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sceletaflores · 1 year ago

Text

slippery when wet!

pairing: patrick zweig x fem!reader

summary: “so who fucks better?” he asks bluntly, a bead of sweat dripping down the column of his throat and into the neck of his tank. a shocked laugh bursts from your lips. “what?” you ask, crossing your arms over your chest. “who fucks better?” he repeats slowly, leaning down to meet your eye. “me or art? don’t fucking lie to me and tell me that prissy farmer boy makes you come harder than i do.”

—or: patrick puts you in your place three months later.

word count: 4.3k

contains: 18+ SMUT MDNI, swearing, p in v, fighting as foreplay, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it y’all!), rough sex, semi-public sex, oral sex (m!receiving), fingering...kinda (fem!receiving), very light spanking, choking, degradation, creampie, throat fucking, mean!reader my beloved, art donaldson is there in spirit, patrick is gay for art, porn with a little plot, no use of y/n.

author’s note: no one can stop me from writing rough sex patrick fics. it's all i think about 24/7, and you guys are no help but like i love it so it's fine. i'm here to serve you and this is clearly what you want so who am i to deny you that? thank you to the beautiful anon who requested this, i hope you don't mind that i changed it from a locker room scene to a bathroom scene but that was just calling to me hehe. okay bye! hope you love it! xoxo mwah.

psst! tftw series masterlist!

You’ve been on the court for at least an hour and a half, running drills and trying to sweat out all of your stress. You were the only one in the building, but it was always less busy during finals week. Most people were camped out in their dorms cramming for fifty question tests or four part lab practicals.

Art politely declined your invite, too busy studying for his business final on Monday. So you rented a tennis machine and worked on your backhand that way. It was a nice distraction, emptying your head enough that all the anxiety of finals started to melt away as you slid into a steady rhythm with the machine.

The door bangs open with a loud creak behind you, bursting the little bubble of tranquility surrounding you. The back of your head burns with the unmistakable feeling of someone glaring at you.

You hear him before you see him, a loud call of your name followed by heavy footsteps quickly coming towards you. The sound of his voice immediately grates on your nerves, all angry and shouty. You choose to ignore it, focusing on hitting each new ball the machine spits out.

It may have been a couple months since you’ve seen Patrick, but you’d always recognize the familiar way his voice wraps around each syllable in your name.

Three months, to be exact. It’s been three months since your big fight over the phone with Patrick. You blocked his number right after you hung up, so you haven’t spoken to him in just as long. He never tried to reach out, never messaged you on AOL or Facebook. The petty fuck actually went out of his way to unfriend you on both, so you knew he wasn’t exactly torn up about your abrupt split.

“Hey! I’m talking to you,” Patrick shouts over the loud humming, sounding closer to you than he was before. You pointedly keep ignoring him, eyes fixed stubbornly on the machine. “You deaf or something?” he mocks, stepping up so you can see him in your peripheral vision. You say nothing, swinging your racket harder with each hit.

Patrick scoffs, stomping over to the machine and slamming his hand over the stop button. It makes a loud beeping sound, before shutting off completely. “Jesus Christ, you’re such a fucking baby.” you groan, throwing your head back in annoyance. When you finally turn to glare at him, you’re shocked at the state he’s in.

Patrick’s dressed in a tank and the almost too short shorts he’d usually wear to a match, and he’s dripping sweat. Curly black hair plastered to his forehead with it, his cheeks red and blotchy like he’d been in the sun. You raise your brow, looking at him with a confused expression on your face. “Where the hell did you even come from? How did you know I was here?”

He walks back over to you, hands balled into fists by his side. “I was at a tournament in Mountain View,” he explains, jerking his head in the vague direction he came from, ”it was so close I thought it’d be wrong of me to not stop by and check up on you.”

You laugh, nodding your head lightly. “Okay, so you flunked out of another tournament and hunted me down like a creepy stalker to what? Yell at me some more? Call me a cunt again?” you step closer, lightly swishing your racket through the air dismissively. “I’m not fucking interested in whatever it is you have to say Patrick, we’re over.”

He smirks but you can see the way his jaw clenches, ticking in anger. “But you’re interested in what Art has to say?”

There it is. You really should have known it would all come back to this eventually.

You sigh, casting your eyes to the ceiling in exasperation. “What’s your point?”

Patrick takes a step closer. “My point is that you’re not fucking stupid, and Art can’t lie to save his goddamn life. You knew exactly what he was doing.” His tone is accusatory, his brows pinched together hard enough to crease his skin.

