summary: keeping dean di laurentis a secret was easy. until one careless text turned your perfectly hidden romance into a disaster waiting to happen
warnings: mdni 18+ (kinda semi-public, dry humping, fingering), fluff, cursing, no use of y/n, english isn't my first language
word count: 8.6k
a/n: and I'm back with my very first dean di laurentis fic. he gives me such jj vibes that I physically couldn't stop myself from writing something for him. so, as usual, I'm waiting for your feedback <3
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5 seconds of summer - english love affair
THE BRIAR U HOCKEY HOUSE WAS BUSTLING WITH MUSIC AS USUAL. Hundreds of people were packed inside, dancing, drinking, celebrating the latest win. Every room was overcrowded with bodies and noise. The floor trembled beneath your feet from the bass, laughter echoed from somewhere upstairs, and every few minutes someone would erupt into drunken cheers that spread through the house like wildfire. It was chaos in the way only a hockey house could be.
And of course you couldn't skip it. Not when Dean Di Laurentis was going to be there.
Maybe that was the real reason you kept showing up to these parties. Certainly not for the beer, and definitely not for the endless stream of hockey stories you had already heard a hundred times before. No, you came because these parties gave you an excuse to be around him without raising suspicion. They gave you an excuse to sit in the same room, exchange secret looks, and pretend nothing was happening between you.
Which was funny considering there had been plenty happening between you for months now. Garrett would lose his mind if he ever found out. That thought almost made you smile.
The thing between you and Dean was going on for nearly a year now. Dean had somehow become your favourite secret. What had started as harmless teasing after practices and team dinners had gradually turned into something much more dangerous. Late-night texts became private conversations. Private conversations became stolen moments when nobody was paying attention. And stolen moments became sneaking away from parties together, lingering in empty hallways, wandering hands whenever Garrett wasn't near.
It wasn't exactly a relationship. At least neither of you had ever called it that. But it was impossible to pretend it meant nothing anymore.
Now you were sitting comfortably on one of the living room sofas surrounded by members of the Briar U hockey team. Logan was arguing animatedly with Tucker about some play move from tonight's game while your brother occupied a yellow plushy armchair nearby with Hannah curled up on his lap.
You watched them for a moment and immediately regretted it. They were being disgustingly sweet as always. The kind of sweet that made everyone around them want to throw something. Your attention drifted away before you could witness another round of heart eyes to something more interesting. Turned out the most interesting thing for you was Dean.
He sat across from you in another armchair, looking entirely too comfortable for someone who had just spent the last twenty minutes pretending you didn't exist. His long legs were stretched out in front of him, crossed at the ankle, one arm draped casually over the backrest like he owned the place. That lazy look made you want to simultaneously slap him and climb into his lap. But the place was already occupied.
Some girl was perched on the arm of his chair.
She was tall and beautiful in that effortless, glossy way that was reminding you of those models from expensive magazines. Dark hair cascaded over her shoulders, long legs crossed and uncrossed with practiced elegance. She leaned in close to whisper something into his ear, her painted red lips brushing the shell of it, and she laughed – a soft, melodic sound that was clearly meant to charm.
Dean barely reacted.
His head tilted slightly, acknowledging her presence the way one might acknowledge a fly buzzing around a window. His lips didn't curve. His eyes didn't soften. He gave her nothing because he was looking at you.
His gaze met yours across the crowded room with such familiarity that your stomach immediately tightened into a knot of heat and irritation. It was infuriating how quickly your body was reacting to him now. One look and suddenly you were back in the shadows of his bedroom, his hands on your waist, his mouth trailing down your throat. One look and your skin was remembering the deep blue silky bedsheets against your back, his breath hot in your ear, the way he'd murmured your name like it was the sin and the blessing at the same time.
Your body remembered everything. Every secret touch beneath tables where nobody could see. Every stolen moment in hallways while parties were going on on the other side of the door. Every whispered promise that ended with both of you grinning like idiots, breathless and giddy and drunk lying on his bed, tangled in the deep blue sheets.
The girl beside him said something else. Her hand landed on his shoulder, fingers trailing lightly up to his neck, a possessive little gesture that made your jaw tighten. Dean nodded absentmindedly but he still was watching you. Tentative, full of something you both couldn’t acknowledge right now.
Your eyes narrowed. You could feel the heat creeping up your neck, that familiar burning fire inside that you felt when Dean was with someone that wasn’t you. Maybe it was jealousy, or maybe it was just pure, undiluted annoyance at his absolute nerve.
Dean caught you gazing at the girl and his mouth twitched.
“Asshole” you mouthed, pulling a red solo cup closer to your lips, taking a sip of your drink.
The amused satisfaction on his face only grew, spreading across his features like he was savoring every second of your discomfort. His eyes dragged over you slowly, deliberately, a lazy inventory that made your breath catch despite yourself. He knew exactly what he was doing. He always did.
And then, almost like he wanted to see how far he could push you, he let his hand settle casually on the girl's thigh. Just rested it there. Palm flat. Fingers loose. A casual, intimate gesture that made the blood boil in your veins.
You scoffed loud enough for him to hear, and the sound turned a few heads nearby. You didn't care. Your blood was simmering now, a hot, prickling awareness that made your fingers curl into the armrests of your own chair.
The bastard actually looked pleased with himself. As usual. His eyes glittered with dark amusement, and that infuriating little smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth like he'd just won a game you didn't even know you were playing.
The girl shifted, clearly misreading his hand as encouragement. She leaned in again, pressing closer, her fingers sliding up into his hair. Dean let her. He didn't move, didn't react. His hand stayed on her thigh, motionless, while his eyes held yours across the room with an intensity that made the air between you feel thick and charged.
You could feel that invisible thread that connected you across the room, taut and humming. His gaze dropped to your mouth, lingered and then rose back to your eyes. And in that single, silent exchange, you understood exactly what he was doing.
He wasn't interested in her. He'd never been interested in her or any other girl lately. He was using them to see if you still wanted him, to see if you'd break first. To get a reaction and know if that fire in your eyes was just irritation, or something deeper, something that kept you up at night the same way he kept you up at night.
Your throat went dry.
His hand squeezed the girl's thigh once, lightly, a deliberate flex of his fingers that was meant for you. And your own thighs pressed together in response. You hated how your body always answered him before your brain could catch up. And you hated even more the desire to walk over there, pull his hand off her, and place it on your tigh instead.
You didn't. You stayed rooted in your chair, jaw tight, pulse pounding. But your eyes never left his. And his never left yours.
"God, why do you look so miserable?" an irritating ramble was heard before the sofa dipped sharply and Allie collapsed beside you with absolutely no regard for personal space.
Allie threw one arm around your shoulders and draped herself across the cushions. Her cheeks were flushed pink from alcohol, her lipstick smudged at the edges, and several strands of hair had escaped her perfectly arranged bun, curling loose around her face like she'd just rolled out of somewhere far more interesting than a hockey party.
You laughed despite yourself and let your head fall onto her shoulder, the warmth of her presence a welcome anchor in the noise.
"I don't look miserable"
"Sweetie," she tilted her head, examining your face with theatrical intensity. "I've known you for years. You absolutely look miserable. You've got that little crease between your eyebrows, the one that appears when you're either deeply annoyed or deeply horny. And since Garrett's not currently lecturing you about anything, I'm going to go with the second option"
You shoved her. She laughed.
"Briar just won," she continued, counting on her fingers with exaggerated precision. "There's free alcohol, free food, and Garrett is too busy making out with Hannah to bother you. By all logic, this should be your ideal night."
"Those are incredibly low standards,” you belly laughed, throwing your head back on the sofa. The ceiling was getting a little blurry.
"They're realistic standards. There's a difference," Allie rolled her eyes and pursed her lips, but there was a slight smile playing on her lips. You like this girl so much.
You chuckle and took another sip of your drink as the noise swelled around you. Someone was shouting in the kitchen. A group of freshmen near the keg had started chanting someone’s name loudly. The music pounded through the floorboards, bass vibrating up through your feet and settling somewhere deep in your chest. The whole house was caught in that giddy moment between victory and disaster.
Allie watched the chaos fondly. You watched Dean fondly. And unfortunately, Allie caught that immediately.
"Oh my God," she exclaimed, bumping your shoulder with hers.
You groaned before she could even finish the thought. "What?"
"There it is"
"There what is?"
"That look," she wiggled her fingers toward your face like she was casting a spell.
You straightened, schooling your features into careful neutrality. "What look?"
"The Dean look," she whispered his name like it was a dirty secret. Which, you supposed, it was. "I've had to watch this nonsense for almost a year, and I know that look intimately."
"There is no Dean look," you protested, trying to avert your gaze to something else but it still returned to Dean.
"Oh, please," she snorted. "I've watched you two orbit each other for months. There's absolutely a Dean look."
Heat flooded your cheeks, creeping up your neck. Across the room, Dean was pretending to listen to whatever Logan was saying. But the idiot had glanced in your direction at least seven times in the last five minutes. Not that you were counting. You absolutely weren't.
"Stop smiling," Allie ordered.
"I'm not smiling," you muttered hiding behind your cup.
"You are. It's that little one. The one that makes you look like you're remembering something very specific."
Your face burned hotter, "I hate you."
"No, you hate him," she nodded toward Dean. "Or at least, that's what you keep telling me. Usually while making that exact same face."
You covered your eyes with one hand, groaning into your palm.
Allie laughed so hard she nearly spilled her drink on your dress, her shoulders shaking against yours. The unfortunate thing about confessing your secret during a wine night was that she never, ever let you forget it. From the moment you'd whispered Dean's name across her kitchen table, she'd made it her personal mission to torment you at every possible opportunity. Allie'd kept your secret faithfully, but she'd also weaponized it with surgical precision.
"You know," she continued, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial murmur that was somehow still loud enough to be heard over the bass, "if I didn't know you two were hooking up, I'd still think something was going on"
Your eyes widened, "Allie!"
"What?" she looked at you and raised her eyebrows.
"Volume," you hushed, looking up, checking that no one was paying attention to you two.
"Oh please," she waved a dismissive hand. "Nobody can hear me over this shit of music. I could scream 'Dean Di Laurentis is fucking my best friend every night' at the top of my lungs and nobody would notice."
"Allie"
"Okay, okay," she held up her hands in mock surrender, but her grin didn't fade. "I'm just saying. The man looks at you like you're the last woman on Earth. And the way he was watching you walk across the room earlier? I felt like I needed a cold shower"
You shoved her again, but you couldn't quite suppress the laugh that escaped you.
"Seriously," Allie pressed, leaning in closer until her breath was warm against your ear. "Does he do that thing everyone's been talking about? The thing with his tongue?"
Your face went nuclear, heat flooding up from your chest to the tips of your ears. "I'm not answering that"
"That's a yes," Allie giggled, biting her lip like she'd just won the lottery.
"That's a no comment," you rolled your eyes so hard it almost hurt.
"That's absolutely a yes," she looked positively delighted, her eyes dancing with unholy glee. "Okay, next question. Has he ever…"
"Allie!" The warning in your voice was sharp enough to cut glass.
She laughed, raising both hands in surrender, but the mischief in her eyes remained undimmed. "Fine, fine. Keep your secrets," she leaned back, taking a slow, theatrical sip of her drink. "For now"
You risked another glance toward Dean. Bad idea. Because he was already looking.
The second your eyes met, the corner of his mouth lifted into that familiar, lazy smirk. The one that said he knew exactly what he did to you. It made your stomach flip and your thighs press together and your brain short-circuit all at once.
Asshole.
Your body immediately betrayed you. Heat pooled low in your belly, a familiar ache that had become embarrassingly predictable whenever he looked at you like he was already counting down the minutes until he could get you alone.
Allie noticed. Of course she did, "Oh, that's pathetic."
"Shut up"
"You're pathetic"
"I'm not," you mumbled under your nose.
"Oh, you so are. And mentally, you're already making out with him in a closet somewhere," she tilted her head, studying you with mock concern. "Or more than making out, based on that little shiver you just did"
You shoved her shoulder hard enough to make her wobble. She giggled, spilling her drink on the yellow couch. There will probably be a stain in the morning.
For a few moments, you let yourself relax on the couch. The alcohol hummed pleasantly beneath your skin, warm and loose. The music blurred into a pleasant thrum. Garrett was laughing at something Hannah said, his usual intensity softened by something that looked suspiciously like affection. Logan and Tucker were bickering about something pointless and completely stupid. Dean was still across the room, still looking entirely too pleased with himself, still watching you with that dark, knowing gaze that made your pulse stutter.
Then Allie sat bolt upright, her eyes lighting up with the kind of enthusiasm that had never, in the history of human civilization, led to anything good.
You narrowed your eyes immediately, "No"
"I haven't even said anything yet,” she pouted, looking offended.
"You have that look,” you pointed out, turning your head on the couch to look at her.
"What look?" her voice was innocent and full of mischief. Oh, that wasn't good.
"The one that always gets me into trouble"
Allie gasped in mock offense. "I am offended by that accusation"
"Good. Be offended. Keep being offended. Don't say whatever you're about to say."
"Drink or Dare!" she announced, practically bouncing as she said the words to the entire room.
A collective groan echoed around the group. Logan dropped his head back against the couch like a man who'd just received a death sentence. Tucker muttered something obscene and looked ready to flee the country. Even Garrett paused mid-laugh, shooting Allie a warning look that she completely ignored.
"Come on," she whined, drawing the word out. "We're celebrating. Briar won," she shot you a pointed look, "We should be having fun"
"We're sitting," Tucker said flatly, not bothering to hide his lack of enthusiasm.
"Exactly. It's depressing. I'm depressed. You're all depressing me!"
Before anyone could stop her, she snatched your cup from your hand and disappeared toward the drinks table, weaving through the crowd with the single-minded determination of a woman on a mission.
You watched her go, dread and affection curling in your chest. "That's never a good sign"
"Never," Tucker agreed solemnly.
A minute later, Allie returned carrying a suspicious, shimmering mixture that seemed to contain at least three different types of alcohol and a bottle of liquor in her other hand.
She placed the cup proudly into your hand and put the bottle on the table, "Suit yourself"
You stared at it. Then at her. Then back at the drink, "You want me dead"
"I want you entertaining," she leaned in, voice dropping to a playful whisper. "And maybe a little looser. You get very honest when you're drunk. I want to hear more about what Dean does with his tongue"
Heat flooded your cheeks again, "You're the worst friend in the world."
"I'm the best friend in the world. I kept your secret, I never told Garrett, and I've been emotionally supporting your situationship for months. The least you can do is get drunk and give me details"
A reluctant laugh escaped you, warm and helpless. That was the problem with Allie. She was absolutely impossible to refuse when she looked this delighted with herself, her eyes bright and her grin so wide it crinkled at the corners. She'd kept your secret faithfully, never once judging, never once slipping. She just... tormented you. Mercilessly. Beautifully.
With an exaggerated sigh, you accepted the cup and dipped your head in surrender, "Fine"
Allie's grin immediately turned victorious, sharp and wicked.
Across the room, Dean leaned forward in his chair, his lazy indifference replaced by sharp, focused interest. His eyes found yours across the crowd, dark and knowing, and the corner of his mouth curved into something that looked almost like anticipation.
The game started innocently enough.
At first, it was just an excuse for everyone to keep drinking. Allie had to chug half her cup because she refused to reveal her celebrity crush, emerging red-faced and sputtering while Tucker howled with laughter. Logan was dared to call one of the assistant coaches and profess his undying love, which ended with the entire room wheezing as Logan tried to explain, through tears of humiliation, that yes, he was drunk, and no, he wasn't dying, he just had feelings.
Even Garrett got dragged into the chaos at some point, forced to let Hannah answer a question on his behalf. She revealed a secret about his obsession with organizing his sock drawer by color and it has sent the hockey players into a spiral of mockery. Garrett's ears went red. Hannah looked utterly delighted. The rest of the room collectively lost their minds.
The atmosphere grew louder with every round, the initial awkwardness dissolving into something looser and more reckless. People shifted closer together on the couches, bodies pressing into one another as space grew smaller. Drinks were constantly refilled, the clink of bottles and the slosh of liquor becoming a familiar rhythm.
You found yourself laughing more than usual. Mostly because Dean wouldn't stop staring at you.
Every time you looked up, his gaze was already there – waiting, patient, dark with something that made your stomach flip. The worst part was that he wasn't even trying to hide it anymore. A few months ago, the two of you would have been careful, stolen glances disguised as coincidence, eyes darting away before anyone could notice. Now it almost felt like a game. A dangerous one, considering Garrett was sitting less than ten feet away, oblivious and laughing at something Tucker said.
Dean caught you looking again. The corner of his mouth lifted into that familiar, infuriating smirk. You immediately flipped him off.
His grin widened, slow and pleased, like you'd just given him exactly what he wanted. His eyes dropped to your lips. Lingered. Rose back to meet yours with deliberate slowness.
"Okay!" Allie clapped her hands loudly enough to silence several conversations at once, her grin sharp and wicked. "Your turn"
Your head snapped around. "Mine?"
"Yes, yours," she said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world, her eyes glittering with barely contained mischief. A chorus of agreement rose from around the room, scattered voices urging you on, Logan banging his fist against the coffee table in encouragement.
You groaned dramatically and sank deeper into the couch, the cushions swallowing you whole, "Fine"
"Dare or drink?" she singsonged, tilting her head and fixing you with a pointed look.
You glanced at the suspicious mixture sitting in your cup, that vaguely radioactive cocktail Allie had so lovingly prepared. Whatever was in there, it was going to taste terrible and hit hard.
You looked at Allie. At her knowing grin. At the way her eyes flicked briefly toward Dean before returning to you.
Your pulse quickened.
"Okay, dare," you said, sinking deeper into the couch cushions and stretching your legs out before you.
The alcohol had settled beneath your skin like honey, warm and slow, leaving you pleasantly loosened at the edges. For a blissful, ignorant moment, you forgot that agreeing to a dare at a Briar hockey party was historically a catastrophic decision. Your gaze drifted across the room and landed on Dean almost automatically, drawn by some gravitational pull you'd long since stopped fighting.
He was already looking at you. Of course he was.
"Read your last text message. Out loud." Logan's voice pulled you back to reality like a bucket of cold water.
The smug grin on his face immediately made your instincts flare. He was leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, looking far too pleased with himself, like he already knew exactly what was waiting on your screen and was simply savoring the moment of revelation.
You narrowed your eyes at him, "You look way too happy about that dare"
"Just read the message"
A chorus of agreement rose around the room. Groaning dramatically, you unlocked your phone and thumbed open your messages. At first, you weren't worried. Your group chats were full of nonsense. Hannah sent you TikToks every day without fail. Allie texted you so often that half your conversations consisted entirely of voice notes and chaotic emoji strings.
Then your eyes landed on the latest message.
And your heart stopped.
For one horrifying second, you simply stared at the screen, convinced the alcohol was making you hallucinate. Maybe if you blinked hard enough, the words would rearrange themselves into something innocent. Something that wouldn't destroy your entire evening. Something that didn't make your stomach drop straight through the floor.
Nope. It was still there.
Because of the booze and the chaos of the party, you had completely forgotten who your latest conversation had been with.
Di Laurentis. Fucking Dean Di Laurentis.
And it wasn't innocent. Not even close. The message glowed up at you like a confession, the kind of words that could only be interpreted one way. Your thumb hovered over the screen as if you could somehow erase it through sheer force of will.
Slowly, very slowly, you lifted your eyes from the screen and scanned the room. Everyone was waiting. Logan was grinning like the cat who'd caught the canary. Allie was bouncing impatiently in her seat, practically vibrating with anticipation. Tucker looked deeply entertained. Dean looked like he was trying very hard not to laugh.
The bastard.
You cleared your throat and glanced back down at the phone, praying the words had somehow changed while you weren't looking. They hadn't. You were absolutely, completely screwed.
"If G leaves you alone for five minutes, meet me in the kitchen ;)"
The words hung in the air for barely a second before the entire room fell silent.
It was the kind of silence that only happened when something had gone very, very wrong. You could hear your own heartbeat thudding in your ears. You slowly turned your head toward your brother.
A minute ago, Garrett had been completely uninterested in the game. He'd been too busy with Hannah curled up in his lap, his lips pressed to her cheek, whispering things that made her laugh. Now he was staring directly at you.
No. Not at you. Through you. Into your soul. His jaw was tight, his eyes flat and unreadable in that terrifying way that meant he was already cycling through various methods of murder and trying to decide which one was most appropriate for the occasion.
The thing about Garrett was that he had always been ridiculously overprotective. Growing up with him meant growing up with an unwanted bodyguard, a shadow that materialized whenever a boy so much as looked in your direction. If Garrett was around, potential suitors simply ceased to exist. During his first year at Briar, when you were still finishing high school, he somehow managed to intimidate every guy who had ever shown interest in you despite living hours away. To this day, you had no idea how he did it. His methods remained a mystery, but his results were undeniable. Your dating life had been a complete disaster because of him.
Things only got worse when you arrived at Briar.
You still remembered the first night he introduced you to the hockey team. Everyone had been friendly, warm, welcoming. Until Garrett casually placed a hand on your shoulder and announced in the coldest, most unyielding voice imaginable, "She's my sister. She's off limits."
The entire team had immediately nodded their agreement like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Well. Almost the entire team.
Your gaze flickered toward Dean for the briefest moment. Just a fraction of a second. Barely long enough to register.
His mouth twitched.
You hated him.
"WHAT?" Garrett practically roared, returning your gaze back to him.
Hannah nearly slid off his lap when he shot upright, his body going rigid in an instant. His arm immediately wrapped around her waist and pulled her back against him, but his eyes never left your face – dark, furious, the kind of look that had made grown men back away slowly. One hand gestured sharply through the air as though he couldn't decide whether to point at you or simply strangle whoever was responsible.
"Repeat it," he demanded, his voice low and dangerous.
You nearly choked on your drink. Every muscle in your body tensed at once, a reflexive flinch that you barely managed to suppress. Under normal circumstances, you probably would have folded immediately. You would apologise, make excuses, deflect until he forgot. But the alcohol buzzing through your veins had loosened something in your chest, giving you a reckless, dangerous amount of confidence.
"It's just a text, G," you said, trying for casualness and failing miserably. "Don't overreact"
The room erupted.
Logan laughed so hard he nearly rolled off the couch, his face going red as he wheezed into his cup. Tucker buried his face in his hands, shoulders shaking. Even Hannah pressed her lips together, clearly fighting a smile she couldn't quite suppress. Across from you, Dean suddenly became fascinated by the beer bottle in his hand, turning it over like it held the secrets of the universe. The devilish grin tugging at the corner of his mouth completely ruined the act.
"Who sent that?" Garrett asked.
His voice was quieter now. Which was somehow much worse. The temperature in the room seemed to drop several degrees as he leveled that cold, sharp gaze at you. It was the voice he used before a game, before a fight, before he did something that would end up on someone else's permanent record.
"No one," you said with a shrug, taking another sip of your drink.
You wanted the floor to open up and swallow you whole. Or maybe you wanted to kill Dean Di Laurentis. Honestly, either option sounded appealing at this point. Your fingers tightened around your cup as you prayed for a distraction. Something like a fire alarm, a power outage, a sudden natural disaster that would rescue you from this nightmare would perfectly suit you.
"Someone sent it," Garrett pressed, his jaw tight.
"No one important"
"Someone" he stepped forward, and you felt the weight of his suspicion pressing down on you like a physical thing.
You pressed your lips together and said nothing.
Garrett stared. You stared back. The room watched the silent battle unfold with open amusement, nobody daring to break the tension. You could feel your resolve crumbling, could feel the confession building in your throat like a physical weight. You were already seconds away from breaking when Hannah finally decided to intervene.
With the patience of a woman who had clearly dealt with this nonsense before, she slipped out of Garrett's lap and took his hand firmly in hers. "Come on," she said, her voice soft.
"I'm not done," Garrett's eyes didn't leave your face.
"Yes, you are," she tugged his arm gently.
"Hannah…"
"Garrett"
Something in her tone made him stop. The sharp edge of his anger seemed to falter, replaced by something softer that he tried very hard to hide.
The entire room watched in fascination as the captain of the hockey team allowed himself to be dragged away like a misbehaving child. He followed her reluctantly, his feet dragging, but not before sending one last warning look in your direction.
The message was clear. This conversation was far from over.
A few seconds later, they disappeared into the kitchen. The door swung shut behind them, and the room exhaled collectively.
The silence lasted exactly three seconds. Then every single pair of eyes in the room turned toward you. And somehow, that felt even worse than your brother's fury.
“Gosh, you're all so noisy,” you complained, pushing yourself off the couch before the inevitable avalanche of questions could come crashing down on your head. There was no chance you were surviving another minute in that circle. Not with Logan looking so pleased with himself, Allie practically vibrating with energy, and half the hockey team staring at you like they had just uncovered the greatest mystery in Briar history.
You grabbed the last sip of your drink and finished it in one swallow. Everyone was smiling. Every single one of them.
“For God's sake,” you muttered, shaking your head. “A girl can't even have fun anymore”
The laughter that followed only made you roll your eyes harder. Honestly, you hated Dean. You hated him so much.
With as much dignity as someone fleeing a crime scene could manage, you slipped away from the lounge area and disappeared into the crowd. The music grew louder as you moved through the packed house. Bodies brushed against your shoulders, conversations blended together, and somewhere in the kitchen someone nearly dropped an entire tray of drinks.
Your heart was still beating too fast. Partly because of Garrett. Partly because of the entire room hearing that text. Mostly because of the infuriating smirk Dean had been wearing the whole time. The image refused to leave your head.
He hadn't looked nervous. He hadn't looked guilty. If anything, the idiot had looked entertained. And the worst part was that it had affected you far more than it should have. A year later and Dean Di Laurentis still had the ability to completely derail your thoughts. Sometimes you wondered if it had all been doomed from the start.
Maybe from that very first party during your freshman year, when you had shown up determined to prove to Garrett that you could survive college without his supervision. You had drunk too much, laughed too loudly, and somehow ended up alone in a hallway with Dean. One minute he had been making fun of you for trying to outdrink hockey players. The next he had been standing too close, looking at you in a way no one ever had before.
Everything after that had happened so quickly. And yet not quickly enough.
One stolen kiss had turned into another. Then into secret meetings. Late-night texts. Hidden smiles across crowded rooms. Months of pretending nothing was happening whenever Garrett was around. The memory alone was enough to make your stomach twist.
