than I wanted to."

His hand slides down your side, over the curve of your hip, and you feel heat starting to build again. Despite everything you've just been through, your body responds to his touch, craving more.

"Dean," you breathe as his hand moves between your legs, fingers teasing.

"Hmm?" He's kissing your neck now, teeth grazing your pulse point.

"We should probably get back to the party. People are going to notice we're gone."

"Let them notice." His fingers slide through your wetness—a mixture of your arousal and his cum—and you gasp. "I'm not done with you yet."

"We just-" Your protest dies as he circles your clit, and your hips buck involuntarily.

"I know." He rolls you onto your back, settling between your legs. "But I want you again. Want to take my time with you this time. Make love to you properly."

The phrase "make love" should sound cheesy, but coming from Dean, it makes your heart flutter. This is what you'd wanted all along—not just the passion and heat, but the tenderness and intimacy.

"Okay," you whisper, pulling him down for a kiss.

This time is different. Slower, gentler, more intimate. He takes his time exploring your body, kissing every inch of skin he can reach, murmuring words of love and apology against your flesh. When he finally slides inside you, it's slow and deep, and you both gasp at the sensation.

He makes love to you with a tenderness that brings tears to your eyes, his movements slow and deliberate, his eyes never leaving yours. Every thrust is accompanied by whispered words—"I love you," "I'm sorry," "You're so beautiful," "I'll never let you go again."

When you come this time, it's softer, deeper, more emotional. You cling to him, tears streaming down your face, and he holds you through it, kissing away your tears and telling you he loves you over and over.

He follows soon after, his release almost gentle compared to the intensity earlier. He buries his face in your neck, breathing your name like a prayer, and you hold him close, your fingers tangling in his hair.

Afterward, you lie tangled together, exhausted and sated and emotionally wrung out. Dean pulls the blanket over both of you, tucking you against his side, and you rest your head on his chest.

You're both still catching your breath when you hear it—footsteps in the hallway outside the bedroom door. Heavy, purposeful footsteps that make your entire body go rigid.

"Oh my god," you whisper, your eyes going wide.

Dean's head snaps up, and you watch as reality crashes over his face. "Fuck. This is Beau's room."

The footsteps pass by, heading toward the bathroom, and you both exhale shakily. But the moment of panic has shattered the peaceful afterglow completely.

"We need to leave," Dean says urgently, already moving. "Like, right now. If Beau comes up to his room-"

"Yeah, okay, yes." You're already scrambling out of bed, your heart hammering in your chest. The tender intimacy of moments ago has been replaced by adrenaline-fueled urgency.

Dean grabs his clothes, pulling on his pants with quick, efficient movements. You snatch the pieces of your costume from the floor, but frown as you hold it up. You were in no state to sneak out of a part in a bikini after what you and Dean had just done.

"Here," Dean says, he tosses you his gray hoodie from the back of the chair. "Just put this on over it. It's mine."

You slip on your costume and pull the hoodie on to cover yourself—it falls almost to your knees and smells like him.

Dean finishes buttoning up his shirt and doesn't bother with the horns or other accessories. There's no time.

"What about... his bed?" You bite your lip, glancing back at the messy sheets.

"Uh..." Dean hurriedly starts to straighten out the sheets in an attempt to make the bed look somewhat put together. "Mm good enough."

"You sure?" You ask, stuffing your cape into the pocket of Dean's hoodie as you survey the room, looking for any more evidence that the two of you were here.

He nods and takes your hand, squeezing it gently before moving to the door. He cracks it open slowly, listening. The hallway is quiet now, but you can still hear the muffled sounds of the party downstairs—music, laughter, voices.

"Okay," he whispers. "We go slow. Quiet. If anyone sees us, we just act like we were looking for the bathroom or something."

You take a deep breath and nod. Dean opens the door wider and peers out. The hallway is empty, but you can hear voices coming from one of the other rooms. Your pulse is racing as he pulls you out into the corridor.

The walk to the stairs feels like it takes forever. Every creak of the floorboard makes you both freeze. Halfway down the hallway, you hear a door open behind you, and Dean immediately pulls you against the wall, pressing you into the shadows. His arm comes around your waist, holding you close, and you bury your face in his chest, barely breathing.

Someone emerges from the bathroom—a guy in a zombie costume—and walks in the opposite direction without even glancing your way. You wait until he's disappeared into another room before Dean carefully pulls you forward again.