Your heart beat picks up in your chest, anger beginning to bubble up inside you. “I didn’t need Art’s help to realize that you’re an arrogant piece of shit and a gigantic waste of my time, you made it easy enough to pick up on all by yourself.”

Patrick laughs, loud and abrasive. “No, you just didn’t care.” he states darkly, shaking his head back and forth a few times. You can feel a few drops of sweat fling from his hair to land on the bare skin of your shoulders as he does. “You’re so easy that you’d spread your legs from him to stroke your own ego. You’re only playing into his whole kicked puppy charade to justify acting like a fucking whore, ‘Poor Art, he’s so sad and pathetic, I’ll let him fuck my slutty pussy to help his raise his self esteem!’.” He mocks, voice pitched up in an exaggerated impression of you.

Your grip tightens on the handle of your racket, knuckles turning white with it. You feel hot all over, anger simmering under your sweaty skin. “You’re seriously trying to lecture me about egos? This has nothing to do with Art! This is about you being a bratty little rich boy who’s never been told ‘no’ before so you can’t handle rejection. It’s fucking embarrassing.”

Patrick nostrils flare, brows pinching together in anger. “Art has nothing to do with this, really? You’re delusional if you actually think that he’s just this saint among men or some shit. He’s not, he’s a fucking snake.”

“Trust me, Art doesn’t have to be a saint to be better than you.” you sneer, voice sharp and unwavering. Your hands are shaking, blind rage racking through your body like thunder. “The only redeeming quality you’ll ever have is dangling between your legs so you better get used to this, because sooner or later everyone will leave you once they see past all your bullshit and realize that you’re nothing more than a worthless loser.”

Patrick’s jaw works furiously, his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. You think something like hurt flashes through his eyes, but only for a second. It's gone just as fast, replaced by a mocking smirk that stretches over his lips slowly. He crosses his arms in front of him, shamelessly raking his eyes over your body. You can practically see the gears turning in his head.

“So who fucks better?” he asks bluntly, a bead of sweat dripping down the column of his throat and into the neck of his tank.

A shocked laugh bursts from your lips before you can stop it. “What?” you ask, arms dropping to your sides limply. The completely one-eighty of his mood sends your head reeling.

Patrick takes another step closer, invading your personal space. “Who fucks better?” he repeats slowly, leaning down to meet your eye. “Me or Art? Don’t fucking lie to me and tell me that prissy farmer boy makes you come harder than I do.”

You laugh again, shaking your head in disbelief. “God, everything is always a dick measuring contest with you. It’s so pathetic like, seriously–”

“Answer the question.” Patrick demands, cutting you off sharply. He’s practically looming over you now, so close that you can smell him. That natural, manly, musky scent he always has after a game that drives you fucking crazy.

It reminds you of when he’d come back to your dorm fresh off a match, still in the same clothes and not showered. Pumped full of adrenaline and so pent up, needing something to take his energy out on. You were always that something. He’d fuck your mouth like he’d fuck your pussy, like it was just another hole for him drain his balls into. You’d be face down in his crotch for what seemed like hours, right where his smell was the strongest. Forced to breathe it in so deeply you’d feel high off it, your brain turned to mush every time.

Heat swirls deep in your stomach, you haven’t been this close to Patrick in what seems like forever. You kind of forgot how much he affects you, especially like this. The sex was always better when you’d fight before.

“You’re a child.”

“You still haven’t answered the question.”

You huff, narrowing your eyes at him. There’s a sort of crazed look on his face, his pupils blown out and dark. It makes you pause, it’s the look you’d get right before he’d pounce on you. You’ve seen it enough times to know that something is different about it. He looks needier, more hungry.

It has some of your anger subsiding, twisted amusement swiftly taking its place. If Patrick wants to ambush you like this, after weeks of radio silence, you might as well use it as a chance to fuck with him.

You smirk, cocking your head to the side slightly. “Art,” you say slowly, taking a small step towards Patrick, “is a better fuck than you ever were.”

Patrick pouts like an honest to God child, sticking out his bottom lip in indignation. “I told you not to lie–”

“I’m not lying,” you say innocently, voice dropping down to a whisper as you lean in even closer. You can see the freckles sprinkled across his nose and cheeks, darker than usual thanks to all the sun he’s been getting. “Last night he ate me out for hours, made me squirt all over his fucking tongue.”