You escaped through the front door before you could think about it too much. Cold November air immediately wrapped around you. The contrast almost made you gasp. After the heat and noise inside the house, the porch felt strangely peaceful. The music became muffled behind the walls, reduced to a distant thump beneath the sound of the wind. For once there was nobody outside. No smokers. No drunk freshmen. No couples looking for privacy. Just you and the freezing wind that seemed determined to go straight through your clothes.
You rubbed your arms and exhaled slowly. A small cloud formed in front of your face before disappearing into the darkness.
A second later something heavy landed across your shoulders. Warm. Familiar. Your eyes dropped to the jacket immediately.
The scent reached you before anything else. Salty cologne that always reminds you of the sea , clean laundry, and something that always seemed uniquely Dean. You smiled despite yourself and you didn't need to turn around to know the person standing behind you.
Dean had a way of making his presence known before he even spoke. Maybe it was confidence. Maybe it was habit. Maybe after a year of sneaking around together your body simply recognized him before your brain did. Whatever it was, you always knew when he was near. It was irritating. And comforting. Which pretty much summed up your entire relationship with Dean Di Laurentis.
“I think I said meet me in the kitchen,” his voice came from directly behind you, low and rough from laughing and drinking all night. The warmth of his breath brushed your ear and a shiver ran down your spine.
“I think,” you replied, unable to stop the smile pulling at your lips, “you were too busy entertaining your latest addition”
Dean laughed softly. The sound was warm and familiar.
A moment later he stepped closer and slid an arm around your waist, pulling you back against him with an ease that spoke of long practice. The movement felt natural now. Familiar enough that you leaned into him without thinking.
“Jealous much?” he asked. The smugness in his voice was unbearable.
You rolled your eyes and finally turned in his arms.
“Oh, absolutely,” you deadpanned, circling your arms around his neck. “I've never been more threatened in my entire life”
“Good”
The yellow glow of the porch light softened his features, casting warm shadows across his face. His blonde hair was more disheveled than usual, probably because of that girl running her finger through them all night. His eyes never left yours, moving slowly over your face as though checking that you were really there.
“I hate you. God, I hate you so much, Di Laurentis,” you groaned, pushing at his chest.
The gesture carried far more frustration than actual force and Dean knew it. Judging by the way his grin only widened, he was enjoying every second of your suffering. The humiliating text, Garrett's near heart attack, the entire hockey team staring at you like you had just revealed state secrets – somehow all of it had become entertainment for him.
“You keep saying that,” he observed lazily, catching your wrist when you tried to shove him again. His fingers wrapped around it for only a second before loosening, but the touch lingered anyway, warm even in the freezing November air. “And yet I can't help noticing that your actions never really match your words”
You rolled your eyes so hard it almost hurt, “Please don't start acting like you're some kind of relationship expert. You sent me a text that nearly got us both killed”
“Nearly,” Dean repeated, emphasizing the word as though it somehow worked in his favor. He leaned back against the porch railing, looking entirely too relaxed for a man whose life had just flashed before his eyes courtesy of Garrett Graham. “See? That's the important part. If your brother was actually going to murder me, I'd already be dead.”
A disbelieving laugh escaped you. “The only reason you're still alive is because Hannah dragged him away before he could finish processing what he heard and understand that you were screwing his sister”
The memory alone was enough to make your stomach twist. Garrett's expression had gone from confused to suspicious to outright homicidal in less than ten seconds. You had spent your entire life dealing with his overprotective tendencies, but seeing that look while knowing that you were fucking his best friend was really terrifying.
Dean must have noticed the change in your expression because some of the amusement faded from his face. Not completely, nothing ever removed that infuriating smugness from Dean Di Laurentis, but enough that his gaze softened as it moved over your features.
“You're overthinking again”
“No, I'm being realistic”
“You're definitely overthinking”
“Dean, my brother practically declared war in there”
“Your brother declares war every time a man breathes in your direction”
“That's not the point”
“It kind of is”
You opened your mouth, fully prepared to argue, but the words disappeared the moment he stepped closer. The distance between you had never been particularly safe. It didn't matter how many months had passed or how accustomed you had become to his touch, there was still something unfair about Dean when he looked at you like that. The porch light cast a warm glow over his face, highlighting the familiar curve of his mouth. For a ridiculous moment, all you could think about was how many times you had kissed that mouth and how little you regretted any of them. Which was incredibly inconvenient considering you were trying to be angry.
“See?” he said quietly, clearly reading your thoughts far more easily than he should have been able to. “That doesn't look like hate to me”
“Oh, shut up”
His laughter immediately filled the space between you, low and warm and entirely too familiar. It was the kind of sound that had become dangerous over the past year because your body reacted to it before your brain could catch up. You hated that. You hated how easily he could make you laugh when you wanted to stay angry. You hated how comfortable it felt standing here with him while the party continued inside without either of you. Most of all, you hated how natural this had become.
A year ago, Dean had just been your brother's best friend. Now his jacket was draped over your shoulders, his hands were resting on your waist, and your first instinct after embarrassing yourself in front of an entire room had been to kiss him senseless.
“That's exactly the problem,” you muttered under your breath.
Dean frowned slightly,“What is?”
You shook your head and let it fall against his shoulder with a dramatic groan. “The fact that I should hate you after tonight and somehow you're still making me smile”
For a second neither of you spoke. You could hear the muffled music coming from inside the house and feel the steady rise and fall of his breathing beneath your cheek. Then Dean's arm tightened around your waist, pulling you a little closer against him.
“Good,” he said simply.
You lifted your head enough to glare at him. “Good?”
“Yeah” The corner of his mouth curved upward as he looked down at you. “Because I'd be pretty offended if one stupid text was all it took to take you away from me”
“You're impossible,” you muttered instead, though there wasn't nearly as much conviction in your voice as there should have been.
Dean only hummed softly, as if he found your answer perfectly acceptable. As if being impossible was something he had accepted about himself a long time ago. The corner of his mouth twitched with amusement, but there was something else in his expression too, something quieter beneath the teasing confidence he wore so effortlessly. For a moment he simply looked at you, his gaze moving slowly over your face as though he was memorizing it. Then his hand lifted and his thumb brushed lightly along your jaw.
The touch was gentle. Dangerously gentle.
“Yeah,” he said softly. “But you love it”
Your breath caught somewhere in your throat. “Dean…”
You never got the chance to finish.
His lips met yours before the rest of the sentence could leave your mouth, stealing the argument before it had fully formed. The kiss wasn't rushed or demanding. It wasn't the desperate kind born from impatience. It felt almost unfairly confident, like he already knew exactly what effect he had on you. Like he knew every protest was doomed the moment he touched you.
The worst part was that he was right.
Your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt as you kissed him back, all the irritation and embarrassment from earlier slowly melting away beneath the warmth of his mouth. The memory of Garrett's interrogation, the laughter from the hockey team, the humiliation of reading that text aloud – none of it seemed nearly as important when Dean was standing this close.
When he finally pulled back, he barely moved away. His forehead remained close enough that you could feel his breath against your skin.
“Still hate me?” he asked quietly.
You narrowed your eyes in an attempt to glare at him, but the effort fell apart almost immediately.
“A little less,” you admitted. A smile tugged at your lips despite yourself as you rose slightly onto your toes and brushed your nose against his. “You can try again, though. Maybe you'll have better luck this time”
The laugh that escaped him was warm and satisfied.
"Careful," he warned, voice low and rough against your ear. "You're giving me encouragement"
"Maybe you need it"
"Sweetheart," he murmured, and the word curled like smoke between you, "I definitely don't"
You barely had time to scoff before his mouth was on yours again and this time, there was nothing careful about it.
Dean laughed into the kiss, low and breathless, and pressed harder, as if he wanted to fold you into him entirely. You breathed into his mouth, a soft, yielding sound, and when your lips parted just slightly, he took the invitation without hesitation. His tongue swept in, slow at first, then deeper, more certain, and your hands found their way beneath his shirt without thought. Your nails dragged across the hard planes of his stomach, over the ridges of muscle, and he smiled against your lips.
His palm slid down your spine, over the curve of your waist, and settled firmly on the plush of your ass, squeezing with a possessiveness that sent a shiver straight through you. You moaned into his mouth, breath catching, and your fingers curled against his skin.
"Up," Dean muttered, and before you could register the shift, he had turned, lifted you with an ease that made your head spin, and set you down on the railing.
The wood was cool beneath your thighs. You squeaked in surprise, but the sound dissolved into something needier as you hooked your legs around his hips and pulled him closer until there was no space left between you.
His lips found your neck, trailing wet, open-mouthed kisses down the column of your throat. His teeth caught the thin strap of your dress, tugging it down your shoulder with agonizing slowness. You laughed feeling ticklish under his touch but it died the instant his mouth found the tender spot just behind your ear.
You moaned, your head falling back, giving him better access to you neck, your breath coming faster now. The tension inside you coiled tighter with every brush of his lips, every graze of his teeth, every shift of his body against yours. It was building, relentless, a pressure that bordered on unbearable.
Dean shifted between your thighs, rolling his hips against yours in a slow, deliberate motion, and you felt him hard and wanting, straining against the denim of his jeans. The heat of him seeped through the thin fabric of your dress, and your mind went hazy, thoughts scattering like smoke.
"I think…" you breathed, the words tumbling out between shaky inhales. "Fuck… Dean… I think we need to find a better place"
But he hadn't stopped. His lips were already tracing their way back up your jaw, brushing against the corner of your mouth, teasing. His hips kept rolling against your heat, making you feel dizzy but this time not from the alcohol but from Dean himself.
"One more minute, baby," he mumbled against your skin, and then he kissed you again, deep and consuming, and your brain went completely dark.
His lips were like a drug, something you couldn't leave and get enough of at the same time. Your hips bucked instinctively toward him, and he pressed forward in response, a low sound rumbling in his chest. You felt the damp heat of your own want soaking through, a mess you'd be embarrassed about later, but right now… right now, you couldn't bring yourself to care.
The only thing that existed was him. The weight of his hands. The warmth of his mouth. The way he said your name without saying it at all.
And you wanted him. That was all that mattered right now.
Dean's hand slid up your body, palm flattening against your chest, squeezing through the thin fabric of your dress. His fingers found your nipple through the layers, rolling it between thumb and forefinger until you gasped into his mouth. He smiled against your lips. Your fingers tangled in his hair, tugging, pulling him closer. His free hand gripped your thigh, squeezing hard enough to bruise, and he hitched your leg higher around his hip. The movement opened you up, pressing your core against the ridge of his jeans, and you both groaned at the contact.
"Fuck," Dean breathed, pulling back just enough to look at you. His eyes were dark, pupils blown wide, lips swollen and glistening. "You feel that? Feel what you do to me?"
You nodded, breathless, because you could. You could feel every inch of him straining against the denim, hard and wanting and so deliciously close.
His hips rolled against yours, slow and deliberate, and your head fell back with a moan. The railing dug into your thighs, the cool wood a sharp contrast to the heat of his body pressed against you. Dean took advantage of your exposed throat, latching onto the pulse point that fluttered wildly beneath your skin. His teeth grazed the sensitive spot just below your ear, and you whimpered, nails raking down his back.
"Dean," you gasped, his name falling from your lips like a prayer.
"Say it again," he growled against your neck, his hand slipping beneath the hem of your dress. His fingers found the damp heat between your thighs, tracing you through the soaked fabric of your panties. "Say my name like that again"
"Dean," your hips rocked into his hand, desperate for more friction. "Please."
"Please what?" his voice was a dark murmur, his fingers pressing harder, circling your clit through the thin fabric. "Tell me what you want, sweetheart"
"You," your voice a broken whisper. "I want you, I want…"
His mouth cut you off with another kiss, swallowing your words as his fingers finally slipped beneath the fabric. He found you slick and ready, and the sound he made was almost reverent.
"So wet for me," he breathed against your lips. "This all for me?"
"Who else would it be for, you idiot?" you broke the kiss and looked at him irritatingly.
He laughed again, but it was strained, barely there, because his fingers were sliding through your folds, circling your clit with devastating precision. Your hips bucked into his hand, chasing the sensation, and he obliged, pressing harder, faster, until you were a trembling mess in his arms.
"That's it," he murmured, his forehead pressed to yours. "That's it, let go for me. I've got you"
The heat in your belly was growing, unbearable and intoxicating, spreading through you like wildfire. Dean's mouth captured your moans, his tongue sliding against yours in a rhythm that mirrored the movement of his hand. Your nails dug into his shoulders, your hips rocking desperately against his fingers as the pressure built and built and built and….
"What the fuck?!" Garrett's voice cut through the haze like a bucket of ice water, and you jerked back so fast you nearly lost your balance on the railing.
Your heart slammed against your ribs as your eyes found him, standing in the threshold with Logan and Tucker. Garrett's face was a thundercloud, jaw tight, nostrils flared, the vein in his forehead doing that thing it only did when he was about three seconds from committing a felony.
Behind him, Logan had his hand clamped over his mouth, shoulders shaking, but he wasn’t impressed at all. Tucker wasn't even trying to hide it, he was laughing, full-bodied, tears-in-his-eyes laughing, the traitor.
“Fuck,” Dean’s hand quickly left your core, circling your body and pulling you closer. His head fell on your shoulder and you felt Dean's breath hot against your ear, low and steady despite the disaster behind his back. "On the count of three, we run"
You nodded, barely, your pulse hammering so loud you could barely hear yourself think.
One.
Dean's hands found your waist, lifting you down from the railing with a slowness that felt almost mocking given the circumstances. Your feet hit the floor. Garrett took a step forward, and you felt every muscle in your body tense. His face was stone. The kind of face that said I'm going to bury my best friend in the backyard and no one will ever find the body.
Logan wheezed behind him. Tucker whisper-shouted, "Oh my God, he's going to kill him"
Two.
Dean's fingers laced through yours, squeezing once – tight, reassuring, maybe a little apologetic. His palm was warm and solid, and you clung to it like a lifeline. Garrett was coming closer now, slow and deliberate, the way predators did before they pounced. His jaw worked like he was chewing glass.
"Dean," he said, and his voice was eerily calm. That was worse. That was so much worse. "I'm going to give you five seconds to explain why your hands were under my sister’s dress"
"Five seconds?" Dean called back, and you could hear the grin in his voice. "That's generous"
"Dean," you hissed.
Tucker lost it completely, doubling over and slapping the doorframe. Logan was crying now. Actual tears.
Three.
"Bye, G!" Dean shouted, and then he was running, dragging you with him, your feet barely finding purchase as you launched off the porch and into the night.
Garrett's roar echoed behind you. You didn't look back. The cold wind whipped your face, biting at your cheeks and tearing through your hair, but you couldn't stop laughing. Breathless, hysterical, giddy laughter that mixed with the pounding of your feet and the thunder of your heart. The party lights blurred behind you, growing smaller and smaller as you rounded the corner, the music fading into a distant thrum.
Dean didn't slow down. He pulled you into the shadows of someone's house, pressing you back against the rough brick wall, his body caging you in before you could even catch your breath. His mouth found yours and he kissed you like you hadn't just committed a crime against his friendship with your brother.
"Now he's actually going to kill you," you breathed against his lips, but your hands were already fisting in his shirt, pulling him closer, because apparently you had zero survival instincts.
Dean pulled back just enough to look at you, and the sight of him almost undid you – hair wild, lips swollen, that stupid, goofy grin spreading across his face like he hadn't just made an enemy of his best friend for life. His nose brushed against your cheek, soft and tender in a way that felt almost ridiculous after the chaos.
"Worth it," he whispered, and his voice was so warm, so certain, that your chest ached with it.
Then he kissed you again, deeper this time, and you forgot entirely about Garrett, about the run, about the cold. Because God, it was worth it. Every single, reckless, disastrous second of it.
thankx for reading <3
I've been rereading and editing this work for two days now, so I really hope it's alright and doesn't contain too many spelling or grammar mistakes. also, I haven't actually read the book, so my perspective on every character is mostly based on the vibe I got from the tv show. and if anything feels off, that's probably why. I hope you enjoy it anyway!
alright, I'm off to sleep and take a little break. I'll be happy to wake up to any dean requests in my inbox! as usual, comments and messages are always welcome. your words keep me going, even when I really should be sleeping. so please, let me know what you think of this one. it means the world to me :3
The hockey house was too quiet when Dean got back, which really should’ve been his first warning.
The living room lights were still on, ESPN muted on the TV, and a half-finished beer sat sweating on the coffee table. Dean let himself in without thinking; it was his house, too, and nobody around here knocked anyway.
His wallet was right where he’d left it, sitting on the small hallway table outside Garrett’s room, half-buried under an old receipt and a roll of hockey tape.
He grabbed it, shoved it into his pocket, and should’ve left right then. Later, he’d keep thinking about that part: he’d had what he came for, so there was no reason to stay. No reason to look toward Garrett’s room. No reason for his eyes to catch on the door, cracked open.
Except then he heard her — low and muffled behind the door — and for a second, he couldn’t make out the words. Just a soft, breathless sound that made his hand tighten around his wallet before his brain had time to catch up.
For half a second, he let himself think she might’ve been laughing. Then the sound came again, lower this time, with a neediness underneath it that made Dean go very still.
The door was cracked open a couple of inches, but nowhere near enough for Dean to see anything clearly. It was only enough for light to spill into the hallway and for him to catch a sliver of Garrett’s bed from where he stood.
He hadn’t meant to look. That would’ve been his first argument, if anyone had asked. He didn’t step closer, didn’t push the door open. For a second, he barely let himself breathe.
Garrett was on his knees between her thighs, and Dean’s brain went blank before he could make himself look away.
Dean wasn’t exactly innocent. He’d seen plenty in his life, probably more than his mother would ever want confirmed, which made it deeply inconvenient that his whole body still went tight the second he realized his best friend was on his knees, eating his girlfriend out like Dean hadn’t just walked close enough to hear her fall apart.
But this felt different.
Because this was [Y/N].
[Y/N], her sweatshirt bunched high around her ribs, her thighs spread around Garrett’s shoulders, one hand tight in his hair as he pulled another helpless sound out of her. Her head was tipped back against the pillow, mouth open on a breathless moan, her bare stomach tightening beneath the sweatshirt every time his tongue moved over her, like he knew exactly how to make her come apart. One of Garrett’s hands was spread wide over her hip, holding her steady with the sure, practiced ease that made Dean’s stomach twist, because Garrett knew every little way her body wanted to move when it got too intense.
Dean should’ve turned around. He knew that. The thought came through sharp and clear: leave.
Instead, he didn’t move.
Garrett’s mouth moved between her thighs, slow and deliberate, pulling another shaky moan out of her while her fingers tightened in his hair. [Y/N]’s back arched, her breath catching in a way that sounded completely ruined, and Dean felt it under his skin before he could remind himself he had no right to feel anything at all. His hand tightened around the wallet until the leather bent beneath his fingers.
“Oh—God, Garrett.”
Dean’s stomach dropped.
Her voice. The way Garrett’s name broke out of her, helpless and breathless, like the whole world had shrunk down to his mouth between her legs, his tongue dragging her closer, her thighs trembling around his shoulders while her hand stayed fisted in his hair like she couldn’t take it and still needed more.
Garrett hummed against her clit, low and deliberate, and her thighs tightened around his shoulders as her hips gave a helpless little lift toward his mouth.
Dean forgot how to breathe entirely.
That was when he realized the worst part wasn’t that he’d looked.
It was what he wanted to keep looking at.
The thought hit him so hard he actually took a step back.
Shame hit him fast after that, hot and ugly and deserved. Dean turned from the door so quickly his shoulder almost clipped the opposite wall, wallet clenched in his hand, pulse roaring in his ears. He moved down the hallway quietly at first, then too fast once he reached the living room, and the front door shut behind him with a soft click that somehow sounded like a confession.
Outside, the cold air hit his face, sharp enough to drag him back into himself. Dean stood on the porch, staring at his car across the driveway, and tried to breathe like someone who hadn’t just seen exactly what he’d seen.
It couldn’t have been more than a few seconds, but it was long enough.
hi loves ♡
since boyfriend material part three came a little later than planned, i wanted to give you a small teaser as a thank you for being patient with me.
this is from the garrett x reader x dean smutty one-shot that won the poll.
⋆.˚⤷ he's HOT and WEALTHY, she's COOL and WITTY . . . what more can you ask for?
RICH DAD!RAFE CAMERON owns all the money in the world to steal an avaricious girl's greedy and gold-digging eyes. but of course, a girl was never what he aimed for from the start. a woman with the heart of a priceless gold is what he craves. someone with a fiery tongue that'd burn his ears yet put him in line, someone who knows how to ease a smile onto his tense face, someone like COOL MOM!READER . . .
FICS . . .
rich dad!rafe cameron and cool mom!reader on parents teaching day .
HEADCANONS . . .
introductory headcanon .
TEXTS . . .
a look into their family .
rich dad!rafe's love for cool mom!reader through texts .
𝗢𝗥 𓈒 𓈒 taking care of your boyfriend after a night out celebrating his teams win
contains : established relationship smut sub dean ! unprotected sex soft dom reader ! gif credits to @pomspurin 𝘄 ｡ 3.1k
“Look at you baby,” you coo as your lips leave a wet trail up his bare stomach and chest, his muscles flexing under your touch. Dean tilted his head back, his eyes shut as heavy breaths passed through his lips, trying to calm down from the orgasm you just gave him.
A sense of pride warms your chest at the whimper that escapes your boyfriend's pretty lips when he feels you teasingly swirl your tongue around his sensitive nipple. You crooned with a smile, “Always so responsive.”
“Princess, please,” Dean begged, his tone so whiny that it made you smirk. You placed your hands on his bare thighs, feeling them twitch under your touch as you used them to help you sit up on your knees between his spread legs. You look down at your boyfriend, who was leaning back on his hands, his face contorted as he still felt the tingling aftershocks of his orgasm.
You bring one of your hands up to grab his chin with your pointer finger and thumb; your grip isn’t rough, but it also wasn’t gentle. You smirked, “What is it, baby? Come on, look at me.”
“Please, I need more.” Dean pleads after he flutters his eyes open to look up at you. The sight of you nearly took his breath away. You were so enchanting. The way you looked down at him made him even more desperate for more of your touch, for your lips. His eyes wander down your body, and he feels his mouth water at the sight of you in his favorite-colored lace lingerie that’s been driving him wild since he saw it.
“So needy, was what I have given you already not enough?” you dramatically pout, your tone condescending and teasing. Your hand that was gripping his chin moves to his shoulder while your other hand that was resting on his thigh slowly moves up his chest to rest on his other shoulder, using his shoulders as leverage to straddle his lap.
A small hiss left your boyfriend's lips at the feeling of his throbbing tip brushing against your lace panties when you lean down to whisper in his ear, tauntingly to ask again, “It wasn't good enough?”
“No, no, it was so good…please.” Dean stutters over his words, finding it hard to form words at the feeling of you placing soft kisses on his shoulder and collarbone. You so desperately wanted to give him what he wanted, the wet spot on your panties was almost dripping with your desire…but you couldn't give in so quickly.
“Tell me what you want, baby,” You whispered seductively between the kisses you littered across his neck, his skin burning under the soft but relentless touch of your lips. Dean nearly whimpers at your words, squeezing the sheets in his hands to stop himself from grabbing your hips, his mind running with thoughts of what he wanted
“I wanna feel you wrapped around me,” Dean whined, cutting himself off with a gasp at the feeling of you sucking under his jaw, hissing when you teasingly blow onto it after and nip at his skin. Dean knows that he is going to have to beg if you are really going to give him what he wants. “Please, please, I've been so good.”
“Hmm, you have,” You hummed as you moved your face from his neck to get a look at your boyfriend's pretty face; his eyes were already on you. You can see the pleading look in his eyes; your poor boy was so desperate. You move some of his hair from his forehead and give him a small smile. You couldn't say no to him, not when he looked at you like that. “I’ll give you what you want, baby.”
A breath of relief leaves Dean’s lips, and you let out a small giggle at the look that appears on his face. You lean back on his thighs, and you keep your eyes on his as you move your hand behind your back, unclipping your bra in one quick movement and dropping it somewhere on the bed. A small smirk appears on your lips at the sight of your boyfriend's eyes immediately dropping to your naked chest; he always did have a weakness for your boobs. Dean licks his lips and has to stop himself from cupping your boobs into his hands.
You lean back down, a big smile on your lips at the way he looks up at you with his pretty eyes. You would never get over the way he looked at you; you loved him so much. You place your hand on his cheek before closing your eyes and pulling him into a kiss, Dean moaning as your tongues meet. You kissed him until you felt him pull away to catch his breath. He was quick to lean forward to continue the kiss, but you pulled away and shook your head no.
You smirked when he whined at your rejection. You whisper sweetly, but with an underlying sternness in your tone, “Lay back.”
Your boyfriend was quick to listen to you, lying back and resting his head on the soft pillow. He was pretty sure he would do anything you said just so he could feel you wrapped around him; he couldn't handle any more of your teasing tonight. It all started when you went out with some of his teammates and their girlfriends to celebrate the game. You had dressed up in his favorite dress, and the way you danced against him at the party, and the way you rested your hand on his thigh when you sat, got him all worked up. That was 2 hours ago.
You reached down between the two of you and took him into your hands, a soft moan leaving his lips immediately at your touch. You could feel him throbbing in your hands, and for a second, you felt a little bad for teasing him for so long, but that quickly disappeared as you slowly started to stroke him. The spit and leftover cum from the head you gave him made it easy to move your hand up and down. Dean turns his head to the side, his eyes shutting as moans pass through his parted lips.
You rub your thumb over his tip, watching his reaction as his breath hitches and a sweet whine leaves his lips along with a desperate ‘please’. You decide that that's enough teasing, so you move your hand from his dick and move it between your thighs. A small gasp escaped your lips at the feeling of your fingers brushing against your clit as you move your panties to the side. God, you were sopping.
You hold your panties to the side while your other hand grips onto the base of his dick, teasingly rubbing his tip up and down against your slit, coating his cock in your slick. A whine leaving your boyfriend's lips at the feeling. Once you were content with how wet his cock was, you lined his tip up with your entrance. You look down at your boyfriend and see that he's already looking up at you, and before you can open your mouth to ask, he’s nodding his head yes and whispering “please.”
You guide his cock into you and slowly sink down, the thick head of his cock stretching your velvety walls, your eyes fluttering close at the stretch. Dean’s thighs clench, and a groan leaves his lips at how prettily your walls stretch around his cock. Sweet and loud moans escape your lips as your cunt struggles to take him in, your walls so tight around his thick cock that you can feel every inch and vein. Both of you moaning in unison at the feeling of him being buried to the hilt in your sweet, warm pussy.