The stairs loom ahead, and you're almost there when Dean suddenly stops. He turns to you, his eyes scanning your face and neck. His expression shifts to concern.

"You have some uh... marks," he says quietly, reaching up to touch a dark hickey on your collarbone.

You reach up to feel your neck, and your stomach drops. "Oh god. How bad?"

"Bad enough that people will notice." He's already thinking, his eyes darting around. "Here," Dean says, and he reaches into his pocket, pulling out his phone. He opens the camera app and hands it to you. "Check yourself. See what we're working with."

You look at your reflection and wince. Your makeup is smudged, your hair is a mess, and there are dark marks scattered across your neck and shoulders. You look exactly like someone who just had intense sex. You huff and tug the hood over your head, pulling the strings a bit to tighten it and cover your neck.

"Alright," He pulls you toward the stairs. "Keep your head down. Don't make eye contact with anyone. We move fast, but not so fast that we draw attention."

You descend the stairs together, your hand gripping his tightly. The party is in full swing below—people dancing, drinking, laughing. No one seems to notice you slipping down the staircase.

The living room is crowded, bodies pressed together on the dance floor. You and Dean navigate through the throng carefully, keeping to the edges of the room. Someone bumps into you, and you tense, but they don't even look at you.

The kitchen is your next obstacle. There are a few people in there—a couple making out against the counter, someone raiding the fridge—but they're too absorbed in their own activities to pay attention to you.

Dean leads you toward the back door, moving with purpose but not urgency. You're almost there when you hear a familiar voice call out.

"Dean? Dude, where have you been?"

Your heart stops. You both freeze.

Dean turns slowly, his arm still around your waist, pulling you slightly behind him. It's one of the hockey players holding a beer and looking curious.

"Just needed some air, man," Dean says smoothly, his voice casual despite the tension radiating from his body. "Party's getting crazy."

"Tell me about it," Dean's teammate laughs, completely oblivious. "Hey, you seen Beau? I've been looking for him."

"Nah, not recently," Dean says, and you can hear the strain in his voice now. "But I'm sure he's around somewhere."

"Yeah, probably." He takes a sip of his beer. "Anyway, catch you later."

He turns away, and Dean immediately pulls you toward the back door. You're through it in seconds, stepping out into the cool night air.

You don't stop moving until you're around the side of the house, out of sight of the windows. Only then does Dean pull you to a stop, and you both lean against the exterior wall, breathing hard.

"Oh my god," you whisper. "That was close."

"Too close," Dean agrees, his chest heaving. "You okay?"

"Yeah," you say, and then you start to laugh—the kind of laugh that comes from adrenaline and relief and the sheer absurdity of the situation. "We just snuck out of a frat house like we're criminals. We're ridiculous."

"Completely ridiculous," he agrees. He pulls you closer, wrapping his arms around you from behind and resting his chin on your shoulder. "But worth it."

You lean back against him, looking up at the night sky. The party continues inside, oblivious to the fact that you and Dean just pulled off the most intense, emotional, and logistically complicated reunion of your lives.

"Come on," Dean says softly, pressing a kiss to your temple. "Let's get out of here before Beau realizes we used his room for make-up sex."

He takes your hand and leads you toward his car, and as you walk together through the darkness, you can't help but smile. Whatever happens next, whatever complications lie ahead, at least you know one thing for certain:

Making up with Dean Di Laurentis is definitely worth the risk.

Perhaps, his mandatory naps fit to one better, but he needed those an-hour-or-two-long naps, because he needed the rest. Still, it remained. He didn't see it as superstition though. It was more of his thing. Well, that was the first time he did it with you. It became your—both of you—thing.

He dragged you to bed for those naps too, muttering that he couldn't nap properly without you, because it was true. With you, he felt a hundred percent despite whatever lingering soreness in his body. With you, he felt at ease that he could actually do his best and even if he lost, you were always there. With you, he felt just enough—cherished...loved. If he was on the road, he would call you before his naps, fall asleep while on the call, and wake up to see you either sleeping or watching him.

While it calmed his nerves, it was more of a habit than a superstition.

It was all there was to it. A simple nap. Until it changed. Instead of sleeping, you two fucked instead. Quinn could still remember that day so clearly.

You were shifting to get comfortable, panting in a way that had him more awake than ever, peeking back at him with a pout and your cheeks flushed. You were muttering something so softly that he couldn't hear it and he was afraid to ask what it was. Then you turned towards him. You stared and stared, your pupils swallowing your irises, your need leaking out of you in drowning waves. You gripped his shirt, biting your lower lip, gathering his attention.