For the first time since you’ve met him, Patrick Zweig is shocked into silence. His eyes darken, you can’t even see the green anymore, the solid black of his pupils swallowing it entirely. “Bullshit,” he says quietly, clipped and skeptical. His breath fans hotly over your lips, it makes your spine start to tingle.

You smile sweetly, giving a small shrug of your shoulders. “I’ll send you the video.”

Patrick physically reels back, blinking slowly with the realization of what you just said. His lips barely part in surprise, pink and enticing. You revel in it, smirking at him smugly. His eyes flit across your face like he’s trying to figure out if you’re lying or not. You stare back at him unrelenting, all the proof you need is sitting in the video gallery of your pink motorola razr.

Patrick swallows hard, you watch the way his adam’s apple bobs with it. He shifts his lower body subtly, but you’re too close to not notice it. Your eyes immediately dart down, and you’re almost giddy at what you find.

He’s hard, the fabric of his shorts stretched over the length of his dick obscenely. You can see the faint outline of the tip pressing against the seam, a wet patch seeping through the gray material around it.

“Oh my god, you’re actually getting off on this!” you laugh wickedly, eyes glued to the lewd tent of his dick. “You’re calling me a whore when you’re the one getting wet just thinking about your best friend's mouth on my pussy. That’s fucking pathetic even for you, Ricky.”

Patrick is silent, breathing heavily through his nose as he stares you down so intensely you can almost feel the heavy weight of his eyes as they bore into you.

It happens in less than a second, Patrick closing the distance between you and taking your arm in his strong hand so he can force you in the direction of the showers. His grip is tight on your bicep, fingers meanly digging into your skin and forcing you to walk with him. You put up a fight, kicking and scratching but he’s stronger than you. Not letting your slaps to his chest or nails sinking into his arm deter him from dragging you across the court.

“Let me go asshole!” you snap, trying in vain to yank your arm out of his grip while you stumble over your own feet. “You’re such a fucking psycho!” Patrick ignores you, bursting into the men's showers and marching you into the first stall. He drags you inside, whirling you around to shove your back against the door of it roughly. It knocks the wind out of you for a second, the lock digs into your back hard enough to hurt.

“Art doesn’t have any fucking idea how to deal with a bitch like you.” he grates, fisting a handful of your harshly. “He’s too soft. Too busy letting you lead him around by his dick to try putting you in your fucking place.”

The sting of your scalp only adds to the warmth pulsing in your pussy, sticky arousal dripping wet in your panties. You meet his eyes, all the fire and want swirling in them mirror your own. “Art has a bigger dick than you bitch.” You spit, standing on your tiptoes to lessen the distance of him tugging on your hair. It’s a low blow, immature and basic but you don’t care.

Patrick just hum noncommittally, roughly hooking his fingers into your cheeks and dragging you forward until the tip of your nose is touching his. “Then your throat is still nice and stretched out for me.”

He drops his hands to your shoulders, forcing you onto your knees. You hit the ground with a heavy thud, a dull ache blooms in your knees at the force of it. “Fuck,” you hiss, pulling back instinctively but the hard plastic of the shower door pressing onto the back of your head keeps you pinned in place. Your hands fly up to his legs to try and push him away.

Patrick grips your hair tight, tipping your face up to look at him. You have a perfect view of him pushing his shorts down, letting his hard dick slip out as the fabric stretches taught across his thick thighs. “Open your mouth,” he demands, yanking your head to the side meanly.

“Fuck you,” you snarl, teeth bared in anger as you fight to stand up. Patrick’s strong hand on your shoulder keeps you down while the other starts to idly stroke his dick. He’s just as big as you remember, thick and hard only a few inches away from your face.

The tip all red and weepy when he pulls his foreskin back on each tug, a thick vein running up the side that you want to trace with your tongue.

“Don’t be like that, baby,” he coos softly, rubbing his leaking tip across your bottom lip a couple times, smearing his pre-come around your mouth like lip gloss. “We both know you love it.”

He’s so cocky, so sure of himself that you want to keep denying him. But he’s also right, you can feel your resolve slowly start to crack when he pushes the head between your parted lips. The familiar heady taste of him oozing onto your tongue has you sighing contently, jaw relaxing the tiniest bit almost like a reflex.

The second you give Patrick an inch and he’ll take a mile.

“There we go,” he mutters sweetly, pulling back slightly and then thrusting forward until your nose is buried in the short curls at the base.