You open your eyes and rest your hands on his abdomen, feeling his chest rise and fall with his heavy breaths, still trying to get used to how tight you feel around him. You smile and lean down, one of your hands coming up to cup his cheek. Dean’s eyes flutter open at the feeling of your naked tits against his chest, and before he could let out a moan at the feeling of your fluttering around his dick, you lock his lips in a slow and sensual kiss.
“You feel so good, Dean,” you whisper against his lips after you pull away from the kiss. You watch through your eyelashes as a cocky smile appears on your boyfriend's lips. You caress his cheek with your thumb for a few seconds before you sit up, adjusting your knees at his side. You place both your hands back on his chest, watching his face as you slowly start to move up and down.
“God Dean!” you whined in pleasure as you continued your motions. Bouncing up and down at a slow pace, the stretch was big but felt so good. Dean’s moans become louder as your rhythm starts to pick up. The feeling of your warm, wet walls squeezing him was too much; he didn't know how long he would last.
“You can touch my baby, it's okay,” You coo seductively, you could feel the way he was throbbing in you and the way he was squeezing the sheets, whimpers and pretty moans leaving his parted lips. As soon as those words left your mouth, he quickly stopped squeezing the linen and eagerly moved his hands to your chest, softly groping your tits.
You would have teased him because of his eagerness, but instead, a loud moan came out. Your nipples were always so sensitive, and Dean loved using that to his advantage.
Dean smirked cheekily at the sound, but you were quick to shut down his own teasing when you purposely clenched around him. He drops his hands from your nipples and down to squeeze onto your waist, closing his eyes as a loud groan leaves his lips and his hips jerk up. You rock your hips faster against his, your nails digging into the skin of his chest as you tilt your head back in pleasure.
“Princess, I don't know how much longer I’ll last,” Dean moans out, his thighs were clenching, he was so close. The way your pussy gripped him, and the way he could feel your arousal start to make a mess on his thighs and drip down his balls, was too much.
Don't get him started on the hypnotic sight of your tits bouncing in unison with your fast pace. And he knew you so well that he could tell you were close too. Your movements became more frantic, and the way you fluttered around him proved him right.
“Me to baby—feels so good,” you whimpered, you felt that tight rope in your stomach, and you knew your peak was close. It was almost overwhelming how good it felt; his pelvic bone was hitting your clit every time you came down, and his pretty moans were too much for you.
Dean looks away from your chest and up to your face, and he swore that he could have cummed just at the sight of you. Your mouth was agape, your face twisted in pleasure, your skin glistening beautifully in sweat.
Dean lifts his legs, his feet planted on the bed, and his grip on your hips tightens. Both of you are moaning in unison at the new position. You keep one of your hands on his chest while the other moves behind you to squeeze his knee in pleasure, the new position causing him to go inside you deeper. Dean moves one of his hands from your hips and moves it to his chest, softly squeezing your hand.
Your eyes flutter open, and your movements still, you look down at your boyfriend and see the blissed out look on his face. He was looking up at you with hooded eyes, and his mouth parted as heavy breaths passed through his lips. You could see it in his eyes and the way his hands were clinging to you; he was so close. You smirk and lean down so your chests are almost touching, moving your hand that was now interlocked with his, by the side of his head.
“What? gonna cum already?” you whispered tauntingly in his ear, tangling your hand that was on his chest, in his hair that was at his nape. You continued to rock your hips against his, your ass slapping against his thighs, creating a lewd sound. A loud and embarrassing whine escaped his red and puffy lips, the coil in his stomach only tightening, and so did his grip on your hand and hip.
You knew the more you talked to him like that, the faster he would come undone.
“Gonna fill me up?—Hmm? Make a mess?” You continued to taunt him, your movements becoming more frantic, chasing his and your release. Dean was too fucked out to properly respond; the only sounds leaving his mouth were moans and a pitiful ‘yes’. You move your hand from his nape and softly pat his bottom lip with your pointer and middle finger. Dean knows what it means, and he eagerly opens his mouth for you.
You smile big and bite on your bottom lip, sliding your two fingers into his mouth, his mouth closing around your fingers.
“So good for me,” you coo between your own moans, your eyes not leaving your boyfriend's pretty face. Dean twirled his tongue around your fingers to get them wet, his eyes closed as he couldn't help but moan around them. You pull your wet fingers out of his mouth, smirking at the small whine that leaves his now parted lips. You move your hand between the two of you, your wet fingers making contact with your even wetter clit. Your eyes roll to the back of your head as you start rubbing it.
“I’m so close—please can I cum?” Dean begged as he let out a choked-out moan, tilting his head back in pleasure, blinking away the tears that were stored in his waterline. You can feel him pant against your mouth, the tip of his nose bumping into yours. The pleasure he was feeling was something he's never felt before, the coil in his stomach becoming too much. Your eyes went down to his, and the way he looked nearly brought you over the edge.
“Please, baby, I wanna feel you.” You almost begged, you were so close. The way your thighs clenched and ached at the fast rhythm you had as you rocked against his cock, and your fingers were sopping and ached at how fast you moved them against your clit; but you cherish the ache.
You move to sit up, but a surprised moan leaves your lips as he wraps his arms around your waist, holding you down to his chest. An even louder moan leaves your lips at the feeling of him thrusting up into you.
“Fuuuck.” You whine loudly, your eyes squeezing shut and your fingers moving from your clit to squeeze onto the white linen. The sound of skin slapping was so lewd and echoed across his room, you were thankful that the bed didn't start hitting against the wall from Dean’s movements.
The angle wrenches a sling of moans leaving yours and his lips, his pace becoming delirious, and his grip on you tightens as he cries out, “fuck, ‘m gonna cum.”
“Oh my god, Dean!” you cried out in pleasure as he held you down on his cock. The feeling of his thick head of his cock hitting deep against the sensitive spot of your slick cunt and the feeling of warmth as he spills himself deep inside you with a desperate, choked-out moan of your name, brings you to your own peak. The tight rope rips, and you feel yourself fall into your desire, feeling your walls throb around his cock as you come undone.
A pleasure that left you lightheaded.
It was silent for a long while as you simply held each other, finding comfort in each other's soft touch and the feeling of their beating heartbeat against one another's chests. You moved your hand away from squeezing the linen, a small sting in your fingers from how hard you squeezed, and you moved it up to his cheek. You tilted your head up towards him and watched as his eyes fluttered open at your touch, a tired smile forming on your lips at the beautiful sight of his eyes.
You caress his cheek softly with your thumb before whispering, “You did so good.”
“Tonight, and at the game, I'm so proud” You continue to whisper. You were insanely proud of your boyfriend. The love and trust that you had for each other made tonight even more special for the two of you. Dean felt a little emotional at your words; no matter what, he always knew that you were by his side.
You were the only one who ever made him feel like this; he never knew love could feel like this.
“I love you,” you finally heard his voice; it was quiet and scratchy from all the loud moans that he let out tonight. Your smile gets bigger, and you lean your face closer to his, placing a gentle and slow kiss on his lips. Dean eagerly kissed you back, his hands slowly moving up and down your sides.
You pull away to whisper against his lips, “I love you more.”
“Tucker’s leftovers?” Dean asked in a hopeful tone as he broke the few moments of silence the two of you had shared as you stared into each other's eyes. The two of you didn't have to say anything else; your eyes told each other everything already. You laugh loudly at his words, of course he was thinking about food.
Dean smiles big at the sound of your laugh, bringing one of his hands up to softly play with your hair.
You place a soft kiss on the corner of his lips before you fully sit up, your eyes going down where the two of you meet. You raise your hips and watch as his now soft cock slips out of you, a groan leaving both of your lips at the feeling. A sigh escapes your lips at the feeling of your mixed cum dripping down your thighs. You look up at your boyfriend to see his eyes trained down at your messy cunt, softly biting his lip.
You scoff playfully and nudge him with your knee, his eyes shooting up to yours with a cocky smirk, not shy at all that he got caught. You rolled your eyes in faux annoyance as you playfully corrected him, trying to sound stern, but your big smile betrayed your words.
“Bath and then leftovers.”
┊࿐ ❛❛ continue on to my…. 𝙢𝙖𝙞𝙣 𝙢𝙖𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙧𝙡𝙞𝙨𝙩 ❜❜
Ი𐑼 sub dean ! save meeee …. guys I’m actually so down bad for him and this fucking showww I’ve rewatched it so many times 😭 please tell me your thoughts and opinions , feedback means everything mwah 💖 comments and reblogs are highly appreciated!
᧔᧓ if this seems familiar it’s because I’ve taken it from my old blog and rewrote it with someone new !
𝐒𝐲𝐩𝐧𝐨𝐬𝐢𝐬: Dean knew you weren't just another fling that he could simply forget about. A well earned nudge from John Logan was proof of that.
Also — Who knew the best way to solve his issues was for you to come undone beneath his touch?
𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: Making out, swearing, dirty talk, praising, hickeys, explicit sexual content
a/n: I'm still watching the show so the characters may seem a little ooc. Dean has a literal crisis, Reader majors in art + stays at the hockey house after a flooding issue in her dorm room. This lokey sucks and I'm tempted to delete it but I tried my best :<
More of this pair in this fic ! Please check it out <3
You weren't sure how you got in this predicament. One moment you were downstairs enjoying the party. The next you're beneath Dean, whimpering and cheeks damp from tears of pleasure. Sheets rustling while he pounded into you in a relentless manner. His large, veiny hands greedily keeping you in place.
"Dean..." His name spilling from your kiss swollen lips with a restrained sound. Breath hitching in your throat as you mumbled incoherantly. "S-slow down...!"
Although your voice was like a sweet melody to his ears. He silences you with another kiss. Insatiable for your taste on his tongue. Breaking the kiss briefly to whisper hoarsely against your lips. "Just let me fuck you babygirl. "
Fingers digging deep into the soft flesh of your bare hips as your satin dress had been hiked up completely. The wings that were part of your outfit for the party, crumpled. He made you keep them on the whole half an hour into the session. Claiming that he found it a turn on.
The air was thick with a mix of your arousal and of his strong cologne. As he continues to kiss you, all tongue and teeth. Sloppy and messy due to one too many drinks from the party. Perhaps from the drink challenge he had with Beau.
"Fucking Logan." He'd growl against your reddened lips. Abusing the soft muscle, before prodding past your lips. Thumbing over your hardened nipples while he does so.
Causing you to moan louder and your stomach to flip as he pushes into you further. Skin slapping against skin in as he gathered your slick. Defining every thrust, the filthy sounds filling the room as he does so. "He can't fucking make you cum like I can."
Breathing heavily as his golden chain swings above you in sync with his rugged thrusts. Honestly, you were so dumbed out that you couldn't respond.
Instead, your fingers tugged at Dean's soft, golden blonde locks. As you both kissed eachother breathlessly. With Dean whispering praises at how good you were to him. Your hips arch upwards out of instinct when you lift off the bed to press against him more. A tug of a smirk plays on his lips at your reaction. So pliant, so needy. Just for him.
Your only response resorting to short, breathy moans while Dean engulfs every delectable noise that you made.
"Fuck princess —" He murmers into the kiss. Your face being held in his large hands, rough and insanely warm. But clammy. Angling your head to get a better angle. While he slowly starts to lose himself in pure bliss. "Mmph. You're so good f' me. So fucking good."
Dean's kisses never failed to leave you wanting more. They felt hot, feverish and like always, very driven. Much like how he was on the ice rink.
Overstimulated and sweaty, he tugs off the top half of his Maverick uniform. Right — he hadn't taken it off yet. He was too focused on making you feel good than to think about himself. Which was a first for him.
After 6 months of not seeing you after you departed for your art trip abroad in England. He was determined to prove you now that he was commited. He didn't have to say it. Because you already knew. You always knew.
And the dark hickeys littered on the inside of your thighs, stomach, chest and neck proved it. Much like a messy painted canvas.
Which makes you wonder. Why did he get mad in the first place?
Dean, like usual, was splayed out on the couch. Shirtless with an empty beer bottle in hand, arm dangling off the edge carelessly. And a random puck bunny who he forgot the name of in his arms. He stared up at the ceiling blankly, with sweat clinging to his skin. His mind starting to drift due to the buzz from the alcohol.
Thinking back to distant memories. Not about the time he spent with the boys in the hockey house. No — But of you.
Dean had a crush on you for a while now. A long time actually. A year and a half be exact. Unusual for a guy with a fuck boy reputation.
Since you were Beau's cousin, he'd see you often at family events or small gatherings with friends. And what started as casual conversations, gradually became something more.
He admires your paint stained fingertips whenever you finished an art piece and showed off your portfolio to him. Bright eyed and relieved whenever Dean complimented your work.
He also loves how you're so observant and kind, yet impossible to impress with Dean's charm. Albeit being a lie. You were actually quite smitten by him but you were good at hiding it from him.
Unlike most girls he's met. You carried yourself with a quiet maturity. Meaning, Dean could rely on you for advice. Or emotional support after a bad hockey match. Feeling safe in your arms whenever you comforted him in rare cases where he felt vulnerable.
Then there was last year. Days spent in the Maxwell's summer home for the holidays. Was a memorable summer that he'd never forget. Beau was there too ofcourse. Protective over you as always, even if your mentality was much more mature than his own.
A summer fling. That's all it was. That's all you were meant to be. Yet Dean was finding it ridiculously hard to keep you off his mind. He was obssesed really. Obsessed with your scent, your smile, your sweet voice whenever he had you writhing beneath him.
Bare, with your legs entangled with his under the fresh bedding in a dazed manner. Whispering sweet yet incredibly dirty nothings into your ear in the morning after a night of intamacy.
But most of all, he missed you.
"Can you guys maybe not makeout on the counter during breakfast." Beau would say with a look of disgust. Walking by the couple in the kitchen with a bowl of cereal in hand. Mouth full as he spoke as he pointed at them with his spoon. "It's fucking gross."
You scramble away from the blonde man with flushed cheeks and messy hair. Dean, however, tried to go in for another kiss without a care in the world. Even with Beau's judging stare burning into his skull from behind.
"Sorry Beau - " you apologise with a shy grin, breathing heavily. Placing a hand infront of Dean's mouth to stop him from kissing you. Only for him to press a cheeky kiss into your palms. Making you laugh softly. Still, you tried to the insatiable man at a distance. "You heard him Dean. No kissing on the counter."
"Bummer. Beau could've been our audience." Dean mused. Reaching forward to tuck hair behind your air with a smug grin. The suggestive comment causing Beau to choke on his cereal. "DUDE! Nuh uh. Don't drag me into this!"
"I agree with Beau on that one." You chimed in. Getting ready to hop off the counter to make breakfast. Dean helped you in the process since last night's antics made it hard for you to walk. You hold onto his shoulders for support before pressing a small kiss to his cheek with an appreciative smile. "Thanks Deanie."
"Thanks Deanie ~" Beau mimicks you in an overexaggerated childish way. Breaking up the otherwise cute moment. When Dean sets you back down on your feet. His hand slides around your waist, tucking you into his side. He had a sense of pride with you wearing his jersey. It fit you like a glove, like it was meant to be yours.
"Ah -" He spots an empty beer can in the corner of his eye. Snatching it quickly then chucked it towards the brunette. Hitting him directly on the head which even caught Dean by surprise. "Oops. Must've slipped from my hands."
"Oh. So you wanna play it that way huh?" Beau sasses back. Setting aside his cereal bowl with a clatter. He then ran towards the cooler to grab a full can of beer, shaking it up violently. Looking straight at the pair with a smirk and playful glint in his eyes.
"Oh fuck no -!" Dean's mutters, eyes widening in fear before turning to you to lift you off your feet. You let out a surprised sound as he makes a beeline towards the backdoor. Beau chases after the couple as he opens the beer can with a click.
Dean almost trips over the wooden stairs that led to the beach down below. Feeling the warm sand beneath his bare feet with Beau not too far behind. Not even bothering to close the door despite being told off about it multiple times.
Dean turned a corner sharply. Kicking up sand when he does so as he made a run for it. All while you clung onto him for dear life as the two of you laugh uncontrollably.
At some point you look over Dean's shoulder to see that Beau's not too far behind. Hitting his chest dramatically to let him know. "He's gaining on us - Run faster! "
Beau catches up to them eventually with the beer can frothing at the surface in a menacing pace. Albeit the lack of oxgen going to his lungs since Dean was well fater than him. "Can't run from me forever bro!"
Unfortunately for him. Those summer nights weren't long enough for him. Soon being brought back to a cold, seemingly lonely reality. When Beau walks into the dimly lit living room. Making a look of disgust when he see's his semi nude friend on the couch.
He sticks his head in the refrigerator to look for cool beverages. Considering how hot and sticky he felt after hanging outside with Tucker out in the garden. "A little birdy told me something that you'd wanna hear."
Dean lifts his head at the mention of your name falling from Beau's lips. Now more aware of his surroundings as he registers the girl in his arms. Then he groggily asks Beau to confirm what he had just heard. "Come again?"
"Right uhh. She's coming back tonight." Beau replies calmly. Chugging from the can casually like he hadn't just dropped a bombshell of valuable info.
"The fuck you mean she's coming back tonight?!"
Beau just sighs with a dramatic roll of his eyes. "Bro. Do you even read your texts? No wait -- did you look at your phone at all today?"
Dean gets up so abrutly that the girl in his arms fell straight onto the floor with a surprised yelp before staring up at the culprit with a dirty look. He mutters a quick apology before frantically searching for his phone ontop of the kitchen counter where he had last left it.
He lets out a sigh of relief when he does then switches it on, the bright screen making him squint as the sound of multiple pings go off. Sure enough, you had actually sent texts and 10 miss calls. All in the past hour or so.
By the time he was reading through the texts in a panicked manner, you had already landed and were on your way by taxi. Turns out, your trip had to be cut short due to delays at the airport. So you made sure both Beau and Dean knew about it beforehand.
Little did you know that your text messages would send the blonde jock into a worried frenzy.
"Fuck! Uhh." Dean pauses for a moment, hand dragging through his messy locks. Trying to process everything. While the girl who had fallen onto the floor gathers her clothes with a scoff. Pissed yet also confused as to what was going on as she mutters curses to herself about Dean on the way to the front door.
Dean could care less. As harsh as that may seem. He then turned to stare at Beau, wide eyed and utterly dazed due to being drunk. "When did she say she was coming over?"
Beau sighs yet again at his best friends lack of awareness and points to the clock with a cheese stick. "In 15 minutes. She said she's near campus. But I guess I could call her again if you're so worried."
Dean nods in agreement, swallowing nervously as his adam apple bobs from the motion. Watching Beau intently as he rings your number on his phone.
"It's alright Beau. I'll be fine." You reassured the fussy brunette over the phone. As he kept on insisting that he could help you with your things. "Thanks anyway. Oh — And say hi to Dean and the others for me too."
"Sure no problem. But you can tell Dean yourself." Beau muses. When a voice that you knew all too well spoke nearby. Despite his words sounding a little slurred, you knew it was Dean. "Come by yourself Maxwell!"
"Missed you too Dean." You smile to yourself after hearing his voice. Knowing he must be right next to Beau with a boyish grin that you grew to love, and a beer in hand. "Oh right. I just got a call from Allie saying that my dorm room's flooded. So I might have to stay over for a couple of days."
Beau being Beau, ignores your last comment entirely and decides to make fun of the situation instead. While Dean starts to freak out at the mention of you staying over. Immediately wondering where you should sleep.
"Aww Deanie she missed you ~" Beau mirrors your comment in a highly exaggerated way. Throwing in kissing noises while he was at it. Causing quite the commotion as the boys started to laugh and you assumed they were also shoving eachother due to the clatter of plates.
Which then earned a good scolding from Tucker in the process. You shook your head with a smile on your face, ending the call not soon after. "Idiots."
It had been a couple of days since your arrival and you seemed to fit in just fine. The boys tried to stay as respectful as the could around you. Meanwhile Dean let you stay in his room. Which came as a surprise to them. Usually because he never brought women to his own bedroom. Notoriously using the living room couch or floor for his hookups.
So imagine Garretts surprise when he walks out his room to see you standing in Dean's bedroom. Quietly painting on your canvas with the faint sound of music playing in the background. As Dean talked to you animatedly behind you with his chin resting ontop of your head.
He didn't really question it. Figuring because you were close with Dean, like a friend, that it should be normal for you to sleep in the same room as him.
"Are you sure you don't want to sleep on the bed?" You ask for the a hundreth time that week. Feeling bad as you peer down at the blonde man, fingers reaching down to brush through his perfectly tamed hair. He looks up at you with a surprisingly soft gaze. For reassurance, he brings your fingers to his lips. Pressing a gentle kiss to your fingertips with a low whisper. "I'm good down here."
What Dean wasn't expecting at all was for Logan to step in and make breakfast for you one morning. A simple, innocent gesture. Yet for some reason, it bugged Dean. Normally he wouldn't be the jealous type. But the way you thanked Logan with such an adoring look in your eyes made him wonder. Should he be jealous?
Another time was when he caught Logan sneaking glances at you at the stands during practice at the hockey rink. Without thinking, the grip around Dean's hockey stick tightens.
Thinking surely, you wouldn't be staring back at him too.
His grip loosens once he see's that you weren't looking at Logan, but at him. Giving him a small wave and a gentle smile. Your fingers like always, covered in paint since you were finishing an art project in your large sketchbook.
A weight lifted off his shoulders as he waves back with his usual boyish grin. Flashing you his dimples that you always adored as he playfully blows you a kiss.
However, that didn't stop you from liking Logan. That was the worst part. Not romantically ofcourse — well, Dean hoped not. But they clicked effortlessly. You two traded sarcastic comments across the dinner table. Logan would remember what items you liked for breakfast, lunch and dinner so that he could help Tucker make them for you. Watched movies together. Spent hours talking together in the living room, helping you with your art projects. Flaunting his 'boy next door' persona.
Meanwhile Dean transformed into some grumpy idiot whenever Logan was around. With the party being his last straw.
The boys decided to throw yet another big party one weekend. Dean was searching for you in the large crowd. His head thumping rigorously and adrenaline pumping through his veins due to the cheap alcohol and beer he consumed in the past hour or so. Doing drink challenges with his friends and most importantly Beau. Considering it was their shared birthday.
It made sense, Dean being dressed as Maverick. While Beau was Goose. An iconic dynamic pair.
Dean wondered who you'd come as. He figured maybe Hannah would come as your partner. He stops dead in his tracks when he see's who you're with.
Logan was with you in the living room. His arms around your shoulder as the pair engage in a conversation on the couch. You wore a satin white dress that stopped just above your knees, exposing your thighs. Paired with little angel wings on your back and a pair of satin embossed heels that looked just like ballerina shoes.
Dean was about to turn around and leave them alone.
That was until he see's Logan whisper something in your ear. And the look you had on your face made Dean wonder what he could have possibly said. You were at a loss for words, mouth agape and the tips of your ears turning pink. Then, Logan smiles at you. A genuine smile. And like the gentleman that he was, he leans in to wipe off the smudges of left over icing on your cheeks.
"Holy shit." Garrett mutters. Interrupting the somewhat intense staring session Dean had just now. Dean turns to look at him with an exhasperated groan. "What?"
"Dude. You're jealous. Don't even deny it."
"No I'm not." Dean scoffs. Quickly glancing at the pair as he picks up a red cup from the counter. Taking a swig before chucking it near the overfilled bin, completely missing it as it lands on the outside.
He takes another look that would inevitably piss him off. Logan whispered something in your ear again that made you laugh. As he not so descreetly point to Dean with his cup.
Garrett starts to wheeze when he see's his friends face. Deciding to put an arm around him and give him some advice. "Just talk to her man. I'm sure it's all a misunderstanding."
Yet Dean could'nt stop looking at the couple. Garretts words going in one ear and coming out the other. Soon he's at a breaking point when he see's Logan lean in impossibly close. Without thinking, he pries away from Grarretts clutches and weaves his way through the crowd.
'Yeah. He's pissed.'
Garrett doesn't stop him, wanting to see what sort of Drama would unfold as Hannah joined his side. Also curious.
Both you and Logan looked up towards the distresses blonde. You were the first to speak up. Growing slightly concerned as Dean seemed to find it hard to say something. Chest heaving and sweat clinging to his skin. "Dean? You okay?"
Logan knew exacly why came over as he fought back a grin. He had an inclining that Dean had a crush on you. But had no reason to make a move unless he witnessed something he couldn't ignore. "Need something?"
"Yeah. You bet I have a fucking problem." Dean replies quick and sharp. Almost catching Logan offguard as the tall man in the khaki green costume reaches for you.
You let out a small gasp as Dean bends down to hook his hands under your thighs. Lifting you effortlessly infront of everyone. Stormy blue eyes staring down at Logan before turning on his heel. While you clung onto him, looking around frantically as your cheeks began to feel warm from everyone staring as Dean walks past to head for the stairs.
Some guests cheered Dean on while others murmured amongst themselves. Jules ofcourse, caught everything with their phone as Dean makes it up the stairs with ease. "Oh this is Gold. "
"Took him long enough." Logan muses while Garrett handed him a $20 bill. With Garrett adding in another comment with a breathy laugh. "Didn't know he had it in him."
"God -- I'm so gonna walk in on them making out on the kitchen counter tomorrow." Beau groans in annoyance. Once again traumatised by the whole ordeal. Also hands Logan the same ammount. Leaving only Tucker as the exempted one since he knew Dean would break at some point.
c/w ᝰ.ᐟ fluff! jealous!dean, party, beer pong, di laurentis being completely normal about another man talking to you, pet names (bun, princess, sweetheart, pretty + no y/n), making bets, lots of male pageantry, dean is down bad + 𝚊 𝚑𝚘𝚝 𝚗𝚎𝚠 𝚋𝚘𝚖𝚋𝚜𝚑𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚑𝚊𝚜 𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚟𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚊: 𝚍𝚊𝚟𝚎𝚗𝚙𝚘𝚛𝚝 🏝️
⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ bonus linked at the bottom || [smut]-> so much teasing, using panties, unprotected p in v, denial, mid-sex banter, roughish + post-sex sweetness
The hockey house is packed. You stand with your friends near the center of it all, mixed drink sweating against your palm.
Across the room, Dean watches you over the rim of his beer.