His eyes strayed lower, marking the slight sweat shining on your neck and chest. His heart thundered in his chest when you pushed closer, pressing your chests together so that he could feel your nipples through your shirts. He gulped, feeling his cock stir. His hand shook as he rubbed his hand on your back, trying to—He didn't know what he was trying to do back then.

"Do we have to sleep right now, Quinny?" You asked in a breathy tone, your hands flattening on his chest, sliding down, grazing his nipples, teasing the fuck out of them. "Can we...can we do something else?"

His answer was always a yes.

Quinn was up for anything you wanted, and he knew exactly what you needed. He nodded, then you pounced at him, smashing your lips together, nipping at his lips, whining when he couldn't be fast enough to open up for you, gasping when he reciprocated your desperation. He was shattering, needing to feel you closer, feeling like you were miles away, because you both were still wearing too many fucking clothes.

His hands were shaking as he tugged and pulled off your shirt before his. His head swam when your tongue licked up his neck just as he threw his shirt over his shoulder. His chest squeezed as his whole body vibrated when you pushed him to lay back, when you mounted his thighs, when you grinded down on his cock as if you were already both naked.

"My Love," he drawled out in a moan, feeling the swell of pleasure building in his core.

"Quinn please," you sobbed, grasping his nape, your nails digging into his skin. "Please."

All Quinn could do was grasp your hips, lifting you up, whispering his apologies when your tears fell. All he could do was kiss its sad trail on your cheeks until he reached your precious eyes to kiss. All he could do was tug his pants down, his cock slapping his pelvis, his pre-cum dribbling from his crown, and pull the crotch of your shorts and your panties to the side, exposing your wet and quivering pussy. All he could do was guide you over his length in a slow and torturous glide that got you both groaning, then up and up until his leaking tip met your sensitive clit.

"You're so wet, my Love," he gritted, feeling your pussy drip on his shaft. "So fucking wet for me."

With an appeasing kiss that only got you to spill more tears, he finally sunk his hard cock in your pussy. He listened to your broken gasp. He took in your tiny writhing and shifts to take more and more of him in you until you finally hit his base while he pushed against that very spot that had you panting and shaking on top of him.

"Oh, Quinny, you're so deep," you cried out, pressing your foreheads together, your lips brushing against each other in a whisper of a kiss. "Fuck."

By the time you two were done with his alarm reminding him to take his quick shower and prepare for his game, you were both a sweaty mess, holding each other so tightly. You took turn pressing kiss after kiss on each other’s faces, wiping away the tears on each other's cheeks, smiling with your red and swollen lips, giggling and lightly complaining about how sticky you both were. Your lower bodies coated with your mixed cum from how filthy that supposed quickie turning into a full session and none of you were complaining.

"You're gonna be late," you sighed in a singsong voice, your nails dragging on the skin of his scratched back.

You continued to tease him to the point of his cock painfully twitching back to life, to the point that he had to bed you to stop teasing or else, to the point that he had to pull out of you, pry your hands off him, push you down on your back. You tried to cling onto him, so Quinn simply spread your thighs apart, ate you out until your teases turned into a string of high-pitched breathy moans.

Sure, Quinn needed to shower, but he couldn't just neglect aftercare. He filled you up so good, so he needed to clean you, to praise you for being so good despite how hungry you were, to ground you back down to reality that he loved you beyond sex. He always loved you, so he lapped up every drop of his and your cum from your pussy and your thighs. So he forced his aching cock to calm the fuck down. So, he made you come once more.

He took you for a quick shower after. He held you against him, your back on his chest, to keep you from falling because he knew how weak your legs were. He barely heard his second alarm blaring outside because as he lathered soap on your skin, he got distracted. He ended up lifting your thigh to your chest, fucking you with his fingers, pushing you to another peak, pressing kisses on your temple when you threw back your head on his shoulder.

On his way to the game, Quinn felt so calm and light like he could do anything. Instead of being tired, he felt rejuvenated as usual because sex with you always had that effect on him. Instead of feeling anxious of what-ifs about the game, the results, and the plays, he felt confident. That feeling carried on for every period of the game, every glide of his skate on ice, every pass he made that reached his teammates. It just felt right.

Quinn scored a goal that night. He didn't piece it together yet. He was happy that he got a point while doing what he did best and that you were there to congratulate him when he came home. On the morning of the next game, you two fucked again which boosted his confidence from all your praises. He earned an assist.