Your whole body tenses, throat constricting over the length of his dick as your fist his shorts in your hands. As quickly as he thrust in, he pulls out, letting you sharply gasp for air before it’s back and pressing insistently on your tongue. You let him in, forcing your throat to relax as he slides forward to press his hips into your face.

“You’re such a fucking brat,” he bites out, thrusting down your throat roughly. “Pussy’s so greedy it jumped on the next dick that perked up around it.”

You could only whine around Patrick’s dick, mouth too full to do anything but try and work your tongue over the throbbing length of him.

Your throat burns, spit flowing down your chin messily along with his pre-come still steadily leaking from the hot tip of his dick.

His big hands have an iron grip on either side of your head, his balls slap against your chin as he thrusts over and over and over. The back of your skull throbs, knocking into the stall with each pump of his hips.

“Fuck,” he groans, dropping his forehead down to the stall with a small thunk. “You look so good like this,” he breathes, looking down at you through half-lidded eyes, “so fucking pretty with my dick down your throat to shut you up.”

Your pussy aches, so empty that you want to shove your hand down your shorts and stuff yourself full of your own fingers to dull the need. Your thighs glide together slickly, the wetness of your arousal soaking through your clothes.

It gets harder to breathe. Your choked off, spluttering gags start loudly echoing off the tile walls. Your hand slaps Patrick’s thigh a few times, he thrusts hard once more before he finally pulls back, smearing spit all over your tongue and out of your mouth.

“God, that was good baby.” he praises, slapping his dick against your right cheek lewdly. “As much as I want to pump this load down your throat,” he says casually, stroking his spit slick dick lazily, ”I want it in your pussy more.”

“I fucking hate you,” you growl weakly, voice absolutley wrecked. The tears sitting in your waterline blur your vision, you blink them away to see Patrick’s smug smile beaming down at you.

“Then tell me to stop,” he shrugs, tilting his head to the side condescendingly. You glare up at him, but you don’t say anything. He snorts, brow raising in amusement. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

He shoves his shorts the rest of the way down, stepping out of them and hauling you up to your feet. You’re still desperately trying to catch your breath, chest heaving as you cough and gasp.

Patrick rips your shirt over your head, flinging it over the stall along with his own. He turns you by your shoulder, pushing you against the wall as he yanks the shower handle to start the stream.

Water rains down around you, shockingly cold for a few seconds before it finally starts to warm up. Patrick makes quick work of your shorts and panties, yanking them down your legs and off your feet, tossing them in the corner of the stall with a wet thwack.

He kicks your feet further apart, one hand on your shoulder and the other lining his hard dick up with your tight hole, letting the leaking tip press into you with the smallest amount of pressure.

“I know you missed my dick, slut,” he says, bringing his hand down on your ass quickly, kneading the stinging skin roughly. “Art could be the best fuck in the world, he still can’t give it to you like I can.” He pops the head in, groaning quietly before he bullies his thick dick the rest of the way into you.

Your hole shakes around him. Patick is right. Patrick is always right, but you’d never tell him that. You wanted this. You missed this. The burn of Patrick’s dick forcing you open, stretching you so wide your toes curl. Him not giving you even a second to react before he’s pulling back and pounding into you brutally.

You cry out, eyes screwing shut at the sharp sting. You can tell through the haze of you brain that this won’t take long at all, the both of you already so worked up from Patrick fucking your throat. His right hand drops from your shoulder to your hip while his left slides up your torso, sliding along your skin to wrap around the column of your throat firmly. You keen loudly, throwing your head back to give him more room.

“I taught him how to use that fucking dick,” he goads into your ear, grip tightening on your throat. “Did he tell you about that? Huh?” He takes your earlobe between your teeth, biting hard enough to make you squeal into the wall.

The tile digs into your cheek, roughly scraping against your skin every time Patrick fucks back into you.

You’re hovering over the edge, pussy throbbing with the burning need to come. Your clit pulses, swollen and sensitive but you can’t find the strength to drop your down hand between your thighs.

They’re too busy scrambling for any kind of purchase on the slippery wall of the shower, manicured nails scratching against the tile uselessly.

You gasp for air, fighting to speak up under the intense pressure of his hand, “I could tell,” you choke out, barely audible, “you both fuck like you have something to prove.”