He’s standing beside Beau near the kitchen doorway, making a pathetic attempt at pretending he isn’t staring.
The problem is that Dean has never been particularly good at hiding it. The two of you are supposed to be casual. No expectations. No pressure. No relationship.
Unfortunately for him, Dean likes you considerably more than those boundaries allow.
You catch him looking and he looks away. Your smile grows against the rim of your cup.
The whole living room erupts around the pong table when the final cup sinks. Water sloshes and Garrett throws both hands into the air, Logan tackling him into a hug.
Garrett smiles, catching his girl by the waist next, kissing her deep enough to have the cheering room break into whistles and catcalls.
“Get a room,” Beau calls. Garrett points at him, smiling like Beau just suggested something that was already decided—and it was.
“What the fuck, bro? We won. The fuck are you goin’?” Logan shouts, but Garrett and his girlfriend are already halfway up the steps. “You gotta stay—”
“Can’t,” Garrett answers simply.
“The hell you mean can’t?” Logan scoffs, but Graham’s as good as gone, leaving Logan staring after him in disbelief. “Unbelievable—Dean!” Logan points across the living room, calling him instead. “You’re up.”
Dean glances up from the lip of his beer—uninterested in anything happening around him but you.
“What?”
“Pong,” Logan yells.
Dean opens his mouth to turn him down, but then he looks across the room, right at you, and you don’t notice. And Dean Di Laurentis can have none of that.
You’re too busy laughing at something one of your friends says, drink balanced in your hand. Dean exhales slowly through his nose. “Yeah,” he says before taking another sip of his beer. “I’m down.”
“Let’s fucking go,” Logan smiles.
Dean stands up, stepping toward the table. You’re still deep in conversation when he reaches for one of the pong balls floating in a cup, flicking off the water before he rolls it between his big fingers.
You still haven’t looked over.
He glances away, catching himself staring before he remembers he’s supposed to be pretending he doesn’t do that. He swallows hard, jaw tightening; his entire demeanor shifting in a moment when he looks back.
“Ah, fuck no,” he breathes out a bitter sigh, bouncing the pong ball against the table.
“What?” Logan asks, following his gaze when Dean doesn’t answer. The look on Dean’s face says enough as Hunter Davenport makes his way directly toward you.
The one person on his team Dean has absolutely no fucking patience for. Hate is an understatement. And if Hunter had two working eyes and two brain cells left to rub together, he would’ve noticed Dean’s attention hadn’t left you once all night.
Within seconds the entire group is finding reasons to step away and give you two some space.
“Traitors,” he mumbles.
Dean pinches the pong ball between his fingers, spinning it against the edge of the table as he tries to look unbothered.
Hunter says something and your smile widens. He leans down closer, and Dean straightens immediately. “Need another team over here,” Dean calls out.
It has the intended effect for exactly half a second. Hunter glances toward the table. So do you.
Then he says something else and your attention goes right back to him. “Fucking prick,” Dean mutters under his breath.
“What are you on about?” Logan asks, elbowing him with a laugh, but Dean ignores him.
You laugh again and Dean’s face goes sour instantly.
“He’s not fuckin’ funny,” he huffs, and Logan looks back at him wide-eyed.
“Are you okay?” He laughs.
“Perfect, why?”
“I mean, I have so many questions,” he teases him, “but we can start with why the fuck are you losin’ your shit?”
“Am not,” Dean laughs like it’s beneath him, lifting his drink to drain the rest.
Logan claps a hand on his back, chuckling breathily. “Totally normal reaction, bud. My bad.”
“Shut up,” Dean grumbles as a few underclasses from the hockey team step up to the table. He waves them away, desperate to get you across from him somehow—shit. Dean reaches out fast, grabbing your friend's arm as she walks past.
“You trying to play? Get a friend,” he gestures in your direction just as Hunter’s hand rests on your lower back.
“I think she wants to play with Hunter,” your friend says, tapping Dean on the chest with a look that says she’s figured him out completely.
Davenport nods over to the pong table with a smile, already two steps ahead.
“Good thing you’re not bothered by this, huh?” Logan mumbles against the rim of his drink, watching as the two of you walk closer.
“You tryin’ to play, pretty?” Dean asks with his gaze set on you.
“That okay, boys?” Hunter asks with a smile, cutting in with a response.
“For her, of course. For you, fuck off,” Dean smiles, pointing at Beau instead, waving him over lazily. “You don’t gotta play with him, sweetheart.” The words leave his lips like the punchline to a joke.
“Don’t worry about him,” Hunter bites, his hand settling at your waist, guiding you the rest of the way. “He’s just worried I’m gonna dust his ass.”
Dean just lets out a short laugh as he reaches for a pong ball. He dips it into the cup of water beside him without even looking up.
“Keep talkin’,” he says.
A little smile curls on your lips as you grab the cups in front of you, making a little triangle, avoiding Dean’s gaze for now.
You can’t even remember the last party where some girl wasn’t practically hanging off his arm or finding an excuse to talk to him. Usually he’s the one smiling politely while somebody works way too hard for his attention.
When your eyes lift, Dean's already there, waiting for you. You bite down on the inside of your cheek to keep from smiling. His blue eyes fall down your body for the moment as Hunter's hand wraps around your waist, talking strategy, but honestly the contact is more than enough to get in Dean’s head.
Dean sinks a shot, and you answer with one of your own. “Let’s go, princess,” Hunter laughs, bumping his shoulder into yours.
“You good?” Logan asks, his eyes sliding over to Dean.
“M’fine,” Dean answers too fast.
“Well, man who’s fine, everyone’s waitin’ for you to shoot—”
“Fuck off,” Dean mutters, wetting the ball before he shoots, sending the little ball ricocheting into the crowd.
“M’gonna need you to lock the fuck in,” Logan scolds, turning his chest to Dean, the two of them locked up in a staring contest for a few seconds.
Dean sucks his teeth and forces himself to focus again. It lasts all of five seconds. The second his eyes find you across the table, Hunter’s arm is draped lazily across your shoulders while he points at one of the remaining cups with his free hand, getting your opinion on which shot he should take.
You study the cups for a second before lifting a hand and pointing toward the one on the far side of the table, making your choice with a small shrug.
Hunter nods like you’ve just handed him the answer key.
Water sloshes as Hunter sinks it just seconds later. Before the crowd can even react, his arm is around your waist, hauling you clean off your feet in celebration.
Dean rolls his eyes so hard Logan catches it from beside him.
Logan plants both hands on the edge of the table and lets out a slow breath. At this point he’s not sure whether he’s playing against you and Hunter or dragging Dean across the finish line.
Hunter leans down again, saying something you can’t quite hear over the music, you turn into him a little more because of it, your hand landing against his arm as he grins down at you.
Across the table, Dean watches the whole thing and Logan follows his line of sight. “Handle your shit later,” he warns, and Dean doesn’t answer.
You laugh again and ZIP—the ball leaves Dean’s hand a second later.
“WHAT THE FUCK?” Hunter laughs, jerking back when the ball catches him in the shoulder.
Logan slowly turns toward Dean, equal parts baffled and disgusted. He waits a beat, clearly expecting Dean to explain whatever the hell that was.
“He threw that at me,” Hunter says, rubbing his shoulder.
“I missed,” Dean answers, arms crossing over his broad chest while Logan continues staring at him, waiting for an explanation. “Hand slipped.”
“You threw a ninety-mile-an-hour fastball at his fuckin’ chest.” Logan stares at him. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
“Shoulder,” Dean corrects him. “I was goin’ for his forehead.”
“Disappointed in you,” he scolds.
“Just—Just throw the ball, alright?” Dean blurts, gesturing toward the four scattered cups at the other end of the table and the nearly hopeless situation.
Logan lofts the ball and it swirls around the rim of the cup. You think fast, dipping down and blowing hard. The ball pops back out before it can drop.
“Goddamn,” Hunter praises, looking down at you before snatching the ball off the table. He dunks it into the water cup and lifts it toward your mouth.
You laugh but lean forward anyway, blowing the excess water from the ball.
“Atta girl.”
Hunter snaps the last few drops off with a flick of his wrist, tongue poked out in concentration as he lines up the shot—and splash!
The crowd explodes and Hunter’s arms wrap around your waist, turning into you as the cups are cleared off the table.
People crowd around the table again, drinks sloshing as somebody sinks a cup and a fresh round of yelling breaks out around the game.
Hunter stays planted beside you anyway. He reaches into his pocket, pulls out his phone, and hands it to you. “Here. Your number?” He hums, and you look up at him. “Before we get caught up in another win.”
Your nose scrunches, giving him a little smile, nodding and punching in the numbers against your better judgment.
Dean’s staring from across the room as the stupid smirk spreads across Hunter’s face.
And suddenly his phone feels very heavy in his pocket.
“Dean,” Logan warns the second Dean pulls his phone from his pocket. “Leave that woman alone.”
“I’m texting—”
“No shit.” Logan snorts. “You’re also jealous. And you’re making an ass out of yourself.”
“I’m not making an ass out of myself,” Dean mumbles, thumbing through your text conversation from last night.
“You tried to hit him in the head with a pong ball.”
“Yeah, and I missed.”
“That’s somehow worse,” Logan whispers, rubbing his back. “You should have seen the way she was looking at you, alright? They’ll lose. Then, you can talk to her. Just put… the phone… away—”
“I’m working over here,” Dean snaps, jerking the phone away as Logan tries to manually disarm his device before he pulls the trigger and says something he’ll regret. “You don’t get her like I do, okay?”
“Fine,” Logan throws his hands up in surrender. “No more throwin’ shit at people.”
“No promises,” Dean mumbles, thumbs tapping against the screen as a little smile tilts on his lips.
Across the room, your phone buzzes against the table beside your drink. You don’t notice, too busy teasing Hunter about a shot he should’ve made.
Whoosh. The text tone sounds and Logan hangs his head, laughing at Dean. “Tell me what you say, at least?”
Dean shrugs, giving Logan a side-eye. “Nah, you don’t believe in me. You don’t get to see greatness.”
“You fucked it up, didn’t you?” Logan asks, cracking open another beer.
“Shut up,” Dean scoffs, sitting up a little straighter when he sees you unlock your phone.
The first text makes you smile. By the second one, you’re laughing. The third one has your eyes lifting to his, the dimple in his cheek popping as he secures even the smallest win.
You stare at the message, thinking of what to say next. Hunter leans in again, whispering strategy. You smile and nod, half-turned toward him as you type back.
“Your turn, princess,” Hunter drawls, passing you the pong ball. You slide your phone in your pocket for the moment and Dean blows out an impatient sigh.
Logan pouts sympathetically, squeezing Dean’s shoulder for support.
“Told you so—”
“Fuck you,” he scoffs, shoving him away with a laugh. “It’s fine—I’m… I didn’t fuck it up. She smiled. Did she not?”
“She did,” Logan chuckles.
“She laughed, am I correct?” Dean states his case.
“Yes, I believe she did.”
“She wants me. Period.” His phone buzzes, and he fumbles it, glancing away from you just long enough for you to have sent something back.
. ݁₊ ⊹ 📱.ᐟ.ᐟ 𝚈𝚘𝚞: 𝙰𝚗𝚍 𝚒𝚏 𝙸 𝚠𝚒𝚗?
“Oh shit,” Dean breathes. Logan leans over his shoulder before he can protest, reading through the thread.
“Damn,” he says, surprised by Dean’s game after all that pageantry earlier, curious where he was gonna take this next.
You look up from your phone as that text comes through, and he’s still watching—still holding your gaze from across the room. And for the first time all night, he looks completely serious.
Across the room, Hunter Davenport has your number. He just won a game with you and spent the last hour glued to your side, but suddenly Dean doesn’t seem nearly as bothered by it. Every time your phone lights up, you’re smiling down at the screen, and Dean’s grin gets a little harder to hide.
You sink the final cup to win the round and catch his eye from across the room. The corner of your mouth lifts and that’s apparently all the encouragement Dean needs because he’s already crossing the room.
“Fuck, she wants me,” Dean laughs, dragging a hand through his hair.
“Pleasantly surprised by you tonight, Di Laurentis,” Logan tells him.
Dean looks over at him with a grin, rolling the arm he’d nearly separated trying to take Davenport’s out with a pong ball earlier.
You roll your eyes and bite down on your lip to hide your smile, but it doesn’t work.
A pair of freshmen are already hovering around the pong table by the time Dean gets there, the same ones he waved off before you and Hunter stepped up.
“We can wait,” Logan calls after him.
“No we can’t.”
Dean keeps walking.
He claps one of them on the back, then the other, smiling the entire time as he grabs fistfuls of their shirts and physically steers them out of the way.
“Appreciate it, boys.”
The freshmen laugh as they stumble aside.
“Captain of the year, everybody,” Logan announces, throwing an arm toward Dean. “Some real morale-building leadership.”
Dean doesn’t even bother acknowledging him.
Hunter grabs the balls out of the cups, lazily bouncing them to the guys. “Better luck this time, boys,” Hunter says, wrapping his arm around your shoulder.
Dean watches his arm settle there for a second, jaw tightening, before taking the ball from Logan.
“Shoot.”
Logan aims and sinks the first cup, and without missing a beat the second one disappears too. Both balls get tossed back, and Dean tries his best to keep the celebrations in check for a moment, tongue pressed to the inside of his cheek as he watches you lift your cup and take a drink.
After that, every cup came with commentary. Every shot came with a smirk. By the third shot Dean landed in a row, it was looking like a clean sweep.
“That’s tough,” Dean mutters, looking at the state of affairs. You and Hunter didn’t even get a chance to shoot yet.
“We are on a heater, buddy,” Logan smiles. “Six cups back to back. Are you kidding?”
“Sounds like a lot when you say it out loud,” Dean chuckles, winking at you from across the table.
“Just shoot the fucking ball,” Hunter says.
“You know, if I was a betting man, I should have bet… I don’t know. Something,” Dean mumbles, and you fight to keep a straight face.
Logan throws the ball and it hits the rim of the cup, hopping into the other.
By then people were crowding around the table three rows deep, drinks lifted overhead as everyone tried to get a look. Dean rolls the final ball between his fingers and looked across the table at you.
“Not sinking this shit until I get an answer from you, bun,” he chuckles as he lines up the shot. “C’mon, sweetheart, don’t break my fuckin’ heart, huh?”
“The fuck are you talking about?” Hunter snaps from across the table, and Dean blows out a raspberry like Hunter is the last person to know.
Dean lets out a breath through his nose. “That sounds a whole lot of none of your fuckin’ business, Davenport.”
Dean’s eyes slide over to you and he gives you the most pathetic pout you’ve ever seen. “Don’t make me beg, baby. Not here. I’m not above it.”
“Deal,” you chuckle, and with that word he throws the ball, sending it clean into the final cup. And, just like Hunter, Dean doesn’t even wait for the cups to get pulled or the crowd to lose their minds before he’s already stepping out from behind the table, walking toward you.
You barely have time to laugh before his hands find your hips, lifting you off your feet.
His arm tightens beneath your legs as he heads for the stairs without even pretending to care what anybody else thinks.
“You are such an ass,” you laugh, trying unsuccessfully to hide your smile.
“What the fuck?” Hunter calls over the party as he takes the first step.
“What?”
“You can’t just leave.”
“—We absolutely can.”
“Congrats, Di Laurentis. You’ve been waiting all night for this.”
“No shit,” Dean answers honestly. “That’s all you got, Davenport? Cryin’ about her leaving and a half-ass congrats? Waste more time, please—”
“Fuck you.”
“Huh?”
“FUCK YOU!”
“What was that now?” Dean asks, amusement stretching across his lips as he holds a hand to his ear, taking another step up. “You’re gonna need to be a little louder than that, Hunter. Say it with your chest.”
“I’ll be down here, sweetheart.”
The corner of your mouth curls as you bite back a smile.
“You are so fucked, bun,” Dean laughs.
“Me?” You giggle.
“Absolutely you. I—”
“I’ll call you. How does that sound?” Hunter shouts, almost out of earshot, and that stops Dean mid-sentence.
“And I’ll block you,” he calls back. “Everybody wins—”
“Enough,” you breathe, grabbing his face in your hands and turning his attention back to you as he takes the last few steps.
Dean’s grip tightens beneath your thighs. His gaze drops to yours.
“Now,” he says, voice lowering as he leans closer, “where were we?”
fav meal titty sucking use me toxic love (baby daddy rafe x ex!pouge!reader) equilibrium jealousy embarrassed aftercare high 'n needy gbye, soul rafe loves recording when you guys have sex prof!rafe likes you a little too much (headcanons)
𝟎𝟔. Fluff:
sluggy home ec hair v/s genes puppy eyes immunity(dad!rafe x teacher!reader) mission secure a date with you..complete! (dad!rafe x teacher!reader)
𝟎𝟕. p!links pt i p!links pt ii
‧˚꒰ — Off Campus .ᐟ
𝟎𝟏. Dean Di Laurentis
dean has an obsession with leaving hickeys on you p!links teasing Dean at a party = getting pounded in a bathroom
𝟎𝟐. John Logan
cockwarming logan as a study break logan makes you squirt for the first time p!links
𝟎𝟑. Garrett Graham
fucking you in the showers after practice
‧˚꒰ — Boys of Tommen .ᐟ
𝟎𝟏. Gerard "Gibsie" Gibson
unfunny
𝟎𝟐. Joey "Stud" Lynch
𝟎𝟑. Johnny "Bulldozer" Kavanagh
‧˚꒰ — Multifandom .ᐟ
𝟎𝟏. Headlock
𝟎𝟐. Size Kink
‧˚꒰ — Specials.ᐟ
𝟎𝟏. House of Balloons - Writing Marathon
𝟎𝟐. Valentines Specials
boxer!rafe racer!rafe s2!rafe
𝟎𝟑. Riri's 1.1K followers Special :3
‧˚꒰ — Headcanons .ᐟ
𝟎𝟏. Boyfriend Headcanons
𝟎𝟐. Coffee Details
do not copy my masterlist or take inspiration from it without asking first.
to be added to the taglist for any AU/characters reply to this post with the specification or send an ask to my inbox! <3
I have a request for ceo Rafe and assistant reader nothing specific but I wanted to see more of what their relationship dynamic was like. Weather it’s friendly or sexually. If they met each other’s families and friends how would they act or would the families even like them. Stuff like that
( 🗯️ ) angel ୨౿ ahem let’s not talk about the fact that i’m answering this like after ten years. i apologize anon.
more on their m.list ୨౿ ceo!rafe x personal!assistant!reader
their relationship dynamic with each other: it’s both friendly and sexual, and the line between the two is basically nonexistent. she’s the only one who figured rafe out that quickly, and he doesn’t even try to deny it. they are friends—genuinely—but also friends who fuck on the regular.
relationship dynamic with his family: PA!reader has already met all of rafe’s family, and somehow she fits in way too easily. sarah and wheezie absolutely adore her like, to the point where they joke about her being around more than rafe himself. they’ll literally show up at the office just to see her, dragging her away from work to hang out. they love taking her shopping because she just gets fashion so naturally, helping them pick outfits, styling things without even trying. she’s basically their personal stylist at this point. with ward and rose, it’s more neutral. they’re polite, they like her well enough, but she keeps a respectful distance. she doesn’t act overly familiar or like she’s trying to become their future daughter in law.
relationship dynamic with her family: her background is completely different from rafe’s. she comes from a quieter, more countryside life, and had to leave that behind to build what she has now. rafe has met her family once because of a flight issue during a trip, and she insisted they stay with her family since they’re nearby. he goes into it expecting it to be awkward, but it’s the opposite. her parents are warm, sweet, comforting. and her younger brothers latch onto him instantly. he ends up spending most of his time with him. rafe is just so soft the whole time and her parents notice everything—especially how much more their daughter smiles around him. they don’t question it, but they definitely like rafe because of it.
rafe and PA!reader around family and friends: they keep it strictly professional on the surface. she’s his assistant, he’s her boss—that’s all anyone should see. but it doesn’t really work, because the tension between them is way too obvious. it’s in the small things. the way rafe always makes sure her plate is full with her favorite food before he even serves himself. the way he checks if she’s eaten, if she’s tired, if she needs anything without making it obvious. the way their eyes meet across the room and just hold for a second too long, and everything else fades out. it genuinely feels like there’s a string connecting them. and then there’s the way he always offers to drive her home every single time, no matter who’s around or how unnecessary it is. no one says anything outright, but everyone notices. it’s obvious they’re not just “professional,” no matter how much they act like it.
dean di laurentis is an ass man! don’t get me wrong, he loved every part of your body and you brought him to his knees just by existing, but when it came to your ass? he was feral.
before you started dating, his blue eyes carefully followed you as you headed out of the class you took together, groaning under his breath at the way your ass swayed when you walked past him.
dean’s blonde head was tilted to the side to get a better view, almost falling out of the chair as you turned around the corner and slowly disappeared.
the obsession only intensified when you started dating and he suddenly needed his hands on the soft curve of your behind at all times, wanting to keep you close to him.
fucking you from behind quickly became his favourite thing, revelling in the way he got to grab and smack at the flesh, enjoying the squeak of surprise that left your lips when his palm landed against your cheek.
“fuck, baby doll. you don’t even know how heavenly you look right now” he whined pathetically as you pushed back to meet his sloppy thrusts.
sometimes you’d send him a “cheeky” picture when he was at practice and it would throw him off his game because he could not stop thinking about it. dean’s teammates cursed at him in frustration, but he just shrugged it off because you were the only thing on his mind.
𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘 — dean di laurentis needs a fake girlfriend for his family’s charity weekend. unfortunately, the girl he asks is the one person who can’t stand him. even more unfortunately, she might be the only one who can make it believable.
𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 — 18+ mdni, fake dating, enemies-to-lovers banter, only one bed trope, forced proximity, tension, flirting, dean being dean, suggestive moments, almost kiss, no smut in this part.
𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓 — 7,019.
𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫's 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞 — part one of boyfriend material is finally here. i’m so excited for this mini-series. tell me what you thought about part 1 <3
𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 ⟶ you can find my taglist here!
𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 ⟶ you can find my masterlist here!
━━━━━━━━ 🏒 ━━━━━━━━
The first thing you realized was that Dean Di Laurentis wasn’t good at begging without making it dramatic.
The second thing you learned was that Dean absolutely hated being bad at anything.
“No,” you answered.
Dean blinked at you from across the kitchen table as your answer had personally offended him. “You didn’t even let me finish.”
“You said, ‘I need a huge favor,’ and then looked at me like you were about to ruin my entire week,” you told him, taking a sip of your coffee. “That was enough.”
Hannah pressed her lips together beside you like she was trying very hard not to laugh.
Allie didn’t bother trying.
She leaned back in her chair, already grinning into her mug. “This is my favorite conversation.”
Dean gave her a look. “No one asked you.”
“You showed up in our dorm at nine in the morning.”
“It’s almost ten.”
“On a Saturday,” Allie added. “That’s basically dawn.”
Dean ignored her and turned back to you, his hands braced on the table. His hair was messy, his hoodie was wrinkled, and he had the faintly panicked look of someone who’d made several bad decisions and was only now realizing consequences existed.
It wasn’t an unfamiliar expression on him.
“Just hear me out,” he tried.
“Absolutely not.”
“[Y/N], come on.”
“Dean, no.”
“I’m serious this time.”
“That’s when you’re usually most dangerous.”
Hannah finally gave up, laughing softly into her hand.
Dean pointed at her. “Don’t encourage this.”
“She doesn’t need encouragement,” Hannah said. “She’s doing great on her own.”
You gave him a sweet smile.
Dean’s eyes narrowed. “You’re enjoying this.”
“Deeply.”
“You don’t even know what I’m about to ask.”
“I know it involves you, your family, and the phrase ‘huge favor,’ so that tells me everything I need to know.”
Dean exhaled and dragged a hand through his hair. “Okay, fine. I may have accidentally told my parents I’m seeing someone.”
Allie went quiet, Hannah looked up, and you lowered your coffee like the conversation had suddenly earned your full attention.
Dean looked between the three of you, suddenly defensive. “It made sense at the time.”
You stared at him. “No, it didn’t.”
“You don’t have the context.”
“Was the context that you lied?”
“It’s more complicated than that.”
Allie leaned forward like she’d been waiting for this. “Oh, this is good.”
Dean let out a groan. “It’s not good.”
“It’s incredible,” she corrected. “Keep going.”
Dean shot her a glare before turning back to you. “They’ve been on my ass lately about taking things seriously.”
You hummed thoughtfully. “Wonder why.”
His gaze cut to yours. “You’re not helping.”
“I’m still listening.”
“You’re judging me with your whole face.”
“I’m capable of both.”
Hannah touched your arm like she was asking you, very nicely, to let him finish.
You leaned back with a dramatic sigh. “Fine. Go on.”
Dean looked like he was starting to regret coming here, which was satisfying.
“My family’s hosting this charity weekend,” he started. “Country club, hotel, dinner, auction, donor thing, the whole nightmare.”
“That sounds expensive and exhausting,” Allie said.
“It is.” Dean pointed at her as Allie had just proven his point. “Exactly.”
You raised an eyebrow at him. “I’m still waiting for the part where this becomes my problem.”
“I’m getting there, okay?”
“I’m getting older,” you added, watching Dean clench his jaw.
Hannah tried to hide another smile.
“My mom asked if I was bringing anyone,” Dean admitted. “And I said yes.”
You waited for him to keep going, and when Dean didn’t, you narrowed your eyes.
“Dean,” you warned, watching him look away. “Dean.”
“I panicked,” he admitted.
“You panicked,” you repeated, because somehow that explained nothing.
“She got weirdly intense.”
“She asked whether you had a date.”
“She asked it like it meant something.”
“Oh my god, Dean.”
“And then my dad made this comment about wanting to meet whoever finally got me to settle down, and I didn’t correct him fast enough, so now my parents think I have a serious girlfriend.”
The room went quiet for about two seconds before Allie burst out laughing.
Dean pointed at her again, which only made her laugh harder. “This isn’t funny.”
“It’s kind of funny,” Hannah admitted.
“It’s actually very funny,” you told him.
Dean looked at you like you’d personally wounded him. “I’m in crisis.”
“You’re dealing with consequences.”
“I need your help.”
“You need a reality check.”
“I need a girlfriend.”
“I need a girlfriend,” Dean blurted, and you nearly choked on your coffee.
Allie made a delighted little sound, and Hannah looked at him like he’d lost his mind.
Dean held up both hands before you could react. “Fake girlfriend.”
“No,” you told him, setting your mug down hard.