As he did the next game.

The string of these occurrences felt more like a pattern rather than a coincidence, so he told you all about it. He could see your amusement because he was never one for superstitions. He was blushing when you asked if he was just beinghorny like usual—in a way, he was—but he immediately settled when you agreed. Thank fuck you did.

It really didn't change your relationship that much. Your tumble in the sheets was frequent. Whenever one of you was up for it really. However, making love as part of his game day routine...it definitely got Quinn more feral.

He just couldn't get enough.

It could literally be any time. It could be when the sun finally peeked from the horizons, its sunlight trickling between the seams of the curtains that you carefully chose, when he came back from morning skate and your home was already smelling like the lunch you were preparing, or when you snuck in his pregame shower, your eyes sparkling with mischief. It could be anywhere. There only had to be a surface where he could fuck you against. The bed, the wall, the couch, the kitchen counter, the bedroom fucking door. It didn't matter. It could be at any pace that you preferred. It could be fast and hurried, or slow and passionate, or hard and deep.

The base line was Quinn loved to see how much you were enjoying it with him before how it made him feel a-hundred-percent during games. Even when he didn't get a point, it didn't matter, because he felt good about himself and he was fucking hooked on the feeling.

It was all fun and games. Everything was going good, extremely good, until reality hit. He needed to leave for a road trip. He was barely present from packing his stuff and watching you wave him goodbye to his arrival in his hotel room. His stress was building. If you weren't with him, how would he get his good luck? How would he get through this game now? Fuck, he was already so dependent on you, and now, he was even more.

"Quinny, you good?" Kirill asked, tugging on his beanie. He was clearly on his way out, but he paused with a worried look on his face. He frowned, nodding his head towards the door. "Maybe you need fresh air. Do you want to come with?"

"No." Quinn shook his head. "I just need to rest. I couldn't nap in the plane." He wasn't lying, feeling more and more spent like his battery was running out. "I'm good."

Kirill nodded, his eyes slightly squinting, weighing Quinn's words. Then, he shrugged. "All right, man. See you later."

Quinn watched his teammate leave, the lock automatically clicking. He sighed, standing up and starting to pace and pace. Then, he was calling you, anxiously brushing back his hair, his stomach churning uncomfortably until you finally answered.

"Hi, Quinny," you greeted, your smiling dropping when you saw his face. "What's wrong?"

"What do we do?" He had asked, lost and scared, unable to function with something missing in his routine. Something he believed would help him get through his game. And the fucked-up thing was that he was hard the moment he noticed the lacy straps of your nightgown. He knew that one. He loved how the pink complemented your skin tone. He loved fucking you from behind with bunched it up around your hips. "I need you, my Love. I can't do this."

"Oh, Quinn, what am I going to do with you?" You asked. "Are you alone?"

"Kirill went out." He nodded, rubbing at his chest.

"I see." You hummed, a dangerous glint shining in your eyes. "Then we can do anything we want, huh? Maybe... you can go in the bathroom just in case?"

Quinn had no idea that everything would change further.

After he followed you, locking the bathroom door, he couldn't have predicted that you'd prop up your phone on the low center table in the living room, showing him the full length of your body that was so perfectly relaxed on the couch with your fluffy blanket thrown across your lap. That you'd slowly drag it away, spreading your thighs apart for him, revealing your bare pussy underneath your nightgown.

"Oh, fuck," he cursed, his knees turning into putty, forcing himself to lean against the counter. As your fingers dipped to trace your slit, he was already unbuckling his belt, pushing down his pants, grasping the base of his cock. "You're spoiling me, my Love."

"I got no other choice," you breathed, spreading your pussy lips apart with your forefinger and middle finger. Your entrance clenched on nothing, pushing out bead after bead of arousal. "My Quinny is so needy—" you paused, smirking with mirth in your eyes, "—and so superstitious."

Quinn groaned, stroking his cock, shuddering at the friction. He spat on himself at the same time as he took his pre-cum down his length. He stared at you fucking and teasing yourself, your back arching, your lips speaking his name, while he jerked himself off, wishing that instead of his rough hand, it was your pussy around his cock.

At some point, he got his phone propped up on the counter so you could see everything he was doping. At some point, he had his shirt thrown on the floor because you demanded to see more of him. At some point, he fell in awe as you came hard, but when you were about to stop teasing your clit, he was there to tell you not to stop.

And you didn't. You were shaking, your legs closing, but your fingers remained circling around your clit. You were begging for him and all Quinn could say was:

"God, you're pretty."