“You think?” he sneers, thrusting harder, your ass stinging each time he slams his hips into you. “Maybe that’s because we do. Maybe that’s because we both like seeing you fucking fall apart like this, seeing you beg for it after you finally stop being a little pissy bitch.”

Your breath hitches as his other hand drops from your hip, delving between your thighs to slide the calloused pads of his fingertips over your swollen clit.

You moan, thighs clenching together as he rubs fast circles over you. “You like that, don’t you? Being used like a fucking toy.” His hand squeezes just a bit tighter. “Say it. Tell me you love being our little slut.”

The words spill out of your mouth before you can stop them, a mix of desperation and raw honesty, “I love it,” you cry out as loud as you can, “I love being your slut.”

“God, you sound just like him,” Patrick chuckles into your ear, low and sinister. His hold on your throat tightens, cutting off your air entirely. You sputter, hand coming up to clutch his wrist like a vice. Your pulse thunders, hard enough that he can probably feel it against his palm. “Who do you think made him come harder?”

The image alone of Patrick and Art like that sends you flying to the edge. “Ah— Patrick! ” you moan, voice hoarse and strained, “Pat, I’m gonna— fuck—“

“Do it,” he goads, sliding his hand from your clit down to where your pussy is spread open on him. He pushes his thick index finger right up next to his pulsing dick, hooking it inside or you and stretching you that much wider. “Come on my fucking dick like the greedy whore you are.”

You let out a sharp cry as your forehead hits the wall, thighs shaking violently as Patrick’s hips become relentless. Your whole body tensing up as you come so hard your vision blacks out.

You think you’re screaming, but it’s hard to hear anything over the white noise buzzing in your ears. Patrick’s hips don’t stop, fucking your abused pussy into overstimulation as he chases his own orgasm.

His hand drops from your throat to dig into your hip to put more power behind his thrusts. You’re immediately gasping for air, taking in greedy lungfuls of it.

Patrick’s chest is plastered to your back, face buried in your neck as he rambles out more nonsensical obscenities. His dick pulses and twitches in your pussy, so close to filling you up.

An idea pierces through the fog of your brain, an idea so fucking filthy it has your pussy clenching weakly.

You think back to the first night Art fucked you, how he almost came all over Patrick’s pants just because they were his, just because you said his name. How worked up and hard Patrick got when you started talking about Art.

“When he fucked me for the first time, I was wearing your sweats, the green ones,” your voice is scratchy and quiet, barely audible over the shower’s spray, “he noticed.”

“Fuck– fuck you,” he grates out, hips faltering ever so slightly. “God, gonna come,” his hold on your hip tightens, strong enough that it’ll be sure to bruise.

You keep talking, spurred on by his reaction. “He almost came right there, he wasn’t even inside me yet, just rubbed his dick all over them like he could fucking feel you.”

Patrick gives one final slam of his hips, burying himself as deep as he can in your pussy. His low groans and curses fill the room as he unloads into you, pumping you so full of his come that you can feel each hot splash of it painting the walls of your pussy.

He slumps down against you, hips twitching as he works through the aftershocks. You can feel his breath puff over the shell of your ear.

You and Patrick say nothing for a long few minutes, running water the only thing to keep the room from being completely silent. Patrick is still pressed to your back, his chest heaves against your shoulders. You think you’d collapse if his hands weren’t still on your hips, practically holding you up.

You’re the one to break the silence, voice low and wrecked, “Art lasts so much longer than that…”

Patrick snorts against your back. “Fuck you.” he says, biting your shoulder hard and pulling his dick out of you in one swift move. You gasp sharply as his come floods from your puffy, wrecked hole. Thick streams of it dripping down your thighs until the water washes it away to swirl down the drain.

You turn on unsteady legs, hair plastered to your face with water. Patrick is right there, knees knocking against yours as he shifts the two of you closer to the spray. He looks like a marble statue, water dripping down the tip of his nose and between the hard planes of his abs.

He grins smugly down at you, “I’m staying at a hotel close to campus, unblock my number and I’ll send you my room number,” he wagers, hands sliding up and down the wet skin of your back. “I think you, Art, and I have something we need to work out.”

“Yeah,” you agree, nodding your head with a small grin. “I think we do”

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daylighted · 4 months ago

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ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ ˗ˏˋ 𝐍𝐔𝐌𝐁𝐄𝐑 𝟔𝟕.ᐟ ˎˊ˗

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ ㅤㅤ───── SEASON ONE, ───── ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ ㅤ───────── PART FOUR ─────────

────────────────────────────────────────────

summary. dean can not stop running into you everywhere he turns, but how can he ever be mad because a girl wants to go on a date with him?