“You haven’t even heard the full plan yet.”
“There’s no plan in the world that ends with me pretending to date you.”
“That’s actually hurtful.”
“That feels fair.”
Dean leaned across the table and lowered his voice, as if that would make him more convincing. “It’s one weekend.”
“No.”
“It’s three days.”
“Still no.”
“Two nights, technically.”
“Not a chance.”
“I’ll owe you big.”
“You already owe me after you told Logan I liked his haircut and he thanked me for twenty minutes.”
Dean winced at that. “That was an accident.”
“You said, and I quote, ‘[Y/N] thinks you look hot.’”
“I was just trying to distract him.”
“Distract him from what, exactly?”
Dean paused before admitting, “I don’t remember.”
“That’s what I thought.”
He sighed your name, long and pleading.
You hated that your name always sounded softer when he said it like that, and you hated it even more because part of you noticed anyway. After all, that was the thing, you didn’t hate Dean the way you pretended to.
Hating Dean Di Laurentis would’ve been a lot easier if he weren’t so hard to like.
He was arrogant, irritating, shamelessly dramatic, and way too pleased with himself, the kind of guy who flirted like it was a reflex and teased you because he knew exactly how to get under your skin. He stole fries from your plate whenever you sat with Hannah and Allie at Malone’s, called you “sunshine” when you glared at him, and “sweetheart” when he was clearly trying to get something thrown at his head.
But he was also usually the first one to notice when Hannah got overwhelmed in crowded rooms, to cover Allie’s drink when someone brushed too close to it, and to walk you home when it got late, like it wasn’t a big deal.
Dean was irritating and had always been in trouble, but he also had a way of looking at people that made him notice more than he should.
You found that deeply inconvenient.
“No,” you repeated, because apparently he needed to hear it twice.
Dean’s shoulders slumped. “You don’t even want to know what’s in it for you?”
“No.”
“I’ll get you tickets to the next game.”
“I already know too many hockey players.”
“I’ll make Garrett stop calling you scary.”
“I actually like it when Garrett calls me scary.”
“I’ll get Logan to stop flirting with your friend.”
“You absolutely can’t.”
Dean considered that for a second, then nodded. “Fair.”
Allie leaned closer to you. “You should ask for money.”
Dean looked genuinely offended. “I’m not paying someone to date me.”
“You’re not,” you told him, “because I’m not dating you.”
“Fake dating,” Dean corrected.
“Somehow, still no.”
He looked at Hannah as if he were getting desperate. “Help me.”
Hannah lifted both hands. “I’m not getting involved.”
“You’re already involved,” Dean told her. “This is your apartment.”
“That’s not how involvement works.”
Dean looked back at you, and for the first time since he’d shown up, the panic slipped into something quieter.
“Please,” he murmured.
The word landed differently this time.
It wasn’t dramatic this time. It wasn’t teasing. It was just Dean, looking at you like he really needed you to say yes.
Your chest tightened before you could stop it.
Damn him for making it harder to say no.
You hated that seeing him genuinely stressed made it harder to stay annoyed. It was much easier to say no when Dean was being insufferable, not when he looked like he actually needed you.
“Why me?” You looked at him, trying not to sound like you were already considering it.
Dean blinked, thrown for half a second, like he hadn’t expected you to ask.
Then he straightened slightly, like the answer was obvious once he said it. “Because they’ll believe you.”
You frowned at him. “Why?”
“Because you don’t act like someone who would put up with me unless you wanted to.”
Allie snorted into her mug, and you shot her a look.
She held up both hands, still grinning. “Sorry. That was good.”
You looked back at Dean, trying not to think too hard about what he’d just said, but he was watching you carefully now, without the smirk or the teasing, and that made it harder not to.
“Also,” he added, a little quieter, “you’re good with people. My mom will like you, my dad will think you’re smart, and you won’t get intimidated by my family or let me say something stupid without kicking me under the table.”
“You say stupid things all the time.”
“Exactly. I need supervision.”
You looked away first, which felt annoyingly close to a loss. That was a mistake, because Allie immediately let out a soft little gasp as she’d just witnessed something historic.
“Oh my god,” Allie gasped. “You’re considering it.”
“I’m not.”
Hannah tilted her head like she was trying to be gentle about it. “You kind of are.”
“I’m not,” you insisted, which didn’t help your case. Dean’s eyes lit up with dangerous hope, and you pointed at him before he could say anything. “Don’t look excited.”
“I’m not,” Dean said, looking extremely excited.
“You are,” you told him.
“I’m cautiously optimistic.”
“You should be afraid.”
“I can multitask,” he said, looking entirely too pleased with himself.
You dragged both hands over your face.
This was ridiculous. It was ridiculous. It was exactly the sort of thing you shouldn’t agree to under any circumstances.
Dean Di Laurentis was a lot of things, but boyfriend material wasn’t one of them.
He was flirt-at-a-party material, bad-decision-after-midnight material, the kind of guy who looked good leaning against counters and bad for your common sense. Charming when he wanted something, dangerous when he smiled, and completely unqualified to be anyone’s serious boyfriend, especially yours. Fake or not.
You leaned forward, eyes narrowed. “Do you want my help, or do you want to die?”
Dean, for once, made the smart choice and closed his mouth.
You pointed at him. “No kissing unless necessary.”
“Define necessary.”
“You know exactly what necessary means.”
“I do, but I’m getting the feeling your definition is stricter than mine.”
“My definition includes your mouth staying away from mine most of the weekend.”
Dean’s eyes flicked briefly to your mouth, so briefly that you almost convinced yourself you’d imagined it.
Almost.
Then he looked back up at you, expression so maddeningly innocent it had to be fake. “The majority?”
You narrowed your eyes at him, which only made him smile.
You hated him.
You hated him.
You were starting to think that might be a problem.
“No sex,” you added, sharper this time.
Allie choked on a laugh.
Hannah breathed, “Oh my god.”
Dean blinked once, then twice, before his mouth curved. “Sweetheart,” he murmured slowly, “I hadn’t even brought that up.”
Heat rushed to your face. “That’s why I’m bringing it up first.”
“Very responsible of you.”
“I’ll stab you with this spoon.”
Dean’s grin widened. “Fake relationship rule number two. No sex.”
“Rule number one,” you corrected, “is no kissing unless necessary.”
“Right. Very tragic rule.”
“Rule number three,” you went on, ignoring him. “No feelings.”
Dean raised an eyebrow like that was exactly the wrong thing to say. “Were you worried?”
“Yes. For you.”
Dean laughed. “For me?”
“You seem emotionally fragile.”
“I’m already devastated.”
“Rule number four,” you continued. “No calling each other boyfriend or girlfriend when no one is around.”
Dean’s smile shifted slightly, just for a second, before it came back.
“Why not?” Dean wanted to know.
“Because that’s weird.”
“We’re pretending to date for an entire weekend, sharing a hotel room, and lying to my parents, but boyfriend is where you draw the line?”
“Yes.”
“Interesting.”
“It’s not interesting, Dean.”
“It’s kind of interesting.”
“Rule number five,” you went on, louder this time. “When this is over, we go back to normal.”
Dean studied you like he knew there was more beneath the surface. For once, he didn’t immediately make a joke, which somehow made it worse.
The word sat between you in a way you didn’t want to look at too closely, because normal, for you and Dean, had never been simple. It’d always been bickering in kitchens and too-long eye contact, comments that felt like dares, and smiles you pretended not to return. It’d always been his hand hovering near your back in crowded places, never staying long enough for anyone to call it something, but close enough that you noticed every time.
Dean nodded once, like he understood exactly what he was agreeing to. “Deal.”
Your stomach tightened a little. “You’re agreeing too easily.”
“I told you, I’m desperate.”
“That’s very comforting.”
“I mean it,” he promised. “Your rules. I’ll follow them.”
Allie coughed, as if she had thoughts about it.
Dean glanced at her. “What?”
“Nothing,” Allie said, in a way that meant absolutely nothing.
“That sounded like a judgmental cough.”
“I just think ‘your rules, I’ll follow them’ is going to age beautifully.”
You ignored her and held Dean’s gaze like you were trying to figure out whether you believed him.
“You owe me,” you reminded him.
“Anything,” Dean promised.
“You don’t even know what I want yet.”
“Then I’ll find out.”
The words shouldn’t have sounded like that, soft and low and too much like a promise. Your fingers tightened around your mug.
Allie, because she had no mercy, leaned back in her chair. “This weekend is going to be a disaster.”
Dean looked at you, and you looked back at him. For once, neither of you argued.
**
Less than twenty-four hours later, the disaster began.
Dean picked you up at noon, which gave him just enough time to text you seven times beforehand.
dean
wear something my mom will believe i had a shot with
you
so basically nothing?
dean
very hurtful.
you
objectively accurate.
dean
my mom’s going to love you.
you
because i’m obviously charming?
dean
because you’re mean to me. she’ll find it refreshing.
you
your family sounds smarter than you.
dean
everyone says that, actually.
By the time Dean pulled up outside your apartment, you were already on the curb with your overnight bag, pretending your stomach wasn’t twisting.
Dean pulled up to the curb and got out immediately.
You wished he looked worse. It would’ve been helpful if he’d shown up in something ridiculous, like a stained hoodie, bad shoes, or a hat that made him look like an idiot.
Instead, he showed up in dark jeans, a navy sweater pushed up at the sleeves, and sunglasses hooked into the collar like he’d been designed specifically to ruin your life at a family charity weekend.
His eyes moved over you before he seemed to remember he wasn’t supposed to be obvious about it. Too late, though. You noticed.
“You look…” Dean started, then seemed to forget the rest of the sentence.
You raised an eyebrow. “Careful.”
His mouth curved. “Expensive.”
You stared at him because somehow that was worse.
Dean smiled like he couldn’t believe he had to explain it. “That was a compliment.”
“That was a weird compliment.”
“My mother’s going to love it.”
“You really know how to make a girl feel special.”
He took your bag from your hand like it hadn’t occurred to him not to.
“I’m your fake boyfriend,” he reminded you. “That’s my job.”
You froze. Dean froze, too, like he’d realized it at the same time, and then you slowly turned your head toward him.
“What was rule number four again?”
Dean sighed as if this rule were personally inconvenient. “No calling each other boyfriend or girlfriend when no one is around.”
“And are we currently around anyone?”
Dean looked dramatically up and down the empty street before nodding toward a bird. “Does that count?”
“Dean,” you warned.
“Fine.” He put your bag in the trunk. “I’m the man pretending to be emotionally invested in you for social gain. Better?”
“Much better.”
“You’re impossible.”
“You literally begged me.”
“I’m regretting it already.”
“No, you’re not.”
He shut the trunk and smiled at you over the roof of the car like he knew you were right.
“No,” he told you. “I’m not.”
That shouldn’t have warmed something in you. It did anyway.
The drive to the hotel took about 2 hours. Dean spent the first 30 minutes giving you a full family briefing, as if you were about to enter witness protection.
“My mom’s going to ask how we got together.”
“We’re going to need a story.”
“We already have one.”
You looked over at him. “Since when?”
“I flirted with you until you gave up.”
You stared at him until he glanced over. “What?”
“That’s not a story.”
“It’s close enough to the truth.”
“It’s absolutely not.”
Dean grinned as he’d just found a loophole. “So you admit there’s some truth to it?”
“I admit you flirt with anything that has a pulse.”
“Not anything.”
“Sorry,” you corrected. “Anything attractive that breathes.”
Dean tilted his head as he’d just caught you. “So you admit you’re attractive?”
You closed your eyes as that might help. “I hate you.”
“That’s not very fake girlfriend of you.”
“Dean. Rule four.”
“Fake girlfriend,” he insisted.
“That still counts.”
“It doesn’t.”
He smiled at the road like he was enjoying this way too much.
You hated how easy it was to fall into this with him, into the fighting and the rhythm and the way he always seemed ready for whatever you threw at him. It made the fake part feel less fake than it should’ve, and that was dangerous. Very dangerous.
Dean’s phone buzzed where it sat in the cup holder.
He glanced down at it, then passed it to you. “Can you read that for me?”
You picked it up. The text was from his mom, which felt ominous.
Mom
Can’t wait to meet her. Your father says, “Please don’t be late.” I say try not to scare her off before dinner.
You smiled despite yourself as you handed the phone back. “She sounds nice.”
“She’s nice,” Dean admitted. “That’s the problem.”
“Since when is nice a problem?”
“When nice people are disappointed in you, it’s worse.”
Your smile softened. Dean said it casually, but his fingers tightened slightly on the wheel, just enough for you to notice.
That was the problem with fake dating someone you spent so much time pretending not to care about. You knew things, tiny things you weren’t supposed to know, like how Dean joked more when he was nervous, how he tapped his thumb against the wheel when he was thinking too hard, and how his confidence was loudest when he was trying to convince himself of it.
“You’re nervous.”
Dean’s thumb stopped tapping against the wheel.
“I’m not nervous.”
“You are.”
“I’m just focused.”
“On lying to your parents, you mean?”
“On surviving this weekend.”
You studied him for a moment, and when you spoke again, your voice was quieter. “Do they really think you’re that unserious?”
Dean’s mouth twitched, but it didn’t quite turn into a smile. “I mean, I haven’t exactly given them evidence otherwise.”
Something in your chest pulled tight. “Dean.”
He glanced over at you, and for a second, there was no teasing in his expression at all.
“I know what people think of me,” he admitted. “It’s not like they’re wrong.”
You didn’t answer immediately, because you’d thought those things too. Cocky, careless, shameless, charming enough to get away with anything. But then there were the other things, the things Dean pretended didn’t count, like how he’d shown up at Hannah’s after one text when Garrett was spiraling, how he always checked if Allie got home safe even when they were arguing, and how he noticed which teammate needed to be dragged out of a party before anyone else did.
Dean was unserious about a lot of things, but not everything.
“Maybe you’re just bad at letting people see the evidence,” you offered.
Dean looked over at you again, and when the car went too quiet, you looked out the window like that would help.
“Don’t make it weird,” you told him.
His voice was softer than you expected. “You made it weird.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“You said something nice to me.”
“That was an accident.”
“Do that again, and I might fall in love.”
Your head snapped toward him, and there it was again, Dean’s grin, annoying and beautiful and infuriating all at once.
“Rule three,” you reminded him.
“No feelings,” he agreed lightly. “Yeah, yeah.”
But his hand stayed tight on the wheel long after that.
**
The hotel was exactly what you expected from a Di Laurentis family charity weekend: expensive, tasteful, and deeply intimidating.
It sat beside a sprawling country club with polished lawns, white columns, and more valet attendants than one entrance could need. People moved through the lobby in tailored clothes and quiet confidence, like they knew which fork went with which course and had opinions about wine regions.
You stepped out of Dean’s car and immediately felt underdressed, which was unfair, considering you’d agonized over your outfit for an hour.
Dean appeared beside you, already grabbing both bags from the trunk. “You okay?”
You blinked at him. “What?”
He looked down at you, brows drawn like he’d noticed before you had. “You got quiet.”
“I’m just observing the rich people’s habitat.”
His mouth twitched. “Careful. They can smell fear.”
“Great. Then I’ll stand behind you.”
“You think I look less scared?”
“You look like you belong here.”
Dean looked toward the hotel, his expression shifting into something you couldn’t quite read.
“Yeah,” he murmured. “That’s the idea.”
Before you could ask what he meant by that, a woman’s voice called his name.
“Dean, sweetheart!”
Dean’s whole posture changed, not dramatically, but enough for you to notice. His shoulders straightened, and his smile shifted into something warmer, brighter, less guarded.
A woman with dark hair and elegant gold earrings crossed the lobby toward you, followed by a man in a blazer who looked like an older, sharper version of Dean.
His parents.
Your stomach flipped when Dean’s hand touched your lower back, light and brief, like a silent check-in. You hated how much it helped.
“Mom,” Dean greeted, leaning down to kiss her cheek when she reached him.
She hugged him tightly, and despite yourself, you smiled. Then her eyes found you, the warmth in them sharpening into curiosity.
“And you must be [Y/N],” she greeted warmly.
You smiled and extended a hand, but she ignored it and pulled you into a hug instead.
“Oh,” you laughed softly, surprised. Beside you, Dean coughed.
His mother pulled back, still smiling. “Sorry, I’m a hugger. Dean should’ve warned you.”
“He left that part out,” you told her.
Dean’s father stepped forward and offered his hand. “It’s nice to meet you finally.”
Finally.
The word made you glance at Dean, but he was looking anywhere except at you.
You shook his father’s hand and smiled. “It’s nice to meet you, too.”
His father looked between you and Dean, assessing but not unkind.
“So,” his mother began, slipping her arm through Dean’s like she wasn’t about to interrogate you in the middle of a hotel lobby. “How long has this been going on?”
Dean opened his mouth, but you answered first. “Long enough for him to annoy me into saying yes.”
Dean’s mother laughed instantly. Dean turned to stare at you, and you smiled sweetly up at him.
His father’s mouth twitched like he was trying not to smile. “That sounds like Dean.”
“It really does,” you agreed sweetly.
Dean leaned in, lowering his voice so only you could hear. “You’re enjoying this too much.”
“You literally begged me,” you whispered back.
His eyes flicked down to yours.
For half a second, the lobby disappeared.
His mother looked between you and Dean, smiling. “Well, I already like her.”
Dean’s gaze lingered on yours for a second too long.
“Yeah,” he murmured. “That happens.”
Your heart did something deeply inconvenient.
So you looked away first.
Check-in went smoothly, mostly because Dean’s mother handled it while asking you questions with the skill of a woman who had definitely hosted charity events before and knew how to extract personal information without seeming rude.
She wanted to know where you were from, what you were studying, how you knew Hannah and Allie, and, most importantly, how you and Dean had gotten close.
Dean answered the last one before you could. “She hated me at first.”
You blinked at him. “At first?”
His mother’s smile widened. “And now?”
You tilted your head like you were giving it serious thought. “Now I tolerate him.”
Dean pressed a hand to his heart as you’d wounded him. “She’s shy with affection.”
“I’m shy with public displays of murder.”
His father laughed under his breath. Dean’s mother looked delighted, and Dean looked at you like he was trying not to smile.
It was ridiculous how easy it was.
That should’ve been the first warning sign.
The second came when the receptionist handed Dean the room keys and said, “King suite, eighth floor.”
You waited, Dean waited, and his mother smiled pleasantly.
Your stomach dropped.
“King suite?” you echoed.
Dean’s head turned slowly toward his mother like he already knew she was responsible.
She blinked at him with perfect innocence. “Is something wrong?”
“No,” Dean said, too quickly.
At the same time, you asked, “One bed?”
Dean’s father raised an eyebrow. Dean’s mother looked between you and Dean, just as his hand came to rest at your waist.
Warm. Steady. Entirely too natural.
“We’re good,” Dean said smoothly. “She likes to pretend she needs her own space.”
You turned your head very slowly toward him.
Dean smiled down at you, the kind of smile that made people believe terrible lies.
“Isn’t that right, sweetheart?”
Sweetheart.
Your nails dug into your palm.
Rule four. No boyfriend or girlfriend in private. Technically, this wasn’t private.
Still.
Dean was enjoying this.
You smiled back, bright and dangerous. “Only because you kick in your sleep, babe.”
Dean’s eyes flashed. His mother made a soft, delighted sound. His father looked like he might be reconsidering everything he knew about his son.
Dean leaned down until his lips were close to your ear.
“Babe?” he murmured, like he was testing the word out.
“You started it,” you whispered back.
“You’re going to regret that,” he murmured, still close to your ear.
“Can’t wait.”
You felt his fingers flex once at your waist, like he’d forgotten himself for half a second.
Then he stepped back, smile still in place.
You were in trouble.
The room was somehow worse.
The suite was beautiful, because apparently Dean’s family didn’t do anything halfway. There was a sitting area, a massive window overlooking the golf course, a marble bathroom, and, right there in the middle of the bedroom section, one enormous king bed.
You stood in the doorway, staring at it. Dean set the bags down behind you.
Neither of you spoke.
Then you said, very clearly, “Absolutely not.”
Dean sighed, already resigned. “Here we go.”
“You knew.”
“I didn’t know.”
“You absolutely knew.”
“I thought there would be a couch.”
You stared at him. “There’s a couch.”
You both turned to look at the small decorative couch near the window.
It looked like it’d been designed exclusively for people without spines.
Dean made a face.
You pointed at the couch. “Enjoy.”
“I’m six foot two.”
“Congratulations.”
“I won’t fit.”
“Fold.”
Dean turned to you like you’d lost your mind. “You want me to sleep on that?”
“You created this problem.”
“I didn’t create the furniture.”
“You created the fake serious girlfriend.”
Dean opened his mouth. Closed it. Then nodded once, like he hated that you had a point. “Fair.”
You walked farther into the room and crossed your arms. “I’m not sharing a bed with you.”
Dean’s eyebrows rose. “Scared?”
You laughed. “Of you?”
“Yeah.”
“Dean, the only thing scary about you is your ego.”
“My ego and my charm.”
“Your delusion.”
“You like my charm.”
“I tolerate your charm.”
“You said you tolerate me. That’s different.”
“I’m expanding the category.”
He stepped closer, smiling like he knew exactly how annoying he was. “You know, for someone who hates me, you’re very committed to arguing with me.”
“For someone who needs me, you’re very committed to being unbearable.”
“Maybe that’s my love language.”
“Then I pity every woman you’ve dated.”
Dean’s smile faltered, barely enough to notice.
But you noticed.
The joke had landed wrong somehow.
You almost apologized.
Then Dean turned away, walking toward the window like he needed something else to look at. “You can have the bed.”
Your arms loosened before you could stop them. “Dean.”
“It’s fine,” he said, but it didn’t sound like it.
The sudden lack of teasing felt strange. Too strange.
You watched him pull his phone from his pocket, pretending he suddenly had something to check.
Dean was good at pretending, and you were starting to realize that was part of the problem.
“I didn’t mean it like that.”
He looked back, grin already in place like nothing had happened. “Relax. I’ve slept in worse places.”
And just like that, the moment was gone.
You didn’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed.
Dinner was scheduled for seven. Dean had called it “casual,” which apparently meant everyone would be wearing outfits that cost more than your monthly rent.
You managed to unpack in silence for approximately three minutes before Dean ruined it.
“So,” Dean said from the other side of the room, sounding way too casual, “should we practice?”
You looked up from your bag, shoe already in hand. “If the next words out of your mouth are kissing-related, I’m throwing this at you.”
Dean glanced at the heel in your hand and raised both palms like you were the unreasonable one. “Hostile work environment.”
“You created the job.”
“I meant the story.”
“What story?”
“Our story.”
The shoe lowered in your hand. “Right.”
Dean sat on the edge of the bed, which annoyed you because he looked too good there. Relaxed, comfortable, like the room belonged to him, and the weekend wasn’t already beginning to unravel around you.
“How did we get together?” he asked.
“You annoyed me until I had a lapse in judgment.”
“Funny, but my mother is going to want details.”
“Fine. We started hanging out because of Hannah and Allie.”
“True.”
“You flirted.”
“True.”
“I rejected you repeatedly.”
“Debatable.”
“Dean.”
“I’m listening.”
“And then one day, you were slightly less annoying than usual, so I agreed to dinner.”
His eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “I like that.”
“You like being called annoying?”
“I like that your version still has me winning.”
“You didn’t win. I suffered a moment of weakness.”
“I’ll take it.”
You rolled your eyes, but your mouth betrayed you anyway.
Dean saw the almost-smile.
“Careful,” he murmured.
You looked at him, instantly suspicious. “What?”
“You almost looked like you liked me for a second.”
The room shifted. Maybe it was the softness in his voice, or the bed between you, or the fact that in less than an hour, you’d have to walk downstairs and convince his entire family that whatever this was had a name.
You forced a laugh like that would fix whatever had just happened. “Don’t get excited, Di Laurentis.”
“Too late,” he said, smiling like he knew exactly what he was doing.
Your stomach flipped. You turned back to your bag before he could notice.
He probably noticed anyway.
Dinner was both easier and harder than you expected. Dean’s family was warmer than you’d feared, which should’ve helped, except their warmth only made the lie feel worse.
His mother sat beside you at the long table in the hotel restaurant, asking questions with genuine interest. Across from Dean, his father watched him with quiet amusement every time you corrected him or stole the bread basket from his side of the table.
“You two bicker a lot,” his mother said, smiling into her glass.
Dean leaned back, his arm draped over the back of your chair. “It’s part of our charm.”
“Our?” you echoed, eyebrows rising. “Interesting.”
“Fine. Your charm. My patience.”
You laughed before you could stop yourself.
Dean looked at you, and his smile softened.
His mother noticed.
You could feel it.
“So,” she said, looking entirely too pleased, “Dean tells us you’re the reason he’s been slightly less impossible lately.”
You nearly choked on your water.
Behind you, Dean’s arm stiffened. “I said no such thing.”
His father’s mouth twitched. “You said she keeps you in line.”
“That’s completely different.”
You turned to him before you could stop yourself. “You talk about me?”
Dean’s eyes met yours, and for once, he didn’t look away.
Then he said, “Only to complain.”
“Liar,” you said, but there was no heat in it.
His mouth curved. “Prove it.”
The table faded again.
That kept happening. Little moments where the performance went quiet, and something else slipped in.
You hated it.
You liked it.
You were doomed.
Later, after dessert, after his mother had hugged you again and his father had told Dean not to be late for breakfast, you both made it back to the suite in silence.
The door clicked shut behind you.
The performance dropped, sort of.
Dean let out a breath and leaned back against the door. “You were good.”
You kicked off your shoes. “I know.”
He laughed quietly. “Humble.”
“I was excellent.”
His smile softened. “You were.”
The sincerity made you pause. Dean pushed off the door, rubbing the back of his neck as he walked farther into the room.
“My mom loves you.”
“She has good taste.”
“My dad too.”
“Clearly, good taste runs in the family.”
Dean looked at you then, and something unreadable moved through his eyes.
“Yeah,” he said, still looking at you. “They do.”
Your pulse stumbled.
No.
Absolutely not.
You turned toward the bed because that felt like the safer option.
It wasn’t.
The bed was still there, large and waiting and definitely mocking you.
You pointed at the decorative couch. “Your throne.”
Dean followed your gaze and sighed. “You’re really going to make me sleep there?”
“Yes.”
“You’re cold.”
“You’ll survive.”
“I might not.”
“How tragic.”
He walked over to the couch and sat down, only for his knees to immediately look ridiculous.