Then his eyes rolled up, his cum shooting out of his cock in long spurts into his other hand. By the time he was done, he was panting as his hand dripped with cum. He could barely move to wipe it off with tissues, because you were closer to the camera, your cheeks flushed from your orgasm, smiling at his pathetic state.

"I hope that's enough as a good luck charm, Quinn." You giggled at his shaky attempt to clean up. "I guess, we'll see, huh?"

Quinn was losing his mind because you kept teasing him and making him blush. He felt silly, yes, but he also felt settled. He couldn't believe that masturbating over the phone got his nerves to calm down. He could barely retort as he changed into a new shirt and sweatpants, as he watched you go back to the couch with your book, as he continued to receive your teasing, as you finally waved him goodbye, leaving him to think about what just happened, about the sense of euphoria enveloping him.

He knew he would crush it for the game tomorrow. And he did.

That was when he finally accepted that he, in fact, had a superstition.

He definitely didn't have any problem with it.

I made Quinn too be Kirill's roomie for this fic.

Likes, reblogs, and comments are greatly appreciated. 💙

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"Quinn" you moan a little too loud for his liking leaving him no choice but to stick his fingers in your mouth.

"Baby shhh everyone's asleep" he says in your ear, "Gotta be quiet."

Quinn had you bent over the kitchen table as he pounded into you from behind as you moaned around his fingers. You met Quinn three years ago when you first came to the lake house because Luke invited you. You an Luke were best friends and continued being friends even after you started dating Quinn. You and Quinn like fucking all over the house while everyone sleeps, just to irritate Jack because he'd be mad if he knew.

Quinn leans down and whispers in your ear, "Such a good girl for me."

You moan around his fingers as he uses his other hand to begin circling your clit, Quinn speeds up his thrusts making the table squeak just a little bit.

"Can feel you getting close baby" he says before groaning as you clench down on him, "Cum for me baby."

You moan before cumming all over his cock, Quinn groans as your orgasm triggers his and he stills inside you and fills you up.

You two catch your breaths before Quinn pulls out and helps you get fixed, Jack stumbles into the kitchen a few minutes later, "Could you two be quiet I'm trying to sleep not listen to free porn."

You and Quinn giggle before Jack looks at the kitchen table, "Gross we eat there."

"We cleaned it off" Quinn says.

"Good" Jack says before walking back out the kitchen, "Bunch of horny fuckers."

it’s the cinnamon and clean laundry that brings him back. on the quiet nights, before the heavy silence of the present takes over, you can still trace the timeline of you and john logan.

two kids who didn't know a single thing about the world, but decided, instantly, that they knew everything about each other.

by the time you both walked across the stage at eighteen to grab your high school diplomas, you weren’t just a couple—you were a package deal.

logan was woven so deeply into the fabric of your family that his presence felt as permanent as the oak tree in the front yard.

“logan! look what i made!"

the memory is so sharp it almost stings. your little sister soleil had been five then—a tiny, chaotic blur of mismatched socks and sticky fingers.

anyone else would have patted her on the head and gone back to their phone, but logan had dropped straight to his knees on your mom’s kitchen floor, completely ignoring the grass stains on his jeans.

he had taken the lopsided paper crown she held out and placed it solemnly on his dark hair.

"for me, princess sol? i’m honored," he had said, his signature smirk softening into something so incredibly gentle it made your chest ache. he had spent the next hour letting a five-year-old boss him around the backyard, playing "royal knight" without a single complaint. he had loved your family. he had loved you.

"are you thinking about him?"

the quiet voice snaps you back. you blink, the golden memory evaporating, replaced by the cool, dim light of the kitchen.

you turn to find soleil standing in the doorway. she’s ten now—taller but she still has those same observant eyes.

"nope just... thinking," you say, offering a tight smile as you lean against the counter.

soleil walks over, hopping onto the barstool logan used to claim as his own. she traces a small scratch on the wooden counter. "do you think logan still plays hockey?" she asks quietly. "he promised he would teach me how to ice skate when i got bigger. he hasn't called in a long time."

the words twist like a knife. because how do you explain to a ten-year-old that sometimes, the boy who wore paper crowns in your backyard grows up, leaves for college, and becomes someone you only know through headlines and hearsay?

"yeah, sol," you whisper, swallowing the lump in your throat. "he still plays."