ㅤword count ! ㅤㅤ 2.8k ㅤㅤ content warnings ! ㅤㅤ lots of dancing around each other and the truth. pining? please. dean is not pining. ㅤㅤ track the season !

image description ! an instant messenger thread between dean and cherry, circa freshman year. click to read.

autumn wind blew in through the open window of dean’s dorm room, sending the pages of his open chemistry book ruffling and his notes scattered. the desk placed between taylor’s and his bed was overrun with all of the efforts of his last second cramming: two textbooks, a thick pile of messily jotted notes, three different black ink pens (all of which had stopped writing, for some ungodly reason, as if dean wasn’t in a crisis of life or death), and the keyboard and box monitor of the computer.

he hadn’t meant to open aol, but he definitely had been looking for a distraction. taylor was a snorer, and a loud one, too, and so dean was not getting a lot of studying done anyways.

it was a conscious effort to not reply to you. if he kept the conversation ongoing, he’d be up so much longer than he intended to be, and doing nothing worthwhile in that time, either.

dean runs a hand through his messy hair, letting out a loud groan in the process. he was failing this test. professors weren’t like how they were often portrayed: he was not going to be granted leniency for his dedication to football, and he definitely wasn’t going to get any grade incentives. this was just going to have to be a one-time fail, and he couldn’t let himself get distracted again.

his scholarship depended on it. he couldn’t afford to go back home and face the scrutiny of his father, who undoubtedly would weaponize the loss of his scholarship against him.

that thought alone had dean’s head drooping down into the pages of the books again. if there was one thing that dean could do, it was succeed to piss his father off.

taylor woke dean up that morning, shaking his shoulder enough that it jostled his head up from the pages, his dry mouth opening and closing like a fish.

one look at taylor’s face has his lips curling downward in an irritated frown. “shut the hell up.”

“didn’t say anything,” taylor laughs, his hands raising in defense, “but if i were to—”

“i wouldn’t.” dean rolls his neck, trying to stretch the aching muscles loose of their tightness.

taylor shoves his hands into the front pockets of his cardinal hoodie, his shoulders lifting in an innocent shrug. “i would say you look adorable. i mean, you’re drooling, buddy—”

dean jerks forward to punch taylor in the shoulder, stumbling out of the wooden desk chair to chase after him as he ran toward the door. taylor slips out of the room with ease, his laughter heard echoing down the hallway.

dean stands in the doorway of their dorm room, letting out an exasperated sigh. he spares a glance in the door’s mirror and only sighs louder this time, his hands making valiant (and useless) efforts to smooth his wrinkled shirt and his mussy hair and wipe away the spit in the corners of his mouth.

he looked a wreck. he looked like he stayed up all night just to study for a test he was bound to fail.

dean changes out of his shirt and into a fresher one, completely giving up on taming the strands of hair going every which way on his forehead. unfortunately, he had bigger worries than how he looked for his eight am class, including how the hell he planned to pass that aforementioned eight am’s test.

the walk from his building to the science department’s building is the same as it’s become. students stop to say hey or talk to him about the previous games, or the ones that respect dean’s need for getting to class too simply nod or wave. the adjustment from being a nobody in an unfamiliar environment to the talk of the student body was a lot, but he was doing well to manage it. taylor balanced it out a lot: any time dean started to pull back from it all, he was more than willing to take over the conversations for him.

he pushes the science department’s door open, only taking one step inside when a hand clamps around his shoulder.

“geez, you walk fast,” you say, walking past him to be in front of him now. “i’ve been trying to catch up for the last two minutes.”

dean’s lips tilt up. you look adorable; your books are clutched in front of you, your hair is tied up and out of your face, and hanging off of one of your arms is your bag, dangling loosely as you still to a stop. “chemistry test,” he says, as if that explains the entirety of his morning in a couple of words, “don’t wanna be late to my failing grade.”

“i thought you were up all night studying.” your eyebrows raise, not in judgement, but in a playful accusation. “you stopped answering me.”

dean was not going to pay any mind to the fact that you’d been up and waiting for him. what would that do in the end? he couldn’t afford to get distracted in something like this. football was already pulling him every which way, and the season was only mid-way. as much as he liked the idea of gathering your attention in his palms and drinking it up like a man starved, he had to have some limits while he figured out the ropes. it wasn’t his first time being alone, but it was dean’s first time being on his own without any sort of responsibility hanging over his head.

dean shoves his hands in his pockets, nodding his head in your direction. “i thought you were up all night studying.”