You pressed your lips together, trying not to laugh.
Dean stared at you. “Don’t laugh.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“I’m being respectful.”
“You’re biting your lip.”
“Out of grief.”
He narrowed his eyes, which only made you laugh.
You couldn’t help it.
Dean tried to glare, but his mouth twitched. “You’re enjoying my suffering.”
“Deeply.”
“You know, a loving fake girlfriend would offer to share.”
You froze, and Dean froze too.
For a second, both of you seemed to remember the rule at the same time.
No boyfriend or girlfriend when no one was around.
“Sorry,” he said, quieter this time.
The apology came quickly, too quickly, as he meant it, and that made it worse.
“It’s fine,” you said.
Dean stood, suddenly restless. “I’ll sleep on the couch.”
You looked at him. Really looked. Noticed how tired he seemed now that his family wasn’t watching, how the weekend had already pulled something tight in him, how he was trying, actually trying, to respect the line you’d drawn.
The bed was huge. Huge enough to avoid touching, probably.
Maybe.
You exhaled. “Dean.”
He looked up, cautious now.
“You can sleep in the bed.”
His eyebrows rose like he wasn’t sure he’d heard you right.
“But,” you said sharply, pointing at him, “there will be rules.”
His mouth curved slowly. “More rules?”
“Yes.”
“I love rules.”
“You break rules.”
“I lovingly challenge them.”
“You stay on your side.”
“Yes.”
“No touching.”
“Yes.”
“No flirting.”
His smile widened. “In my sleep?”
“Especially in your sleep.”
“What if I dream about you?”
“Then wake up ashamed.”
Dean laughed, warm and low, and you hated how much you liked hearing it in the quiet room.
“Deal,” he said, softer than you expected.
You changed in the bathroom, mostly because you didn’t trust Dean and partly because you didn’t trust yourself.
When you came out in sleep shorts and an oversized shirt, Dean was already in bed, shirtless.
You stopped in the doorway, because apparently your body needed a second.
He looked up from his phone. “What?”
“Where’s your shirt?”
Dean looked down at himself like he’d forgotten. “Off.”
“I can see that.”
“I sleep shirtless.”
“Not tonight.”
“You’re policing sleepwear now?”
“Yes.”
Dean’s gaze moved over your face, amused and something else you didn’t want to name.
“You’re flustered.”
“I’m annoyed.”
“You’re standing in the bathroom doorway, glaring at my chest.”
“I’m glaring at all of you.”
“My chest feels singled out.”
You marched to your suitcase, grabbed a pillow, and threw it at him. He caught it easily, laughing.
“Put a shirt on.”
“Why?”
“Because.”
“Because why?”
“Because I said so.”
Dean’s smile turned dangerous. “That’s not a reason.”
Your face warmed. His eyes flicked over it, but then he reached down, grabbed a shirt from his bag, and pulled it on.
“There,” he said.
You blinked. “That was… easy.”
“I can be easy.”
“Never say that again.”
His grin returned immediately. “Too tempting?”
You reached for the lamp on your side and turned it off before he could see your expression.
“Go to sleep, Dean.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he murmured.
You climbed into bed carefully, staying as far to the edge as possible. The mattress dipped under Dean’s weight when he shifted. Even with space between you, you could feel him there—his warmth, his breathing, his presence taking up too much of the room.
For several minutes, neither of you spoke.
Then Dean’s voice came quietly from the other side of the bed. “You did save my life today, by the way.”
You stared into the dark. “I know.”
“My mom would’ve killed me if I showed up alone.”
“She still might if she ever realizes this is fake.”
Dean was quiet. Too quiet. You turned your head slightly, but you couldn’t see his face well in the darkness.
“Dean?”
“Yeah?”
You didn’t mean for your voice to soften. “Are you okay?”
He let out a quiet laugh, not amused exactly.
More surprised.
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
“You went quiet.”
“I’m fine,” he said, too quickly.
You recognized the answer because you used it too.
Fine.
The least convincing word in existence.
You rolled onto your side, turning toward him in the dark.
He lay on his back, one arm behind his head, staring up at the ceiling.
“You don’t have to pretend with me,” you told him.
The words were out before you could think better of them.
Dean turned his head toward you, and even in the dark, you felt his gaze settle on your face.
“That’s funny,” he said softly.
“Why?”
“Because pretending is kind of the whole point, isn’t it?”
Something in your chest tightened. “Not all of it.”
The silence after that was different.
Thicker.
Dean shifted onto his side too, until you were facing each other. Too close. Not touching. Close enough to see his eyes in the low light from the window.
“You’re being nice again,” he murmured.
“It keeps happening by accident.”
“That’s a dangerous habit.”
“Don’t get used to it.”
“Too late.”
Your breath caught.
There it was again, that softness. The part of Dean that didn’t feel like a joke.
For a second, neither of you moved. His eyes dropped to your mouth, and this time, there was no pretending you didn’t see it.
Your pulse jumped.
“Dean,” you whispered.
“I know,” he murmured, his voice lower now. Rougher.
He didn’t move closer, and neither did you, but somehow, the space between you felt impossibly small.
“No kissing unless necessary,” you whispered.
His gaze lifted back to yours. “Right.”
“This isn’t necessary.”
“No,” he said, but neither of you moved. He didn’t look away, and you didn’t roll back over.
Almost kissing him was somehow worse than actually kissing him. The possibility of it. The heat. The fact that you could feel how easy it would be to close the distance and ruin every rule on the first night.
Dean’s hand shifted on the mattress between you. Not touching, but close enough.
Your fingers curled into the sheet.
He noticed. His jaw flexed, and then he rolled onto his back, putting space between you with a quiet exhale.
“Goodnight, [Y/N].”
You stared at the side of his face, your heart still racing. “Goodnight, Dean.”
You eventually turned away, facing the window. But sleep didn’t come quickly. Not with Dean lying beside you. Not with the ghost of an almost-kiss sitting between your ribs. Not with the horrible realization that rule number one had already started to feel less like protection and more like a challenge.
The boys are just sick of the PDA between you and Dean. They’re happy to see their friend in love, but sometimes it’s just too much
I didn't give this one a second read, but I hope it's okay
Summary: Dean wakes up to you making pancakes for the house. Breakfast turns into making out in the kitchen…and Logan and Tucker are not having it
Warnings: making out, soft!Dean,
—
Sunday mornings were for sleeping in…and pancakes.
After celebrating last night’s win with a bit too much alcohol, you decided to whip up some pancakes for the hockey boys still sleeping.
The house was unusually quiet, except for the sizzle of butter hitting the pan and the soft clink of bowls and measuring cups. Sunlight spilled through the windows, warming the countertops while pouring the first round of batter into a pan.
The remnants from the party were all over the kitchen and living room. Empty bottles of beer on every surface. Red cups on the pool table from playing beer pong. And even a pair of panties. People really had no shame…
You cleaned just enough of the kitchen to have some space to cook and chose to ignore the rest. That was not your mess to clean.
The stack of golden pancakes was slowly growing beside the stove. Some of them had blueberries, which you found in the mostly empty fridge, for variety…and because they were Dean’s favorites.
Speaking of Dean, a pair of strong arms slid around your waist from behind. His bare chest was warm against your back and his voice rough from sleep. ‘’You escaped.’’
‘’I'm making breakfast,’’ you said, flipping a pancake.
He buried his face in your neck and kissed under your jaw as his hands travelled under your — his — shirt, rubbing circles on your hips. ‘’With blueberries?’’
You hummed.
‘’I love you.’’
You laughed softly. ‘’Because of the pancakes?’’
Dean pressed another slow kiss to your neck, this one softer and lingering, and then turned his head just enough to peek over your shoulder at the pancake flipping like a pro chef. ‘’Among other things.’’ He gave your thigh a light smack.
The smell of something cooking had been the thing that finally pulled him out of bed. That, and the absence of his beautiful girl beside him. It was as if he had felt the cold sheets on your side of the bed, the absence of a warm body curled against his chest.
His arms tightened around you as he watched that perfect flip, the pancake landing smooth back into the pan like magic. ‘’You’re too good at everything,’’ he murmured, voice still thick with sleep but full of affection anyway. ‘’Cooking…riding my dick…being hot while cooking.’’
You laughed at his antics, shifting your head to give him a kiss.
‘’Can you make coffee, baby?’’ you asked, adding the pancake to the pile. ‘’I couldn’t find the bag of coffee grounds.’’
Reluctantly, Dean moved and got the coffee started. Someone must have moved it when they were snuffing through the cupboards last night.
You focused on the next pancake. The plate you had put them on made it look like you were feeding a whole army. You had never seen this many pancakes. They’ll be gone in ten minutes once Logan, Tucker and Garrett wake up.
‘’Dean…’’ you chastised as his arms slid around your waist again and he pulled you against him.
‘’What?’’ he asked innocently, resting his chin on your shoulder.
You tried — and failed — not to smile.
‘’I need to finish the pancakes.’’
He pressed a kiss to your cheek, his blond hair tickling your face, then your jaw.
‘’Dean.’’
A third one, this time right below your ear.
You laughed and nudged him with your elbow. ‘’Sorry. I’m just so hungry.’’
‘’Sit and eat, then. I don’t need your help finishing up.’’
Without warning, he pulled you against him, pressing the front of his boxers to your ass. ‘’Not just for pancakes.’’
Deciding to play his game, you leaned back into him and moved, slow and deliberate. The heat between you flared instantly, blood rushing to his cock. It was so easy to get him worked up.
Dean let out a low groan and turned off the stove before spinning you in his arms and backing you against the counter. He stepped between your legs, effectively trapping you there without putting any real weight against you, and you rose onto your toes to kiss him.
Kissing escalated into making out. His hands slid up your thighs beneath his shirt, then lifted you with ease to set you down on the counter beside a few empty cups and a stale beer. You locked your legs around his waist, fingernails digging into the thick skin of his back as his hands wandered further up until they reached your breasts.
As if on cue, Logan shuffled into the kitchen wearing sweatpants and a hoodie, took one look at you and Dean, and groaned. ‘’Jesus Christ. It's ten in the morning.’’
Close behind, Tucker came down, his curly hair stuck up in every direction and he looked like he regretted every drink he'd had the night before. ‘’Not on my kitchen counter! Dean! Come on, bro…’’
c/w ᝰ.ᐟ unprotected p in v (in a bath), spitting (alcohol), celebratory sex, intox., light choking, praise, fingering, pet names (baby, pretty, doll + no y/n), soft dom!rafe, down bad husband!rafe, sharing a bottle of tequila + spending all night in the bathtub ⋆✴︎˚｡⋆🧂🍋🟩💍🥃 ‧₊ .ᐟ 𝔦𝔫𝔰𝔭𝔬 ᢉ𐭩 ✴︎˚
Music drifts overhead, candlelight flickering across the pale stone walls. A half-empty bottle of tequila sits beside a pile of lime wedges on the edge of the oversized tub, condensation sliding slowly down the side. The water is warm, your limbs heavy as you sink deeper against Rafe’s chest.
A quiet laugh slips out of him when the movement sends water sloshing against the side of the tub.
Rafe’s big arm stays wrapped around your waist beneath the water, holding you between his legs while his thumb drifts back and forth across your skin, his chest rising and falling steadily behind you.
His mouth brushes your neck, a smile curling against your skin as he hums along with the song playing through the speakers.
“Tip a little for me,” he mumbles, his voice rough with tequila and lust, the words brushing just below your ear. You giggle breathily, tilting your head for him.
Rafe reaches for the little dish balanced on the edge of the tub, pinching some salt between his big fingers, running it in a little line on the crook of your shoulder, climbing up to your neck.
“Beautiful,” he murmurs, head dipping closer, smiling against your skin before he runs his tongue along it, lingering before he tosses back a tequila shot.
The lime is already pinched between your fingers by the time he leans back, biting into it with a crooked grin.
His eyes sink shut, that burn that was there when the two of you started the bath numbed now from a few good pulls.
Rafe sets the empty shot glass on the edge of the tub and sinks a little deeper into the water with you.
“Great week,” he says, completely relaxed.
You smile and tip your head back against him, and he presses a kiss to your hair.
“Yeah?” You ask.
“S’perfect,” he says quietly, like he’s mostly talking to himself. His arm tightens around your waist and a pleased look settles across his face. “Closed a big deal. Made us a shit ton of money, baby. Good tequila. Stunning… stunning wife.”
“So charming, baby.”
“Think I earned a celebration. Don’t you?”
“I’m so proud of you, Rafe,” you whisper, feeling his smile against your skin.
“Never get tired of hearing that, pretty.” His voice slurs from the alcohol, his southern accent bleeding into each word. The depth and tenderness in his tone go straight through you.
The song changes and Rafe immediately starts smiling, dropping his head back against the tub as he settles deeper into the water.
“Fuck, I love this song,” you sigh happily, your hips quickly finding the rhythm he knew they would when he made the playlist in the first place, perfectly placing it in the middle of the list.
“I know you do,” he chuckles, his eyes falling lower, watching the way your body rolls with the music, the lyrics leaving your lips through a smile. “You gonna dance for me?” He asks, like he’s surprised in the slightest, helping you to your feet.
His rich chuckle bounces off the walls as candlelight flickers across your bare, wet skin. The lights are down low enough that he can catch every movement, but he’s kicking himself for not making it just a little brighter.
His chain glints against damp skin as he moves with the music too, ever so slightly, droplets of water sliding over broad shoulders and down his chest. His hair is half pushed back, the other half fallen loose, leaving messy blonde strands hanging in front of his lidded eyes. He breathes deeply, the cut of his stomach muscles deepening every time he chuckles.
His eyes trace down your body as you move, one hand holding your ankle under the water, the other draped over the back of the tub watching it all.
Rafe watches the little river of water slide down your curves as your hips switch to the beat. The wedding ring on his finger sparkles as he keeps time with the song drifting through the speakers.
“You are unbelievable.”
He lifts the tequila bottle passing it to you with a smile, watching as you lift it to your lips, taking a pull.
“Just perfect. Aren’t you?” He asks in a daze as his hand closes gently around your calf and he guides your leg toward him. The movement sends water sloshing against the side of the tub as you balance carefully, still laughing while he settles your foot against the center of his chest.
His lips brush your ankle, pressing a kiss there as his rough hand slides up your leg, kissing you again, just a little higher.
Something in his expression softens when you finally lower your foot back into the water. Your body pulls toward him like a magnet when the song changes.
“My girl,” he hums as his hands settle against your waist, guiding you down to straddle his lap, water rolling over the edge of the tub, landing against the marble floor with a splash.
“Careful,” he teases you playfully, tugging you closer until your knees slide against either side of his hips, the liquor and momentum leaving you slipping forward, catching yourself on his shoulder with one hand, the tequila bottle still hanging loosely from your fingers in the other.
“Fallin’ right into my lap, pretty. How did I get so lucky, hmm?” He murmurs, lips humming against yours, his hands pulling you to grind on top of his lap.
His head tips back against the tub, eyes roaming down your body, watching the way you fit on top—glossy bubbles sliding and popping as they roll over your tits. He groans like he’s starving for it—and he is.
“One more shot, baby. I don’t know how much more I can take,” he whispers as his hand slides up your body. He reaches up, tapping the edge of the tub for the salt, a quiet chuckle leaving him when he finds it.
His other hand slides up your neck, twisting in your hair, pulling you back just enough to sprinkle some salt on the top of your cleavage.
“Lips, doll,” he whispers against your skin and you giggle breathily, lifting the bottle holding a shot in your mouth as his tongue drags along your breast, cleaning up the salt.
He closes his fingers around your neck, pulling you close, parting his lips for you to spit it inside. The corners of his lips curl upward as the liquor pours into his mouth from yours, humming out a moan before he bares his teeth, biting down on the lime.
His eyes slam down, going from sweet to sour, his head quickly falling forward as your fingers wrap around his cock.
One hand slides into your damp hair while the other takes the bottle off your hand.
“Fuck, baby,” he pants hungrily between kisses, moaning into your mouth as you suck on his tongue, tasting the tequila and lime.
Your fingers stroke the underside of his thick cock, making him groan, his breathing choppy as you stroke him with the cadence of your kiss. Your fingertips ghost over his swollen tip, making him curse under his breath before biting your lip.
“Just can’t help but tease me, can you?” He mutters, his abs flexing as you toy with his cock, bucking into your hand as he bites his lip.
Rafe’s fingers tighten on the tub's edge, knuckles turning white. The blood in his cock pumps harder, his eyes growing heavier.
He nuzzles into your chest, grabbing your breasts in his big hands before pressing them together, sucking down on your nipples as your hands wrap around his neck, skimming through his hair.
You gasp as his palm presses between your thighs, rubbing before he slips his fingers through your folds, swirling over your clit, before moving a little lower.
You whimper against Rafe’s lips as he pushes in one finger, then another, curling them inside you. “Oh my god,” you moan deeply, head falling back as he works you with his hand, your body hot and dizzy, pleasure coursing through your veins as he touches you just right.
His hand falls away, wrapping around himself, the velvety head of his dick pressing against your clit, the both of you smiling in anticipation, a little sloppy from the booze, moaning when his tip bullies your entrance, stretching you out when you spread your thighs.
Rafe’s hand squeezes the back of your neck, pulling you down toward his lips. The humidity and tension between the two of you make it harder to breathe.
“Take this fuckin’ dick, huh?” He mumbles, your nails clawing into his massive shoulders, whimpering as you take every inch.
Rafe huffs, tossing his heavy head back, hands landing on your hips with a splash. His biceps swell, pulling you to rock against him.
Water starts to move around you, crashing against the back of the bath and rolling over the edge. “Mpfhh… Shit, pretty. That’s it,” he praises, feeling your pussy squeeze around him.
The two of you start moving with each other as the pressure builds inside, both of you just seconds away from coming undone in each other’s arms.
“Bounce for me,” he mumbles as his gaze falls just like before, eyes stealing glances at your tits soaked in soapy water.
“M’so close, Rafe,” you squeal as you work yourself quicker, bouncing up and down on his cock, your body slapping against him as the shallow water sloshes around you.
You cry out in pleasure, voice bouncing off the walls of the bathroom as he drills up into you, fucking his dick deep.
“Cum for me,” he whispers, and you do. Your perfect pussy flutters around his throbbing dick as he empties himself deep, filling your warm walls with his cum.
Your body becomes one with the water, lips mirroring his as you come down from your highs together.
The music keeps playing softly through the speakers while the water settles around you again, the ripples gradually disappearing as your kisses turn softer. Rafe’s arms stay wrapped around you, holding you close while he sinks deeper into the tub with a contented sigh.
The bottle sits abandoned on the edge of the tub now, forgotten beside the limes and empty shot glasses. The playlist shifts again and a low laugh rumbles out of him, recognizing the opening notes before the lyrics even begin.
You laugh softly when he starts mumbling along under his breath, the words slurring together as his lips brush yours.
“You love this song.”
“Mhmm, s’perfect.” His eyes stay closed as he hums a few more lyrics, his hand drifting lazily up and down your back beneath the water.
“Y’know this is my favorite fuckin’ thing?” He mumbles.
“Tequila baths?”
“Nah.” His forehead bumps yours as a laugh rumbles out of him, the corners of his lips lifting. “You and me.”
Summary: Dean has never met a problem he couldn’t charm his way out of or a woman he couldn’t leave completely satisfied. So when he overhears a football player publicly blame you for his own failures in bed, Dean does the only logical thing: he shows up at your doorstep with a duffel bag full of toys and a mission
Warnings: 18+ content
The crisp March wind whips across the Briar University quad, but Dean hardly feels the chill. He’s running on four hours of sleep, a triple-shot espresso, and the lingering high of a weekend well spent.
“I’m just saying,” Garrett says, adjusting the strap of his duffel bag over his shoulder. “If Coach makes us bag skate again tomorrow, I’m staging a full-team mutiny. I’m not doing it.”
Logan snorts. “You love bag skates.”
“I tolerate bag skates,” Garrett corrects him. “There’s a massive difference.”
“You’re both whining,” Tucker chimes in, his steady southern drawl a stark contrast to Garrett’s rapid-fire complaining. “Just put your heads down and skate.”
Dean grins, walking backward for a few steps so he can face his teammates. “Tuck’s right. It’s all about pacing, boys. Stamina. You can’t blow all your energy in the first period. You have to finesse it. Read the ice. Just like with a woman.”
Beau, walking beside Dean, rolls his eyes and shoves Dean’s shoulder. “Jesus, Di Laurentis. Does everything come back to your sex life?”
“When it’s as spectacular as mine?” Dean winks. “Yeah. It does.”
He isn’t trying to be an arrogant prick. It’s just the truth. Dean loves women. He loves the way they look, the way they smell, the way they sound when he’s doing things right. He grew up surrounded by affection — two powerhouse attorney parents who actually love each other, a sprawling maternal family with a business empire, and a childhood free of the usual rich-kid neuroses. He knows how lucky he is. And he believes in sharing the wealth. Specifically, by ensuring that any woman lucky enough to end up in his bed leaves it thoroughly, exhaustingly satisfied.
“Who was it this weekend?” Logan asks, kicking a stray pebble across the pavement. “Wait, don’t tell me. The blonde from the Gamma Gamma party?”
“Her name is Tori,” Dean says easily. “And she’s a delight. Highly recommend her taste in music. Terrible taste in breakfast food, though. Who orders egg whites and no bacon? It’s a crime against mornings.”
“You bought her breakfast?” Beau asks, raising an eyebrow.
“I always buy them breakfast.” Dean turns back around, matching his stride to the rest of the guys. “It’s called manners, Beau. You should try it sometime. Instead of just throwing a football at people.”
“I’m a quarterback,” Beau says defensively. “Throwing a football is literally my job description.”
“Yeah, well, my job description is making sure everyone leaves happy.”
They turn the corner near the student union. The quad is packed with bodies hurrying between afternoon classes, a sea of Briar U hoodies and overpriced coffee cups.
Up ahead, leaning against the low brick wall near the fountain, are two guys wearing Briar football jackets.
Beau groans under his breath. “Oh, great. It’s McMahon.”
“Who?” Tucker asks.
“Wide receiver,” Beau mutters. “Hands made of stone, ego the size of Rhode Island. Don’t look at him, or he’ll start complaining to me about his target share.”
Dean has no interest in football politics, so he keeps his eyes straight ahead. They’re about to walk past the two guys when McMahon’s voice carries over the noise of the quad. It’s loud. Too loud. The kind of loud a guy uses when he wants everyone around him to know he’s talking.
“I had to dump her, man,” McMahon is saying to his buddy, a sneer clear in his voice. “Total waste of my time.”
“Yeah?” The other guy asks.
“Oh, absolutely. I’m telling you, she’s a frigid bitch.”
Dean slows his steps. Next to him, Garrett stiffens.
McMahon laughs, a harsh, grating sound. “I put in the work, you know? But nothing. Swear to God, she just laid there. Something must genuinely be wrong with her. She can never cum.”
Dean stops walking completely.
Beau takes two more steps before realizing Dean isn’t beside him. He turns around. “Dean. Come on. Don’t.”
“Did you hear what he just said?” Dean asks, his voice dropping low. All the playful ease from a moment ago evaporates.
“I heard it,” Logan says, his expression tightening. “The guy’s a class-A douchebag. Let’s keep moving.”
“He just announced to half the quad that he couldn’t get a girl off,” Dean says, staring at the back of McMahon’s head. “And he blamed her.”
“Dean,” Tucker says, stepping into Dean’s line of sight. “Not our circus. Not our monkeys.”
“It is an insult to womankind,” Dean says. He isn’t joking. His chest actually feels tight with genuine indignation. “A crime. A travesty.”
“It’s a wide receiver with a fragile ego,” Beau says, grabbing Dean’s elbow. “Leave it alone.”
Dean shrugs off Beau’s hand. He isn’t going to start a brawl in the middle of the quad, he has no interest in getting suspended for the next five games. But the sheer audacity of it is ringing in his ears.
Something must genuinely be wrong with her.
No. Dean shakes his head. No, there is nothing wrong with you. He doesn’t even know who you are. He doesn’t know your face, or your laugh, or the way you look when you’re a mess in the sheets. But he knows, with absolute, unwavering certainty, that McMahon is an idiot.
“There’s no such thing as a frigid woman,” Dean says, his voice carrying just enough that McMahon’s conversation pauses. “Just lazy, incompetent guys who don’t know where the clit is.”
Silence drops over their immediate vicinity.
Garrett scrubs a hand over his face. “Jesus Christ.”
McMahon turns around, his face flushing dull red. He spots Beau first, then his eyes slide to Dean. “You got something to say, Di Laurentis?”
Dean slides his hands into the pockets of his jeans, rocking back on his heels. He gives McMahon a lazy, condescending smile. “Just offering some unsolicited biological facts, McMahon. Sounds like you need a tutor. Maybe a diagram.”
McMahon steps away from the brick wall, puffing his chest out. “Are you calling me incompetent?”
“I think you just called yourself incompetent, man,” Dean says smoothly. “Loudly. In public. I’m just agreeing with you.”
“I don’t need to know her,” Dean counters, his tone perfectly even. “I know anatomy. I know effort. If a girl doesn’t get off, it’s because you didn’t pay attention. You rushed it. You fumbled the play. Isn’t that what you guys call it? Fumbling?”
Beau winces. “Dean.”
McMahon takes a step forward, his fists clenching. “You think you’re so fucking funny.”
“I think I’m highly effective,” Dean corrects him. “And I think you should keep your bedroom failures to yourself instead of dragging a girl’s name through the mud because your fragile masculinity can’t handle the fact that you suck in bed.”
For a second, it looks like McMahon is going to swing. Dean shifts his weight, perfectly ready to slip the punch and drop the guy. He’s not a fighter by nature, but he’s a hockey player. It comes with the territory.
But Tucker steps in, his frame easily blocking McMahon’s path. “I think that’s about enough conversation for one afternoon,” Tucker says calmly. His tone is polite, but his eyes are flat.
McMahon glares at Tucker, then at Dean. He points a finger. “Watch your mouth, Di Laurentis.”
“Watch your form, McMahon,” Dean shoots back. “Maybe use two fingers next time. Or, God forbid, your tongue.”
Logan chokes on a laugh, quickly disguising it as a cough.
McMahon spits on the ground, turns, and shoves his way through the crowd, his buddy trailing awkwardly behind him.
Dean watches them go, his jaw tight.
“Well,” Garrett says after a moment. “That was diplomatic.”