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

it was 1:57 am. at this hour, the world was supposed to be asleep.

instead you were standing in aisle fourteen, frozen in place, staring at the glass doors of the ice cream section.

the cold air leaked through the rubber seals, dusting your bare shins with a chill that made you shiver.

you looked down at yourself, suddenly, painfully aware of exactly how you looked: a pair of wrinkled pajama shorts featuring a faded print of patrick star, a fleece sweatshirt, and a pair of cheap flip-flops that made a loud, pathetic slap against the linoleum with every step you took.

your fingers hovered over a carton of cookie dough ice cream—the exact same brand, the exact same flavor, that had once been the cure-all for every bad day you had ever had.

you had been back in this town for exactly three weeks of summer break, operating like a ghost.

you stayed inside during the day, took long scenic routes to avoid the familiar blocks, and only went out when you knew the streets would be empty.

you had managed to avoid him for two whole years. two years of passing through the same suburban grid without once crossing paths.

until tonight.

squeak.

the sharp sound of rubber soles on polished linoleum broke the quiet.

it wasn't the slow, heavy drag of a tired employee pushing a stocking cart.

it was a firm, rhythmic stride. a stride you could recognize with your eyes closed, even after twenty-four months of silence.

"i knew one day, i would find you here."

the voice didn't just startle you; it felt like a physical blow to the chest. it was deeper than you remembered, carrying the low, scratchy gravel of someone who spent his winters yelling over the roar of stadium crowds at briar university.

but the cadence—the soft, trailing way he ended his sentences—was exactly the same.

your breath hitching, your lungs freezing over. you slowly turned around, your hand still pressed flat against the cold glass of the freezer door, your flip-flops squeaking slightly.

standing at the end of the aisle, leaning with an agonizingly casual grace against a shopping cart, was john logan.

he was massive.

the boy who used to fit perfectly against your side in your parents' basement had completely filled out.

the grueling, relentless training schedule of briar's varsity hockey team had carved him into something formidable—his shoulders were impossibly broad beneath a dark charcoal hoodie, his jawline littered with stubble sharp enough to look dangerous.

his dark hair was slightly damp and messy, falling over his forehead in a way that made him look like he had just stepped out of a locker room.

but it was his eyes that anchored you to the spot.

they were a deep, intense brown—the color of warm whiskey, of dark espresso, of things that were thick and warm and rich and incredibly hard to forget. right now, those brown eyes were narrowed, tracking the rapid rise and fall of your chest with a quiet, guarded intensity.

"logan," you whispered. the name felt heavy, like a stone rolling off your tongue.

"hey," he said. his voice was soft, but there was a distinct, cool distance to it. his lips didn't curve into the easy grin you were once so used to. instead, his mouth remained a straight, hard line. "still craving cookie dough at ungodly hours?"

the silence that followed was suffocating. the air between you was dense with two years of unread texts, a blocked phone number, and a driveway screaming match that had ended with you driving away in tears.

you looked at him, and against your will, the faces of every single guy you had met on the west coast flashed behind your eyelids.

there was the polite pre-med guy from your sophomore year who bought you expensive dinners and spoke in a tone so perfectly measured it made you feel completely hollow.

there was the golden-boy surfer who tried to teach you how to ride the waves, whose laugh was loud and easy, but whose eyes never actually saw you when you spoke.

there were others—half-hearted dates, empty conversations over cheap drinks, guys who tried to touch your waist or hold your hand in crowded bars.

but none of them were john logan.

none of them possessed that fierce, protective intensity.

not a single one of them knew how to make you laugh until your ribs ached, or how to silence your worst anxieties with a single, heavy look.

he was the gold standard.

you had spent twenty-four months trying to find his ghost in other men, only to realize that nobody could ever measure up to the boy who had broken your heart.

he had ruined you for anyone else, and the sheer unfairness of it tasted like poison on your tongue.

what you didn't know—what you couldn't possibly know from the quiet, agonizing distance you had kept—was that you had done the exact same thing to him.

at briar, logan was a star.

he was a handsome, charming varsity athlete, and the girls on campus made it ridiculously easy.

but to the absolute dismay and relentless teasing of his teammates, especially dean, logan had practically lived like a monk for the last two years.

he didn't bring girls back to the house.

he didn't do the mindless, easy hookups that the rest of the team treated like breathing.

every time a girl tried to flirt with him at a party, every time someone leaned in to kiss him in a dark corner of a crowded bar, he found himself pulling back.

he was holding out for you.

as stupid and as unrealistic as it sounded to him, he couldn't shake you.

and it made him furious.