“i was.” you lift your books up like they’re physical proof of it. “biology. i was making pretty notecards for them.”

dean’s studying would have been a lot easier, he thought, if he’d put in the effort to make pretty notecards, but that wasn’t the point. he’d been in a bit of a panic trying to cram it all in last second; he wasn’t really thinking of efficiency but rather how much information could fit in one person’s head and stick.

dean smiles at you, taking a step forward toward the biology classroom. “i’m sure you’re gonna do great.”

“i’m sure you won’t fail,” you shoot back at him, mirroring his movements as you take a step backwards. it’s like a dance, daring one of you to stop moving and let the other come closer. “and if you do, you can always study with me.”

bad idea, his head screams. but the thought of getting to have some proper time with you, even just for studying? dean couldn’t pass it up, no matter how much he knew he should have. “after class?”

another step forward, and you take another step backwards. “you make a hell of a bargain, 67.” you’re the one who takes a step forward, now, and dean is powerless to move. he tells himself that moving back is just prolonging getting to class, that he doesn’t move because he needs in the direction behind you, but really, he’s just curious to see at how close you’ll get before you stop yourself.

“there’s that coffee shop on campus,” you continue giddily, and you are always so radiant, dean can barely process it. your smile is enough to floor him, your eyes glitter with mischief you haven’t made him privy to yet, and you practically bounce on the balls of your feet with the weight of your excitement. whatever you said now, dean was going to agree. he had to. anything to keep that pretty smile on your face. “brewski’s. you know it?”

“yeah, i know brewski’s.” taylor talked about it nonstop, giggling about the name like the toddler he was at heart. “is that your way of telling me to head to brewski’s after class?”

you shrug your shoulders, humming out a singsong, “maybe.” you turn your head to the door to your right, and dean had lost this game and never realized it, because your class was right there, and without even trying, you’d gotten the upperhand on him. “bring the books or don’t. just come find me.”

dean didn’t fail the test as badly as he thought he would have. even if it wasn’t his best plan, writing his notes over and over seemed to do the trick for the most part, earning him a 76. he’d have to do better to maintain his grade and his scholarship, but it could have gone a lot worse.

perhaps he was a glutton for his own punishments, because none of this deterred him from heading to brewski’s to meet with you. shutting out the distractions could stop after he indulged a little, couldn’t it? how long had it been since he let himself have fun? high school was spent on his grades and football; he couldn’t let it repeat like that for college when this was his first shot at freedom.

brewski’s was exactly how you’d imagine a place like it to look. it was a coffee shop in the style of a tavern; bar stools lining the barista countertop, golden sconces of light hanging on the walls and a large chandelier of candles hung low from the very center of the room. classical music played softly through the speakers in the room.

sat on the window seat, a forest green pillow rested on your lap and a book sat atop it, was you.

you looked ethereal in the golden sunlight and the ambient lighting of the room, oblivious to everything besides the words in front of you. dean almost hated to interrupt you, but seeing you in this timid, natural state was nothing compared to seeing your smile.

he grabs a chair from the table closest to where you were sitting, dragging it over to you. you glance up from the book in front of you, your smile immediate when it lands on him. “how did your test go?”

dean spins it backwards and drops into it. “76. solid C.”

“a 76 for 67,” you say, tilting your head in thought, “it’s almost cinematic, isn’t it?”

dean rolls his eyes, letting out a little scoff of laughter. “yeah, yeah,” he breathes, nodding toward the book perched on your lap, “i’m guessin’ you’re not doin’ so hot either.”

“this is fahrenheit 451,” you say, holding up the book for him to see the words on the cover, “and the fact you didn’t recognize it is probably evidence on why you’re failing.”

dean arches an eyebrow. “scraping by in chemistry.” he nods toward the book, his smile broadening. “i’ve read it. i read books.”

most of them probably nothing you’ve ever heard of before, but that didn’t matter. if your point was that he didn’t read, he could name three lore books he had nearly memorized page for page, and a couple in latin that he knew well enough. plus, the curriculum’s required readings on top of all of that. a lot of the other football players didn’t have to fight to stay ahead of the curve, but dean did. fighting was just one of those things he learned young and couldn't unlearn.