“I hate guys like that,” Dean mutters, running a hand through his hair. “I really, genuinely hate them.”
“We know,” Beau sighs, clapping Dean on the back. “You’re the caped crusader of the female orgasm. We’re all very proud to know you. Can we go get food now? I’m starving.”
They resume their walk toward the dining hall, the tension slowly bleeding out of the group as Garrett and Logan pick up their argument about practice drills right where they left off.
But Dean is quiet. He tunes out the banter, his mind replaying McMahon’s harsh, dismissive words.
It’s just sloppy. It’s pathetic. Dean loves women too much to stand the thought of one being treated like a chore, or worse, a lost cause. Sex isn’t a race. It isn’t just about friction. It’s about connection, observation, communication. It’s about worshipping a body until it unravels for you.
He doesn’t know who you are. He doesn’t know what you’re doing right now. Maybe you’re sitting in a lecture, feeling insecure because some meathead wide receiver told you you were broken. Maybe you’re in your dorm room, crying over a guy who couldn’t even be bothered to figure out what you like.
Dean looks up at the crisp blue sky, mentally sending a prayer up to the universe.
“Dear Universe, please watch over this woman’s sadly neglected clitoris,” he thinks solemnly. “May it one day find someone who actually knows what they’re doing. Amen.”
He kicks a stray leaf on the sidewalk. It is a damn tragedy, that’s what it is. A tragedy that needs rectifying.
“Hey, Beau,” Dean says suddenly, interrupting whatever Tucker was saying.
Beau glances over. “Yeah?”
“Who did McMahon just break up with?”
Beau frowns, his steps slowing. “What? Why?”
“Just answer the question.”
“I don’t know, man. He dates around. I try not to keep track of his personal life. Why?” Beau squints at him. “Wait. No. Whatever you’re thinking, stop.”
“I’m not thinking anything,” Dean lies smoothly.
“You are. You have that look on your face.” Logan points a finger at him. “The ‘Dean is about to do something stupid’ look.”
“I resent that,” Dean says. “I don’t do stupid things.”
“You bought a jet ski on eBay at three in the morning last week,” Garrett points out.
“It was a steal, G. An absolute steal. You don’t understand economics.” Dean waves a hand dismissively. “Seriously, Beau. Does anyone know who she is?”
“Why do you care?” Tucker asks, amused.
“Because it’s an injustice,” Dean states flatly. “It is a cosmic wrong that needs to be righted. She’s probably out there right now, thinking she’s the problem, when the reality is she was just subjected to the sloppy, fumbling hands of a guy who treats sex like a two-minute drill.”
Beau groans, burying his face in his hands. “You’re not going to track this girl down, Dean.”
“I am absolutely going to track her down.”
“And do what?” Logan asks, laughing in disbelief.
Dean looks at his friends, entirely serious. “And give her the orgasm she’s been so cruelly denied. It’s my civic duty.”
“You’re insane,” Garrett says, though he’s grinning. “You are actually insane.”
“I’m a humanitarian,” Dean corrects him. “I’m giving back to the community.”
“You don’t even know her name,” Tucker says softly.
“I’ll find it out,” Dean promises. He glances back toward the direction McMahon disappeared.
He doesn’t know you yet. He doesn’t know if you’re blonde, brunette, tall, short, quiet, or loud. But he knows one thing for sure.
He is going to find you. He is going to ruin you for every other man on the planet. And he is going to make damn sure you never, ever think there is something wrong with you again.
***
The stale smell of pepperoni pizza and the frantic clicking of Xbox controllers fill the living room of the off-campus hockey house.
“Pass it, pass it, pass it,” Logan chants, mashing the buttons on his controller as he leans so far forward on the couch he’s practically sitting on the coffee table.
“I am passing it, you pylon,” Dean snaps back, his eyes glued to the television screen. “If you would get into position instead of skating around like a lost toddler-”
“I’m open!”
“You’re surrounded by both defensemen!”
“Shoot the damn puck!” Garrett yells from the armchair, throwing a piece of popcorn at Logan’s head. “You guys are an embarrassment to the sport. It’s a video game. It requires a fraction of the athletic ability we actually possess, and you’re still blowing it.”
“Shut up, Graham,” Dean and Logan say in unison.
On the screen, the buzzer blares. Game over. Logan groans and tosses his controller onto the cushions, dragging a hand down his face.
Dean exhales, leaning back and stretching his arms over his head. His shoulders pop. Normally, he’d be demanding a rematch, relentlessly trash-talking Logan until the guy agreed to play another round just to shut him up. But today, Dean isn’t feeling it. His head isn’t in the game. It hasn’t been in the game since they left the quad three hours ago.
He keeps replaying the conversation in his head. Or rather, the broadcast. That loudmouth wide receiver, McMahon, announcing to half the student body that the girl he was dating couldn’t get off.
It pisses Dean off. It genuinely, deeply aggravates him.
“You’re quiet,” Garrett notes, watching Dean from the armchair. “You won. Usually, you do a victory lap around the coffee table.”
“I’m conserving my energy,” Dean says, picking up his phone to check his notifications. Nothing interesting. Just a text from a girl in his sociology seminar and an email from his dad about spring break.
“He’s still thinking about his crusade,” Logan says, snagging a cold slice of pizza from the box on the table. “The caped crusader of the clitoris.”
“It’s not a crusade,” Dean says defensively. “It’s a matter of principle.”
“You don’t even know her,” Garrett points out, amused. “For all you know, McMahon was telling the truth.”
Dean glares at him. “Garrett. Look at me. Do I look like a man who accepts defeat in the bedroom?”
“You look like a man who spends too much time on his hair,” Garrett deadpans.
“My hair is flawless, and that is entirely besides the point,” Dean shoots back. “The point is, there is a fundamental lack of effort plaguing the male population of this campus. It’s an epidemic. Guys like McMahon treat sex like a race to the finish line, and then they have the audacity to blame the woman when she doesn’t cross it with them. It’s pathetic.”
Logan chews his pizza thoughtfully. “I mean, you’re not wrong. But you can’t save them all, man.”
“I don’t need to save them all,” Dean says, his voice dropping a fraction. “I just need to save this one.”
The front door swings open before Logan can reply, slamming against the wall with a loud thud.
Beau trudges into the house, looking like he just survived a minor war. He’s still wearing his gray Briar football sweatpants and a tight compression shirt that clings to his exhausted frame. He drops his massive gym bag onto the hardwood floor, kicks off his slides, and groans loudly.
“Practice?” Garrett asks sympathetically.
“Practice,” Beau confirms, shuffling into the living room and collapsing onto the empty space on the couch next to Dean. He smells faintly of artificial turf, sweat, and the sharp tang of Deep Relief muscle rub. “Coach made us run the stadium stairs. Twice. Because someone — who shall remain nameless, but his initials rhyme with DickMahon — kept dropping his routes during seven-on-sevens.”
Dean’s ears perk up. He turns to look at his best friend, his previous lethargy vanishing instantly. “McMahon?”
Beau closes his eyes and tips his head back against the couch cushions. “Don’t.”
“You were in the locker room with him,” Dean presses, shifting his body so he’s fully facing Beau. “Did you ask around?”
Beau keeps his eyes squeezed shut. “Dean, I am tired. My calves are screaming. I want a shower, a beer, and for you to stop looking at me with that deranged glint in your eye.”
“Tell me you found something out,” Dean says, ignoring every word Beau just said. “Tell me you didn’t spend two hours in a locker room full of gossiping linebackers and come back empty-handed.”
Beau sighs, a long, dramatic sound that ruffles his blonde hair. He slowly opens one eye, looking at Dean with a mixture of exhaustion and profound regret. “Do you want the good news or the bad news first?”
Dean’s heart actually kicks up a notch. He leans forward, resting his forearms on his knees. “Good news. Always start with the good news.”
Beau sits up a little, rubbing the back of his neck. “Okay. The good news is, I know who she is. I asked Howard, the backup tight end, because he knows everybody’s business. He told me who McMahon just dumped.”
“Who?” Dean demands.
“Her name is Y/N Y/L/N,” Beau says.
Dean processes the name. It suits you. It sounds smart, put-together. “And?”
“And,” Beau continues, “she’s not just some random girl. She’s a junior. Pre-law, I think. And she’s the president of the Delta Zeta sorority.”
Logan whistles low. “Delta Zeta? Those girls don’t mess around. That’s the house with the insane GPA requirement and the terrifying philanthropy events.”
Dean smiles, a slow, genuine curve of his lips. He likes this. He really likes this. A sorority president. That means you are organized. Driven. You probably walk around campus with a planner perfectly color-coded to match your outfits. You take charge, you handle responsibility, and you probably don’t take shit from anyone. Which makes it even more infuriating that a guy like McMahon made you feel inadequate.
“Y/N,” Dean says your name out loud, testing the syllables on his tongue. He likes the way it sounds. He likes the way it feels. “Okay. That’s excellent news. What’s the bad news?”
Beau hesitates. He looks away from Dean, glancing at Garrett and Logan, who are suddenly very invested in the conversation. Beau scrubs a hand over his jaw, looking distinctly uncomfortable.
“Spit it out, Beau,” Dean says, the smile fading from his face.
“The bad news,” Beau says slowly, “is that McMahon wasn’t the first guy to complain about her.”
The living room goes dead silent. The only sound is the low hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen.
Dean stares at him. “What are you talking about?”
“I’m just telling you what I heard,” Beau says defensively, holding his hands up in a placating gesture. “Howard started talking, and then a couple of the other guys chimed in. Apparently, she dated a guy on the lacrosse team last year. And before that, some dude from Kappa Sig.”
“And?” Dean prompts, his jaw tightening.
“And the grapevine says the same thing,” Beau mutters, looking at the floor. “Nobody has ever been able to make her cum. The lacrosse guy said she was completely unresponsive. The Kappa Sig guy said he tried for an hour and gave up. It’s … it’s a known thing, Dean. The guys in the locker room were joking that she’s cursed.”
Dean feels a cold, sharp spike of anger lodge itself right beneath his ribs.
He imagines you, standing in front of a mirror, wondering what’s wrong with you. He imagines the quiet humiliation of lying in bed while a guy sighs in frustration, rolls over, and goes to sleep. He imagines you carrying around a reputation you didn’t ask for, created by guys who are too incompetent to do their damn jobs.
It makes him want to punch a hole through the drywall.
“They were joking about it,” Dean repeats, his voice dangerously soft.
“Locker rooms are toxic,” Garrett says quietly from the armchair. “You know how it is, Dean. Guys talk. They exaggerate to protect their own egos.”
“It’s not an exaggeration if three different guys are saying the exact same thing,” Beau points out gently. He looks back at Dean, his expression softening into an apology. “Look, man. I know you’re on this crusade to prove McMahon wrong, but … maybe he isn’t. Maybe it’s not a lack of effort.”
Dean narrows his eyes. “What are you implying?”
Beau shifts uncomfortably. “I’m just saying … biology is weird. Some people have weird wiring. Maybe she really does have some sort of issue. You know? Like, a medical reason why she can’t get off. It happens.”
“No,” Dean says immediately.
“Dean, be reasonable,” Beau tries. “If multiple guys-”
“I don’t give a damn if the entire starting lineup of the New England Patriots tried and failed,” Dean snaps, pushing himself off the couch. He paces across the living room, running a hand aggressively through his hair. “I am shutting that theory down right now.”
“You can’t just shut down biology,” Logan argues reasonably.
“Watch me,” Dean shoots back. He turns to face his friends, pointing an accusatory finger at Beau. “Do you know what the common denominator is here? It’s not her. It’s the guys.”
“A lacrosse player, a frat bro, and a wide receiver,” Garrett lists, counting them off on his fingers.
“Exactly!” Dean throws his hands in the air. “The holy trinity of selfish lovers! What do they all have in common? Ego. They care more about their own performance than her pleasure. They probably pounded away for five minutes like jackrabbits, didn’t bother with foreplay, and then got offended when she didn’t magically explode.”
Beau sighs. “Dean-”
“I’m serious, Beau,” Dean interrupts, his voice hard. The anger is settling into something sharper, something far more resolute. “Do not sit there and tell me she’s broken. Do not tell me she has a physiological issue just because three frat-star idiots couldn’t find the clit with a flashlight and a map.”
The conviction in his voice fills the room. He isn’t laughing. He isn’t playing around. He means every single word.
“Women’s bodies aren’t slot machines,” Dean says, pacing back toward the television. “You don’t just put a coin in, pull a lever, and wait for the jackpot. It takes attention. It takes communication. You have to learn the body you’re touching. You have to figure out what she likes, what she hates, what she needs before she even knows she needs it.”
He stops pacing, planting his hands on his hips as he stares down his three friends.
“If she hasn’t come,” Dean states, absolute certainty ringing in his tone, “it is because nobody has bothered to learn her properly. Nobody has put in the work.”
Garrett raises an eyebrow. “And you think you’re the guy to put in the work?”
“I know I am,” Dean says without a second of hesitation.
“Dude.” Logan lets out a breath, shaking his head. “You’re talking about taking on a campus legend. If she really is, uh, un-finishable-”
“Stop calling her that,” Dean snaps. “She’s not a challenge on a bucket list. She is a girl who deserves to feel good.”
Beau looks at him for a long, quiet moment. He knows Dean better than anyone in the room. Beau knows when Dean is messing around, and he knows when Dean is dead serious.
Right now, Dean is dead serious.
“Okay,” Beau says softly, holding his hands up in surrender. “Okay. I hear you. But let’s look at this logically. What exactly is your plan here?”
Dean drops back onto the couch, resting his elbows on his knees. “My plan is simple. I’m going to find her. I’m going to get to know her. And then I’m going to help her.”
“Help her,” Beau repeats flatly.
“Yes. I am going to give her the release she has been denied. I am going to do what apparently no other incompetent man on this campus has managed to do.” Dean’s eyes gleam with a fierce, protective determination. “I am going to break the curse.”
Logan lets out a sudden, bark-like laugh. “You’re out of your mind.”
“I am a visionary,” Dean corrects him.
Beau rubs his temples, looking like he’s developing a severe migraine. “Dean, think about this for two seconds. You can’t just walk up to a girl — a sorority president, no less — and offer to give her an orgasm.”
“Why not?” Dean asks innocently.
“Because it’s insane!” Beau yells, finally losing his cool. “Because she doesn’t know you! You can’t just stroll up to her in the dining hall, tap her on the shoulder, and say, ‘Hey, I heard your ex-boyfriend has the sexual prowess of a wet sponge, let me fix that for you!’”
“Well, obviously I wouldn’t use those exact words,” Dean says, offended. “I have tact, Beau. I have charm. I know how to talk to women.”
“You’re going to get pepper-sprayed,” Garrett predicts, sounding entirely too cheerful about the prospect. “I’ll give you twenty bucks right now if you get it on video.”
“I am not going to get pepper-sprayed,” Dean says firmly. “I am going to be a gentleman.”
“A gentleman doesn’t solicit orgasms to strangers,” Tucker’s voice drawls from the doorway. He’s leaning against the frame, holding a massive protein shake in one hand, having apparently walked in through the kitchen halfway through the conversation.
“A true gentleman recognizes a woman in need and steps up to the plate,” Dean counters smoothly. “I’m going to do it. That’s exactly what I’m going to do.”
“Dean, please,” Beau begs, sounding genuinely distressed. “She’s a prominent figure on campus. If you go up to her and say something crazy, she’s going to ruin your reputation.”
“My reputation?” Dean laughs. It’s a bright, easy sound. “Beau, my reputation is already that of a shameless flirt who sleeps around. What’s she going to do? Tell people I offered to make her feel good? Oh, the horror.”
“She’s going to think you’re a creep,” Beau insists.
“She won’t,” Dean says confidently. “Because I’m not going to be creepy about it. I’m going to be honest. Completely, brutally honest. Women appreciate honesty.”
Garrett snorts. “Yeah, let me know how that honesty works out for you when she slaps you across the face.”
Dean ignores them. He tunes out Garrett’s laughter, Logan’s skepticism, and Beau’s frantic attempts to reason with him. His mind is already racing, piecing together a strategy.
He knows you are the president of Delta Zeta. That means you are busy. It means you are likely stressed, overworked, and constantly dealing with other people’s drama. You probably drink too much coffee, don’t get enough sleep, and carry the weight of your entire house on your shoulders.
And on top of all that, you have the baggage of guys like McMahon making you feel inadequate.
Dean feels that fierce, protective urge flare up again. It isn’t just about his ego anymore. It isn’t just about proving a point to the locker room. It’s about you. It’s about the fact that nobody has looked at you and decided you were worth the time it takes to figure out what you need.
He stands up again, suddenly too energized to sit still. “When does Delta Zeta usually hold their chapter meetings?”
Beau groans, throwing himself face-first into a couch pillow. “I’m not telling you.”
“Fridays,” Logan provides helpfully. “Usually around seven. I know because I hooked up with a DZ last semester, and she always made me leave by six-thirty so she could get ready.”
“Friday,” Dean repeats. Today is Wednesday. That gives him two days to figure out an approach. Two days to find you, study you, and plan his move.
“You’re really going through with this?” Beau asks, his voice muffled by the pillow.
“I am,” Dean says. He walks toward the hallway leading to his bedroom, pausing at the threshold to look back at his friends. “I’m going to find her. I’m going to look her in the eyes, and I’m going to offer my services.”
“Services,” Garrett echoes, shaking his head. “You make it sound like you’re an independent contractor.”
“I’m a specialist,” Dean corrects him with a wink. “And Y/N Y/L/N is about to become my top priority.”
He turns and walks down the hall, already mentally mapping out the campus to figure out where a pre-law sorority president is most likely to spend her Friday afternoon. The library? The student union? A coffee shop?
He’ll check them all. He doesn’t care how long it takes.
Because Dean loves a challenge. But more than that, he loves making things right. And making sure you finally understand that there is absolutely nothing wrong with you?
That is going to be the best thing he’s ever done.
***
Dean does not usually require props.
In fact, he prides himself on his natural abilities. He has spent years perfecting his technique, learning the exact amount of pressure, the perfect rhythm, the right things to whisper in the dark. He is a craftsman, and his hands and mouth are his chosen tools.
But as he stands in his bedroom on Friday afternoon, staring into the bottom drawer of his nightstand, he decides to make an exception.
Because you aren’t just a regular Friday night hookup. You are a mission. You are the final boss of Briar University’s dating pool, a girl who has allegedly stumped every self-serving idiot on this campus. And while Dean is completely, undeniably confident in his own mouth, he also believes in being prepared. A good lawyer — like his mother always says — never walks into a courtroom without covering all his bases.
So, he grabs a sleek, black duffel bag from his closet.
He tosses in a small, discreet bullet vibrator. Then a curved silicone toy that he knows for a fact works absolute miracles. He adds a bottle of premium, water-based lubricant, just to be safe. He zips the bag up, slinging it over his shoulder.
“Where are you going?” Garrett asks, looking up from the kitchen island as Dean walks out of his room. Garrett is eating cereal straight out of the box.
“I have an appointment,” Dean says, checking his reflection in the hallway mirror. He runs a hand through his hair, making sure it falls with just the right amount of effortless messiness. He’s wearing a fitted black long-sleeve henley that highlights his shoulders, and his favorite jeans. He looks good. Approachable. Trustworthy.
“An appointment,” Garrett repeats flatly. His eyes drop to the black duffel bag. “Are you going to the gym, or are you actually going through with this psychotic plan to accost McMahon’s ex-girlfriend?”
“Her name is Y/N,” Dean corrects him. “And I am not accosting anyone. I am offering a philanthropic service. I’m giving back to the community.”
“You’re going to get arrested,” Garrett says, tossing a piece of Cap’n Crunch at him.
Dean catches it mid-air and eats it. “Have a little faith, Graham. I’ll be back in a few hours. Victorious.”
He walks out the door before Garrett can say anything else.
The Delta Zeta house is a massive, sprawling brick mansion situated at the end of Sorority Row. It has white columns, a perfectly manicured lawn, and an intimidating aura of organized femininity. Dean walks up the pristine paved walkway, his heart doing a strange, unfamiliar flutter against his ribs.
He isn’t nervous. Dean Di Laurentis doesn’t get nervous around women. But he is acutely aware that he is operating without a net here. He doesn’t have an introduction. He doesn’t have a mutual friend paving the way. All he has is his charm, a bag of toys, and a burning desire to prove McMahon wrong.
He steps onto the porch and presses the doorbell. It chimes, a soft, melodic sound that echoes through the heavy oak door.
Dean takes a breath. He squares his shoulders. He prepares his opening line. He’s going to be suave. He’s going to introduce himself, ask if you have a minute to talk privately, and then gently, delicately broach the subject.
The lock clicks. The door swings open.
And Dean completely forgets how to speak.
You are standing there, holding a clipboard in one hand and a half-empty mug of coffee in the other. You are wearing a pair of faded gray sweatpants and an oversized Briar University sweatshirt that is slipping off one shoulder. Your hair is pulled up into a messy bun that looks like it’s barely surviving, held together by a single, desperate claw clip. You look exhausted, irritated, and absolutely, devastatingly beautiful.
He wasn’t expecting this. He expected a perfectly polished sorority president in a twinset and pearls. But you look real. You look like a girl who has been managing fifty different crises since six in the morning.
You blink at him, your eyes trailing from the toes of his boots, up his jeans, to his face. “Can I help you?”
Your voice is slightly raspy, like you’ve been talking all day. It sends a sudden, sharp jolt straight to Dean’s groin.
“Uh,” Dean says. The suave opening line evaporates from his brain. The delicate approach vanishes. He stares into your eyes, overwhelmed by the sudden, intense urge to drag you upstairs, lay you down, and spend the next six hours worshipping every single inch of you.
“Hello?” You prompt, arching a single, perfect eyebrow. “I’m in the middle of a budget crisis with my treasurer, so if you’re looking for one of the sisters, you need to tell me who, or I’m shutting this door.”
Dean’s brain short-circuits entirely. “I’m here to make you come.”
Silence.
Thick, heavy, suffocating silence drops over the porch.
You freeze. The hand holding the coffee mug tightens so hard your knuckles turn white. You stare at him, your eyes widening in sheer, unadulterated shock.
Dean realizes what he just said a fraction of a second too late. “Wait. No. I mean-”
The slap echoes across the porch like a gunshot. Your palm connects with Dean’s cheek with stunning, terrifying precision. It stings instantly, a hot flare of pain that snaps his head to the side.
Before he can even register the hit, you step back.
“Get the hell off my porch, you absolute creep!” You snap, and then you slam the heavy oak door directly in his face. The deadbolt clicks into place with a resounding finality.
Dean stands there, staring at the brass knocker. He slowly reaches up, pressing two fingers to his stinging cheek.
“Well,” he mutters to himself. “That could have gone better.”
He doesn’t leave. He can’t leave. If he leaves now, he’s just the lunatic who showed up and harassed you. He drops the duffel bag onto the porch mat, takes a deep breath, and knocks on the door. Firmly.
“Go away!” Your voice filters through the wood, muffled but furious. “Or I’m calling campus security!”
“Please!” Dean calls out, leaning closer to the door. “Just give me one minute! I swear to God, I didn’t mean it like that!”
“You literally said you were here to make me come!” You yell back.
“I know!” Dean winces. “I know I said it! My brain stopped working! I panicked! But I’m not a creep, I promise!”
The lock turns. The door cracks open just an inch, held securely in place by a heavy brass chain. Your eyes appear in the gap, glaring at him with a mixture of anger and deep suspicion.
“You have exactly ten seconds to explain yourself before I pepper-spray you,” you say sharply. “And yes, I have it in my hand.”
Dean immediately holds his hands up in surrender, stepping back so you can see he isn’t trying to force his way in. “Okay. Okay, fair. Listen to me. My name is Dean Di Laurentis-”
“I know who you are,” you interrupt, your voice dripping with disdain. “You play hockey. You’re Beau Maxwell’s best friend. And you have a reputation for sleeping with half the female population of this school.”
“Okay, half is an exaggeration,” Dean says defensively. “A third, maybe. But that’s exactly why I’m here! Listen, I’m a feminist. I love women. I genuinely, deeply respect women and their right to absolute satisfaction.”
You stare at him through the crack. “Are you on drugs?”
“No! Look, I overheard McMahon talking on the quad yesterday.”
The shift in your demeanor is instantaneous. The fiery anger in your eyes extinguishes, replaced by a sudden, protective wall of pure ice. Your jaw clenches, and Dean can practically see you putting your armor on.
“Oh,” you say softly. The word is hollow. “I see. You heard what he said.”
“I heard it,” Dean confirms, his voice dropping, softening. “And I heard what the other guys in the locker room have been saying, too. The lacrosse guy. The Kappa Sig guy.”
You close your eyes for a brief second. When you open them, the ice is thicker. “And you came here to what? Mock me? Place a bet with your friends to see if you can be the one to break the curse?”
“No!” Dean is genuinely horrified. “No, God, absolutely not. I came here because it pisses me off. It pisses me off that these lazy, incompetent assholes don’t know what they’re doing, and they’re making you feel like you’re the problem.”
You don’t say anything. You just watch him through the narrow gap in the door.
“I came here to right a wrong,” Dean pleads, leaning in slightly. “To redeem my gender. I brought toys, just in case, to cover all the bases! I can even give you references, if you want. Seriously. Call Leah from Beta. Call Kayla from the dance team. Call-”
“Stop naming girls you’ve slept with,” you hiss, glancing nervously past him.
Dean looks over his shoulder. A group of freshmen girls are walking down the sidewalk, staring openly at him standing on the Delta Zeta porch, talking to the door.
You let out a frustrated groan. “You are causing a scene. Di Laurentis, I swear to God, if you make this a spectacle …”
“I’ll stand here all day,” Dean threatens lightly, giving you a small, charming smile. “I’ll shout my references to the quad. I’ll sing them. I have a terrible singing voice, Y/N. It will be tragic for everyone involved.”
You glare at him, a muscle ticking in your jaw. Then, with a harsh sigh, you shut the door.
For a second, Dean thinks he’s lost. But then he hears the rattle of the chain sliding out of the lock. The door swings open wide enough for him to enter.
“Get in,” you snap. “Before someone takes a picture.”
Dean quickly grabs his duffel bag and slips past you into the foyer.
The inside of the house is beautiful — hardwood floors, a sweeping staircase, the faint smell of vanilla and expensive perfume. But Dean doesn’t look at any of it. He turns to look at you.