he was angry at you for blocking him, angry at you for leaving, but most of all, he was deeply annoyed because you had ruined him for anyone else.

he couldn't find a single girl who was just like you, and he hated how much power you still held over his heart without even trying.

logan took a slow, deliberate step forward, the wheels of his cart squeaking in protest. his brown eyes scanned your face, noting the way you winced, the way your fingers tightened on your sweatshirt.

seeing him step closer was like falling backward through a rip in time.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

"logan, stop it! put me down, people are looking!"

your laughter echoed through the empty bakery section of this very store, bright and breathless. it was 12:14 am on a tuesday, three weeks before graduation.

logan had dragged you out of bed because you had a craving, and he never, ever said no to you.

"let them look," logan grinned, his chest vibrating against yours as he lifted you easily by the waist, spinning you around. he didn't care about the bored cashier or the fact that you both had ap exams in twelve hours.

he set you down slowly, his large hands sliding under your jacket to grip your hips, pulling you flush against him.

his face dipped into the crook of your neck, his lips pressing a warm, lingering kiss right below your ear, sending shivers down your spine.

when he pulled back, his eyes were crinkled at the corners, filled with a terrifyingly pure, unshakeable affection.

"you're stuck with me forever, you know that, right?" he murmured, his thumb rubbing soothing circles into your hip. "west coast, east coast, i don't care. i'll fly out every single weekend. we're going to make this work. i'm not letting you go."

you had kind of believed him then. you had pressed your forehead against his chest, inhaling the scent of his skin, believing that the two of you were invincible.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

"you're staring," logan's rough voice broke the memory, shattering it into a thousand sharp, jagged pieces.

you blinked, cold reality rushing back in.

he was standing barely three feet away from you now.

the warmth from the flashback evaporated, replaced by the bitter, icy draft of the freezer aisle.

you pulled the sleeves of your sweatshirt over your hands, shifting your weight in your flip-flops, wishing desperately that the cold floor would just open up and swallow you.

"i didn't think you would be in town," you managed to say, your voice tighter this time. you clutched the tub of cookie dough icecream to your chest, a pathetic, freezing shield. "you usually stay at briar for summer training."

"i came back for a couple of weeks to see some family," he said, his voice flat, his posture guarded. he crossed his arms over his broad chest, creating a physical barrier between you. "but i see you're still running on the same schedule. some habits die hard, i guess."

there was no shouting, no explosive anger, but the wall he had built was high and thick.

he wasn't the boy who used to tease you mercilessly; he was a man who had been deeply hurt, and he was keeping his guard up.

"logan, we were going to different sides of the country," you whispered, the old defense mechanism kicking in, though it felt incredibly weak now. "we would have grown to hate each other. i did what i thought was best."

"i never cared about where you were going," logan corrected quietly, his brown eyes locking onto yours with a heavy, simmering sadness. "i was proud of you. i wanted you to go to that school. what broke me was that you didn't even want to try. you just decided we were over before we even packed our bags. you decided for the both of us, blocked my number, and left. you made me feel like those years we spent together weren't even worth a shot the second things got a little complicated."

"that's not true," you said, a tear threatening to spill over your eyelashes. "it broke my heart, logan. and i... i still care. i heard about your mom."

the words hung in the cold, sterile air between you. the mention of his mother's battle with alcohol—a shadow that had hovered over his entire household and left him and his younger sibling, jules, carrying weight they were far too young to bear—made the silence turn razor-sharp.

you remembered the late-night phone calls where he would whisper to you from the hallway, exhausted and terrified, while you tried to comfort him from three miles away. you weren’t sure how to do it over three thousand miles away.

logan froze. his jaw clenched so hard a muscle feathered in his cheek.

"what about her?" he asked, his voice suddenly dangerously quiet.

"i heard she's in rehab again," you murmured, taking a small, tentative step forward. your chest ached for him, the instinct to comfort him still so deeply ingrained in your bones. "i'm so sorry, logan. i know how hard it is on you. and on jules. i really—"

"don't," he quickly cut you off.

for a split second, the hard line of his jaw softens. his dark eyes flicker down, then rise to search yours with a sudden, aching vulnerability. his mouth opens, a name hovering on the very tip of his tongue. he wants to ask if soleil still makes her infamous paper crowns.

he wants to ask if she misses him. if you missed him.

but the moment passes as quickly as it came. the shutter slams down behind his eyes, the heavy wall of his anger sliding back into place. he isn't going to give you the satisfaction of knowing how much of your world he still yearns for.

a short, humorless scoff escaped his lips—a sound so hollow and bitter it made you flinch. he shook his head, looking down at the linoleum floor before raising his brown eyes back to yours, entirely guarded.