“do you want a coffee?” you ask, drawing dean from his head and his thoughts. his smile softens, always becoming something molten and warm around you. “i’ll buy this time. you know, to make it even for walking me home.”

“i don’t think those are very even comparisons,” dean says, sucking in a breath through his teeth, “but i’m not one to turn down a pretty girl’s offers.”

the laugh you let out is downright magical. you rise from your seat, setting the pillow back in its place and holding out the book for him to hold onto. “study up on that while i’m in line,” you tease, ruffling his hair with your fingertips, “maybe you’ll learn a thing or two.”

dean could have argued. he could have kept you right next to him, fueling the fire of a back-and-forth that would go on until brewski’s closed. but you were already gone in the time it took to blink, stood in the short line patiently. he could have looked at you in these candid moments for forever.

your eyes lock on his, and you nod toward the book. dean can’t help but laugh, holding up a hand in surrender. the other shifts the book open, holding it by the crease in the center with his thumb.

the page you’re on has two highlights, the vibrant pink standing out so starkly on the cream colored paper. dean shifts in his seat, resting the spine of the book on the back of the chair that he sat against.

“why is it," he said, one time, at the subway entrance, "i feel i’ve known you so many years?"

"because i like you," she said, "and i don't want anything from you.”

dean smiles a little to himself. curiously, he flips through the previous pages, and sure enough, there’s highlights and pen annotations in the margins on most of them. this felt more intimate than he expected, reading through the lines you deemed notable and important, and your interpretations. it felt like a glance into the depths of your soul, and while part of him worried that now that he’d seen these little parts of you, he’d never be able to slip away — the other wanted nothing more than to stay tucked into the folds of your brain and locked into the molding of your heart. you were more special than any girl back in kansas had felt to him, because you were the first person he’d felt free enough to be around without worry of leaving eventually.

“i forgot to ask you what you wanted,” you say once you circle back to him, taking the chair at his table instead of your spot on the window seat again, “so i got you black coffee. hope that’s okay.”

dean turns around to sit properly in his chair, setting the book upside down on the table, keeping your place for you. “that’s fine with me.” he takes the mug and lifts it to his mouth, savoring the warmth of the bitter drink as it trailed down his throat and his spine. “thanks. really.”

“oh, i wasn’t doing it for you,” you say, lifting your own drink to your lips and taking a sip, “you look dead in the water. i don’t want to be caught dead out with a guy who’s barely hanging on for dear life.”

dean laughs, setting the mug back on the wooden table. “well, thank you for lookin’ out for me, then. i think.”

it felt weird to say that sentence out loud. when had someone ever looked out for him in any way? how was this moment, where all you’d done was buy him a coffee, the most he’s felt cared for in a while?

the silence stretches but it’s no burden or filled with any awkwardness. you’ve got your highlighter in your hand again, playing with it between your fingers, twisting the cap on and off while you skim the pages again. maybe he should have brought his things to study. maybe he made the right choice, leaving them back at his dorm room, so he could watch as you did. “we should properly study together sometime,” he says after a few minutes, leaning back in his chair, “so you can make me up some of those…” he trails off, making a broad gesture with his hand. “what were they? pretty notecards?”

“oh, i don’t make those for free.” you put the highlighter in the middle of your book as a makeshift bookmark. “so what’s your offer?”

dean glances behind you at the bar countertop, at the baristas making coffee. he tilts his head in a nonchalant gesture. “i’ll buy you a coffee every thursday.”

you are so pretty. you’re wrapped up in a warm sweater, a marked-up book in front of you, and a coffee in your fingertips, looking at him like he just hung the moon for making a simple offering. “next thursday, then. i’ll meet you at your room?”

“we’ve got a deal,” dean agrees, holding out his hand to shake on it. you take his hand with more gentleness than he’s ever felt, and he savors the few seconds that he gets to hold it. “why is it i feel i’ve known you so many years, cherry red?” he asks, and he watches as it registers in your expression, what he’s quoting in the question.

you look up at the ceiling in a failing attempt to bite back your smile, and when you meet his gaze again, the smile is written all over your expression. “because i like you, and i don’t want anything from you.”

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#dahlia's ☆ journal #★ number 67 #stanford!dean #jensen ackles #jensen fucking ackles #jensen ackles fanfic #jensen ackles fic #dean winchester #dean winchester fanfic #dean winchester fic #dean winchester x reader #dean winchester x you #supernatural #spn #supernatural fic #spn fic

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