"don't act like you care now," he said, the words dripping with a quiet, devastating resentment. "if you actually cared, you wouldn't have kept me blocked. you would have reached out a long time ago when everything was falling apart. everyone else did. but you? you were too busy pretending we never happened."

he didn't know.

he had no idea that his private instagram account had been a brick wall you stared at on your loneliest nights, desperate for a glimpse of his face.

he didn't know that you had spent the last two years quietly keeping up with his life through the back door—how you had found his teammate and friend, dean di laurentis, on social media because his profile was public, zooming in on the background of his photos just to make sure logan was okay.

but you were so incredibly tired of the silence.

you were tired of the walls, tired of the assumption that you had just walked away unscathed while he bled out.

you weren't going to let this be another night where you both walked away harboring a quiet, misunderstood resentment.

you weren't going to let him believe a lie just to protect your pride.

"i blocked you because if i didn't, i would have begged you to come to california," you said, your voice cracking, but the words came out fast, desperate, and completely unfiltered. "i blocked you because every time my phone buzzed, i hoped it was you, and it was killing me. i didn't pretend we never happened, logan. i spent the last two years completely miserable."

logan flinched, his posture stiffening as he stared at you. his mouth parted slightly, the scoff dying on his lips.

"what?" he whispered.

"i didn't reach out because i thought you hated me," you pleaded, tears finally spilling over, hot against your cold cheeks.

"i thought i had ruined everything," you said, your voice cracking as you finally forced yourself to meet his eyes. "and i was terrified of hearing you tell me that you had moved on."

you took a sharp, shallow breath, looking down at your hands as if the memory alone had weight. "i sat in my dorm room and cried for hours when i heard about your mom. because i knew how much you and jules were hurting, and i hated myself for not being able to call you." you let out a bitter, humorless laugh, shaking your head. "but i didn't think i had the right to anymore. i didn't do this because it was easy."

logan didn't move, but the tension between you pulled taut, almost vibrating.

"and if you want to know the absolute worst part?" you took a step closer, the raw honesty of it stripping away whatever pride you had left. "i've tried to date. i've gone out with guys who were perfectly nice, guys who did everything right. and i couldn't stand any of them. because none of them were you."

you stopped just inches from him, your chest heaving. "you set the bar so high that i can't even look at anyone else without wishing they had your eyes, or your laugh, or the way you used to hold my hand." reaching out, your fingers hovered near his jacket before you pulled them back, curling them into a tight fist. "you ruined me, logan. so don't you dare stand there and tell me i didn't care."

the silence that followed was entirely different now. it wasn't heavy with awkwardness anymore; it was electric, thick with a truth that had been buried for two long years.

then, a loud, agonizingly slow squeal of wheels broke the high-stakes emotional gravity.

a tired-looking teenage employee pushing a towering, uncoordinated stack of blue plastic crates stopped dead at the end of the aisle.

he looked at your tear-stained face, looked at logan's defensive frame, and then looked down at the carton of cookie dough ice cream.

he blinked slowly, let out a soul-weary, minimum-wage sigh, and silently began pulling his cart backward, retreating into the canned goods section like a crab disappearing into the sand.

you let out a wet, breathless sound that was half-sob, half-gasp, hastily wiping your nose with the sleeve of your sweatshirt. "great. we're the 2 am grocery store circus."

logan's jaw worked, his chest expanding as he took a deep breath. for a fraction of a second, the tiniest, almost imperceptible ghost of a smile tugged at the very corner of his mouth, softening the hard edge of his face.

"well," his voice was quiet, the rough edge still there but momentarily lighter. "to be fair, you are having a life-altering breakdown in neon pink flip-flops and patrick star pajama shorts."

"they're comfortable," you mumbled, looking down at your toes, a faint blush warming your cheeks despite the cold.

he laughed softly but as quickly as the lighthearted beat came, it evaporated, swallowed by the cold, heavy reality of the last two years.

the silence returned, sober and demanding. logan took a slow, heavy step toward you, the distance between you evaporating until you could feel the heat radiating from his chest.

he raised his hand, his fingers trembling slightly as they hovered just inches from your wet cheek, hesitating.

his hand lingered in the air, his knuckles barely brushing your cheekbone as he looked at you, utterly torn.