You shut the door behind him and lean against it, crossing your arms tightly over your chest. Without the door between you, Dean can see the exhaustion lining your eyes. You look incredibly guarded, like a cornered animal waiting for the strike.
“Okay,” you say, your voice flat. “You’re inside. You got your little heroic speech out of the way. Now let’s get one thing straight.”
“I’m listening,” Dean says, matching your serious tone. He drops the bag onto the floor.
“You think this is about them,” you say, gesturing vaguely toward the door, indicating the male population at large. “You think McMahon and the others are just selfish lovers who didn’t try hard enough. You think you can waltz in here with your magical hockey-player hands and fix the lazy mistakes of frat boys.”
“I do, actually,” Dean says without hesitation. “I know I can.”
You let out a harsh, humorless laugh. It lacks any real joy. “Your ego is astounding. Truly. But you’re wrong, Dean. It’s not them.”
Dean frowns, taking a half-step toward you. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, it’s me,” you say bluntly. You look him dead in the eyes, refusing to flinch, refusing to look away. “I have never come. Ever.”
Dean stops. “I know. The rumor-”
“No,” you cut him off, your voice slicing through the air. “Not just with guys. Never. Not with men. Not with women. Not with a vibrator. Not with my own hand in the privacy of my own bedroom.”
Dean stares at you. The cocky comeback dies in his throat. He literally doesn’t know what to say.
“It’s a dead end,” you continue, your voice terrifyingly calm. “I have tried everything. I have read the articles, I have bought the expensive toys, I have tried relaxing, I have tried not overthinking it. It doesn’t work. The wires don’t connect. I physically cannot achieve orgasm.”
Dean’s heart aches. It’s a strange, sudden pang right in the center of his chest. Because he can hear the resignation in your voice. He can hear the years of frustration, of quiet, lonely disappointment, all packed into those few clinical sentences.
“Y/N,” he starts softly.
“Don’t,” you say, holding a hand up. “Do not give me pity. I am perfectly fine with it. I have made my peace with my body. I still enjoy sex. I still like the intimacy. It’s the guys who can’t handle it. They take it as a personal insult to their masculinity. They throw tantrums, they call me frigid, and they whine about it to their friends in the locker room.”
You drop your hand, your posture stiffening.
“So, thank you for the valiant attempt to save me,” you say, your tone dripping in sarcasm. “But I don’t need your help. I don’t need a savior. And I certainly don’t need another guy treating my body like a puzzle he has to solve just to stroke his own ego. You can take your bag of toys and leave.”
You reach behind you, grabbing the doorknob.
“Wait,” Dean says, moving faster than he ever has on the ice. He closes the distance between you, stepping just close enough that you pause, but far enough away that he isn’t crowding you.
He looks down at you. You are breathing a little heavy, your eyes defiant, daring him to push.
This changes things. Beau was right. It wasn’t just lazy guys. It’s a deep-rooted wall. But the thing about Dean Di Laurentis is that he doesn’t back down from walls. He scales them. He dismantles them brick by brick.
“I’m not leaving,” Dean says quietly.
You frown, your grip on the doorknob tightening. “I just told you-”
“I heard what you told me,” Dean says, his voice steady, entirely stripped of the usual playful banter. “You think you’re broken. You think it’s impossible. And you’re sick of guys making it about them instead of about you.”
You swallow hard, your eyes flickering with something that looks dangerously like vulnerability. “Yes.”
“I am not them,” Dean says. He holds your gaze, pouring every ounce of sincerity he possesses into the look. “I don’t care about my ego. My ego is perfectly intact. I care about the fact that you have convinced yourself you aren’t allowed to feel the best feeling in the world.”
“It’s not that I’m not allowed-”
“It’s a mental block,” Dean interrupts gently. “Or a physical one. Or a combination of both. But it’s not permanent. Nothing is permanent.”
“You don’t know that,” you whisper, looking away. “You don’t know my body.”
“Then let me learn it,” Dean says.
You snap your eyes back to him, shocked.
“Give me one chance,” Dean pleads. He isn’t cocky anymore. He is practically begging. “One chance, Y/N. No expectations. No pressure. If nothing happens, I will walk away. I will never bother you again. I won’t throw a tantrum, I won’t blame you, and I sure as hell won’t talk about it to a locker room full of idiots.”
You stare at him, your chest rising and falling rapidly. You look genuinely torn, the exhaustion and the fear battling against the tiny, microscopic sliver of hope he just offered you.
But then the wall goes back up.
“No,” you say firmly. You shake your head, stepping away from the door and pointing toward it. “No. I am not doing this again. I am not getting my hopes up just to lie there and feel broken while you get frustrated. Out. Now.”
Dean’s mind races. He’s losing you. He can see the door closing on this entire crusade, and he refuses to let you push him away just because you’re scared.
He needs leverage. What does he know about you?
Sorority president. Pre-law. Busy. Philanthropy.
“What if we make a wager?” Dean blurts out.
You stop. “What?”
“A wager,” Dean repeats, the idea taking shape in his mind as he speaks. “A bet. To make it worth your while. If I try, and I fail — which I won’t, but let’s pretend for a second that I do — I will give you something you want.”
You look at him like he’s lost his mind. “There is nothing you have that I want, Di Laurentis.”
“Delta Zeta is hosting the Splash & Dash charity car wash next Saturday, right?” Dean asks, pointing a finger at you. “To raise money for the women’s shelter downtown?”
You blink, clearly thrown off by his knowledge of your sorority’s philanthropic schedule. “How do you know that?”
“I pay attention to things,” Dean says smoothly. “Now, traditionally, your sisters wash the cars in bikinis. It brings in decent money. The frat guys show up, they pay twenty bucks, they ogle your sisters. It’s a solid business model.”
“Where are you going with this?” You demand, your patience wearing thin.
Dean grins. The slow, devastating, million-dollar grin that has gotten him out of trouble more times than he can count.
“If I fail to give you an orgasm,” Dean says slowly, letting the words hang in the air, “I will personally guarantee that the entire Briar University hockey starting lineup will participate in your car wash.”
You stare at him.
“And,” Dean adds, leaning in just a fraction, “we will do it shirtless.”
Your mouth parts slightly. You don’t say anything, but Dean can practically see the gears turning in your head.
The Briar hockey team is campus royalty. They are the most popular, most sought-after guys at the university. Garrett, Logan, Tucker, himself — they draw crowds just by walking into the dining hall.
“Shirtless,” you repeat, your voice skeptical.
“Shirtless,” Dean confirms. “Washing cars in the blazing sun. flexing. Sweating. We will advertise it. We will bring in hundreds of girls. Sorority girls, townies, professors — they’ll all show up. You will triple your fundraising goal in two hours.”
You look at him, the logic warring with your defense mechanisms. “Garrett Graham would never agree to that.”
“I am very persuasive,” Dean promises. “I will make them do it. If I lose.”
“And if you win?” You ask, narrowing your eyes. “What’s in it for you?”
Dean looks at you. He looks at the dark circles under your eyes, the messy bun, the oversized sweatshirt that hides a body he is dying to uncover. He thinks about McMahon’s cruel words on the quad, and the quiet resignation in your voice when you told him you’ve never come.
“If I win,” Dean says, his voice dropping to a low, husky register, “then I get the satisfaction of knowing I made you feel as good as you deserve to feel. That’s it. That’s the prize.”
You search his face, looking for the catch. Looking for the punchline, or the arrogant smirk. But there is nothing there except absolute, unwavering sincerity.
The silence stretches out. The grandfather clock in the hallway ticks steadily.
Finally, you let out a long, slow breath. The tension bleeds out of your shoulders. You look down at the floor, then back up at him.
“Shirtless,” you say softly.
“Pants are non-negotiable sadly,” Dean says solemnly. “Tucker is very modest.”
The tiniest, most microscopic hint of a smile tugs at the corner of your mouth. It’s barely there, but Dean catches it, and it feels like he just won the Stanley Cup.
“One chance,” you say, your voice turning serious again. “You get one chance, Dean. When it doesn’t work, we stop. You leave. And you deliver your team on Saturday.”
“Deal,” Dean says instantly. He holds his hand out.
You look at his hand. You hesitate for a second, then reach out and shake it. Your hand is small, your skin soft, but your grip is firm.
“When?” You ask.
“Tomorrow night,” Dean says, unwilling to wait any longer than absolutely necessary. “Eight o’clock. My place.”
You drop his hand, pulling your sweatshirt tighter around yourself. “Fine. Tomorrow night.”
Dean picks up his duffel bag from the floor. He gives you one last look, memorizing the way you look standing in the foyer, the challenge clear in your eyes.
“Get some sleep, Y/N,” Dean says, stepping out the door onto the porch. “You’re going to need your energy tomorrow.”
He doesn’t wait for your response. He turns and walks down the paved path, his heart hammering a victorious rhythm against his ribs.
He got his foot in the door. He got the chance.
Now, he just has to do the impossible.
***
The house is completely, suspiciously silent when you knock on the front door at exactly eight o’clock on Saturday night.
Dean opens the door before you can even lower your hand. He’s wearing gray sweatpants that hang low on his hips and a plain white t-shirt. His hair is slightly damp, curled at the ends, and the faint, clean scent of his body wash drifts out into the cool evening air.
He looks entirely too calm. You, on the other hand, feel like you might throw up.
“You’re right on time,” Dean says, a slow, easy smile spreading across his face. He steps back, opening the door wider. “Come on in.”
You step into the foyer, clutching the strap of your purse like a lifeline. You’re wearing jeans and a simple black sweater, a deliberate choice to make this feel casual, even though your heart is currently hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird.
“Where are your roommates?” You ask, your voice sounding a little too tight, a little too loud in the empty house.
“I bribed them to leave,” Dean says easily, shutting and locking the front door. “Logan and Tucker went to a movie. Garrett took his girlfriend out to dinner. The house is ours until at least midnight. I wanted zero distractions.”
He turns to look at you, and his smile softens. He can clearly see how rigid your shoulders are, how tightly you’re holding onto your bag.
“Hey,” he murmurs, stepping closer. “Relax. I’m not leading you to the gallows.”
“I know,” you say defensively. “I’m relaxed.”
“You look like you’re about to take the LSAT,” Dean counters. He reaches out, his large, warm hands gently curling over your shoulders. He rubs his thumbs in slow, soothing circles against your collarbones. “Look at me, Y/N.”
You lift your gaze from the center of his chest, meeting his eyes. They’re a warm, bright green, and completely devoid of the cocky arrogance you usually associate with him.
“Forget the bet,” Dean says quietly. “Forget the car wash, forget McMahon, forget the locker room. Tonight is just about you. And if you want to leave right now, or in ten minutes, or in an hour, you just say the word and I’ll walk you to the door. No questions asked. No pressure. Okay?”
You swallow hard, the tight knot of anxiety in your chest loosening just a fraction. “Okay.”
“Good.” Dean drops his hands, gesturing down the hallway. “My room is this way.”
Dean’s bedroom is surprisingly immaculate. You expected a stereotypical frat-boy disaster zone, but the bed is made with dark gray sheets, the floor is clear, and the only mess is a small stack of textbooks on his desk. The bedside lamp is on, casting a warm, dim glow over the room.
On the nightstand rests the black duffel bag from yesterday.
You stare at it, your stomach doing a complicated flip.
Dean catches your look. He tosses your purse onto his desk chair and turns to face you. “The bag is just backup. Honestly, I don’t think we’ll need it.”
“Your confidence is terrifying,” you mutter, crossing your arms over your chest.
“It’s not confidence. It’s just a fact.” Dean steps right into your personal space. He doesn’t ask permission to touch you this time, he simply lifts his hands and frames your face. His palms are slightly rough from handling a hockey stick, but his touch is incredibly gentle. “You think too much. I can practically hear the gears turning in your head.”
“I can’t help it,” you whisper, closing your eyes briefly as his thumbs brush over your cheekbones. “I’m waiting for the part where this doesn’t work, and you get annoyed, and I have to pretend I’m sorry.”
“That part isn’t coming.” Dean’s voice is a low, raspy murmur right against your mouth. “Open your eyes.”
You do. He is staring at your lips.
“I’m going to kiss you now,” Dean says, the warning a courtesy. “And you aren’t going to think about anything except how it feels.”
He closes the distance before you can argue. His mouth covers yours, warm and firm and demanding. You’ve been kissed a lot, but this is different. It isn’t rushed. He doesn’t shove his tongue down your throat or grope you aggressively. He simply takes his time, parting your lips, tasting you like he has all the time in the world.
A small, involuntary sigh escapes your throat, and Dean swallows it. His hands slide from your face, down your neck, tracing the line of your shoulders before sliding under the hem of your sweater. His warm palms flatten against the bare skin of your waist.
The shock of skin-on-skin contact makes you gasp, and Dean takes advantage, his tongue sliding against yours. He tastes like mint and something inherently dark and male.
“That’s it,” he murmurs against your mouth. “Just feel.”
He walks you backward, his hands pulling you flush against his chest, until the back of your knees hit the edge of the mattress. Dean breaks the kiss just long enough to pull your sweater up and over your head, tossing it blindly over his shoulder.
You reach for the hem of his t-shirt, suddenly desperate to feel his bare skin, but Dean catches your wrists.
“Uh-uh,” he says, a teasing lilt in his voice. “My clothes stay on for now. You don’t get to focus on me. Tonight is a one-way street.”
“Dean,” you protest, but he just smiles, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead.
He unhooks your bra with terrifying efficiency, letting it drop to the floor. The cool air hits your bare breasts, making your nipples pebble instantly. Dean tracks the movement, his eyes darkening as they drag down your torso.
He pushes you gently down onto the edge of the bed. You’re sitting there in just your jeans, feeling exposed and hyper-aware of his gaze. But there is no judgment in his eyes, no impatient rush to get to the main event. He just looks at you like you are the most incredible thing he has ever seen.
Dean drops to his knees on the hardwood floor between your legs.
He reaches out, his hands wrapping around your waist, pulling you an inch closer to the edge. “You’re beautiful,” he says softly, pressing an open-mouthed kiss directly in the center of your chest.
You shiver, your hands instinctively tangling in the thick hair at the nape of his neck.
Dean unbuttons your jeans. He slides the zipper down, his knuckles brushing intentionally over the sensitive skin of your lower stomach. You suck in a sharp breath. He pulls the denim down your legs, taking your plain cotton underwear with them, until you are completely bare, sitting on the edge of his bed while he kneels between your thighs.
“Dean,” you whisper, your voice shaking slightly as the familiar, suffocating wave of performance anxiety begins to creep in. What if he realizes it’s hopeless? What if nothing happens?
“Stop,” Dean says instantly. He looks up at you, his eyes blazing. He knows exactly what you’re doing. “Stop thinking. Stop putting pressure on yourself. If you don’t cum tonight, you don’t cum. I don’t care. I’m perfectly happy just staying down here and tasting you for the next three hours regardless.”
The blunt, dirty honesty of his words sends a jolt of liquid heat straight between your legs.
Dean doesn’t give you time to overthink it again. He shifts closer, wrapping his strong hands around the backs of your thighs, and gently parts your legs wider.
He lowers his head.
The first touch of his tongue is a shock to your system. It’s a slow, broad, open-mouthed slide right up your center. You jerk instinctively, your hands gripping his shoulders.
“Easy,” Dean murmurs, his breath hot against your dripping core. “I’ve got you.”
He goes back in, and this time, there is no hesitation. Dean Di Laurentis is a master at this, and he proves it in seconds. He doesn’t dive right for the clit, pounding away like every other guy has. He takes his time. He kisses the soft skin of your inner thighs. He traces the delicate folds with the tip of his tongue, teasing, mapping out your body, figuring out exactly what makes your breath hitch and your muscles tighten.
“You taste so fucking sweet,” Dean groans, the vibration of his voice buzzing directly against your most sensitive flesh.
He finds the swollen bundle of nerves and swirls his tongue around it, light and teasing. You let out a soft, stuttering gasp, your head dropping back.
It feels good. It feels amazing. But the mental block is a heavy, leaden thing sitting in the back of your mind. You hit the plateau — the place you always hit, where the pleasure builds and builds but never actually crests. You feel yourself tensing, bracing for the inevitable disappointment.
Dean feels it. He stops immediately.
“Look at me,” he orders. His voice isn’t gentle anymore; it’s low, rough, and demanding.
You force your eyes open, looking down. Dean is kneeling between your legs, his lips wet and shining with your arousal, his green eyes locked onto yours. The sight is so intensely intimate, so totally raw, that it makes your chest ache.
“Tell me what you’re feeling right now,” Dean demands, his hands tightening on your thighs, his thumbs pressing firmly into your skin.
“I … I can’t,” you stutter, shaking your head. “Dean, it’s not going to-”
“I didn’t ask what’s not going to happen,” he interrupts sharply. “I asked what you’re feeling right now. Describe it to me.”
“It feels good,” you whisper, tears of frustration stinging the corners of your eyes. “But I’m stuck. I’m stuck.”
“You’re not stuck.” Dean leans in, kissing the inside of your thigh, his breath hot. “You’re in your head. So get out of it. Focus on my mouth. Focus on my fingers.”
He slides two thick fingers directly inside you. You gasp, your hips bucking up off the mattress as he stretches you open. You are incredibly wet, slick with your own arousal, and Dean uses it to his advantage. He curls his fingers upward, hitting a deep, heavy spot inside you with a firm, relentless rhythm.
“Tell me what that feels like,” Dean says, his eyes never leaving yours.
“It’s full,” you choke out, your fingers digging painfully into his shoulders. “It’s deep.”
“Good.” Dean lowers his head again. He replaces his mouth over your clit, but this time, he isn’t teasing. He sucks the sensitive nub directly into his mouth, applying a firm, steady suction while his tongue flickers against it relentlessly.
The combination of his fingers sliding deep inside you and his mouth pulling fiercely at your clit is a sensory overload.
“Dean,” you sob, the sound entirely involuntary.
He doesn’t stop. He doesn’t ask if you’re okay. He knows exactly what he’s doing. He keeps his eyes open, staring right up at you as his tongue lashes against you and his fingers pump in a rapid, demanding rhythm.
The pressure is building. It’s a hot, coiled spring in the center of your body, winding tighter and tighter. You try to pull away, terrified of failing again, terrified of hitting the wall, but Dean’s hands are like iron on your thighs. He holds you perfectly still, refusing to let you escape the pleasure.
“Come on,” Dean growls, pulling his mouth away for a fraction of a second. “Let go, Y/N. Give it to me. Let go.”
He goes back to sucking, harder this time, dragging his teeth lightly against the hood.
The sensation splinters through your entire body. The wall in your mind — the mental block that has haunted you for years — suddenly shatters under the sheer, overwhelming force of what he’s doing to you. You can’t think. You can’t analyze. You can only feel.
The coiled spring snaps.
A choked scream rips out of your throat as the climax hits you like a freight train. It explodes, radiating from your core out to your fingertips in violent, uncontrollable waves of pleasure. Your hips jerk up, grinding frantically against Dean’s mouth as your inner muscles clamp down brutally around his fingers.
Dean swallows your scream, his mouth sealed tightly against you, taking every single drop of your release. He doesn’t stop, even when you’re thrashing, even when you’re begging him to because it’s too sensitive. He forces you to ride out every single wave, his fingers continuing to pulse inside you until you are completely spent.
When he finally pulls his hand out and lifts his head, you collapse backward onto the mattress.
You are panting, staring blindly at the ceiling. Your entire body is trembling. Tears — actual, physical tears of sheer disbelief and overwhelming relief — are sliding down your temples into your hairline.
Dean stands up. He looks down at you, his chest heaving under his white t-shirt, his hair thoroughly wrecked from your hands. He reaches over, wiping the moisture from his chin with the back of his hand.
He doesn’t look cocky. He doesn’t look like he just won a bet. He just looks satisfied.
He climbs onto the bed, hovering over you, and gently wipes a tear from your cheek with his thumb.
“You see?” Dean whispers, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your slightly swollen lips. “You aren’t broken, Y/N. You just needed someone to actually pay attention.”
You let out a shaky, hysterical laugh, wrapping your arms around his neck and burying your face in his shoulder. “Oh my god. Oh my god, Dean.”
“I know,” he murmurs, wrapping his arms around your waist and holding you tight. He strokes your bare back, letting you ride out the aftershocks. “I know.”
You lie there for what feels like hours, just breathing him in. You feel light. You feel like a massive, suffocating weight has just been lifted off your chest. It wasn’t you. It was never you. You just needed a guy who cared more about your pleasure than his own ego.
“Thank you,” you whisper into his neck.
Dean pulls back slightly, looking down at you. His green eyes are dark, glittering with something dangerous. The tender, comforting moment shifts instantly, replaced by a heavy, palpable heat.
“Don’t thank me yet,” Dean says, a wicked, devastating smile curving his lips. “We have the house until midnight, Y/N. And I am far from finished.”
Your eyes widen. “Dean, I don’t think I can—I’m so sensitive-”
“I know,” he says smoothly. He reaches over to the nightstand, grabbing the black duffel bag and unzipping it. He pulls out the small, sleek bullet vibrator. “But you’re about to learn that the second time is always easier than the first. The wall is gone now. Now, we’re just playing.”
He turns it on. The low, electric hum fills the quiet room.
You swallow hard, your core clenching in anticipation.
Dean pushes you onto your back, his knees bracketing your hips. He finally grabs the hem of his t-shirt and pulls it over his head, tossing it onto the floor. His chest is broad, defined, covered in a light dusting of hair that trails down beneath the waistband of his sweatpants. You stare at the prominent V-lines pointing downward, suddenly incredibly desperate to see the rest of him.
But Dean isn’t rushing the main event. He reaches down, parting your folds with two fingers, and presses the buzzing toy directly against your swollen clit.
You arch completely off the bed, a loud, unabashed moan tearing from your lips.
It is instantaneous. Without the mental block holding you back, your body reacts with terrifying speed. Dean grins, watching your face as he manipulates the toy, circling the most sensitive nerves. He leans down, capturing your mouth in a deep, filthy kiss, his tongue mimicking the frantic circles of his hand.
You reach down, frantically grabbing at the waistband of his sweatpants, desperate to touch him, but Dean swats your hands away.
“Not yet,” he pants against your mouth. “Focus.”
It takes less than three minutes. The second orgasm crashes through you with even more ferocity than the first. You scream his name into his mouth, your nails digging crescent moons into his shoulders as your body bows off the mattress, shaking violently.
Dean pulls the toy away, tossing it onto the nightstand, and finally reaches for his own waistband.
He strips out of his sweatpants and boxers in one fluid motion. He is heavily, beautifully aroused, his thick erection jutting out, hot and ready. He grabs a condom from the nightstand drawer, ripping the foil open with his teeth, and rolls it on with quick, efficient movements.
You are still trembling from the second climax, your eyes hazy and completely blown out.
Dean settles himself between your legs, his hands gripping your hips to anchor you. He lines himself up with your wet, slick opening.
“Look at me,” he demands softly.
You meet his eyes.
“You’re perfect,” Dean whispers.
And then he pushes his hips forward, burying himself deep inside you in one long, smooth thrust.
You gasp loudly, the feeling of him filling you completely sending fresh sparks of pleasure racing through your overloaded system. Dean lets out a harsh groan, his head dropping back as he gives himself a second to adjust to the tight, wet heat of your body.
He begins to move. He doesn’t pound into you; he makes love to you. He pulls almost all the way out before driving deep again, grinding his hips firmly against yours so that the base of his shaft perfectly rubs against your clit with every single thrust.
It is a steady, relentless rhythm. You wrap your legs around his waist, locking your ankles together to pull him even deeper.
“Dean,” you pant, your head tossing back against the pillows. “Please.”
“I’m right here,” he answers, his voice strained. He reaches a hand down, slipping his thumb perfectly between your bodies to press firmly against your clit while he continues to thrust inside you.
The sensory overload is absolute. The deep, heavy stretching inside and the sharp, electric friction on the outside. You are unraveling, falling completely apart underneath him.
“Let it go again, baby,” Dean encourages, his thrusts getting faster, harder, completely losing his earlier restraint. “Come for me. Give it to me.”
You shatter for the third time. The orgasm rips through you so forcefully that your vision actually whites out for a second. You clamp down around his cock with brutal strength, crying out as the pleasure sweeps through you in violent, pulsing waves.
Your tight, milking climax is enough to send Dean right over the edge with you. He lets out a guttural shout, his hips driving into you one final, desperate time as he comes hard, his body rigid and shaking above yours.
He collapses heavily onto your chest, burying his face in the crook of your neck, his chest heaving as he fights to catch his breath.
You lie there, your arms wrapped tightly around his broad back, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his. The room is completely silent except for the sound of your combined, ragged breathing.
A full five minutes pass before Dean finally lifts his head. He props himself up on his elbows, looking down at you. His hair is a wild, sweaty mess, his eyes heavy with post-coital satisfaction.
He smiles. It’s a soft, genuine smile that makes your chest squeeze.
“So,” Dean rasps, tracing the line of your jaw with his finger. “I guess this means the hockey team is keeping their shirts on next weekend.”
You let out a weak, breathless laugh. “You’re a menace, Di Laurentis.”
“I’m a man of my word,” he corrects you, rolling off you and pulling you flush against his side. He drags the gray sheet up over your naked bodies, tucking you securely under his arm. “Though Logan is going to be incredibly disappointed. He’s been doing extra crunches all week just in case.”
You smile against his bare chest, tracing a lazy circle over his heart.
The bet is over. He proved his point. He did what no other guy could do, and he won.
But as Dean presses a lingering kiss to the top of your head, his arm tightening possessively around your waist, you get the overwhelming feeling that this is no longer just a mission for him.
And as you close your eyes, listening to the steady beat of his heart, you realize it’s definitely not just a bet for you, either.
***
The Delta Zeta front lawn looks like a chaotic, high-budget commercial for spring break.
The bass from the massive portable speakers is vibrating through the soles of your white sneakers, blasting a remix of a top-forty pop song that you’ve heard at least six times since nine o’clock this morning. Soapy water floods the driveway, running in iridescent little rivers toward the street drain. Everywhere you look, girls in bright bikinis and cut-off denim shorts are scrubbing windshields, spraying each other with the hose, and flagging down passing cars with neon pink cardboard signs.
“Y/N!” Jess, your vice president, jogs over to the cash box table where you’re currently organizing a stack of slightly damp twenty-dollar bills. She’s out of breath, her blonde hair plastered to her forehead. “We’re out of microfiber towels. And I think Brittany just accidentally sprayed a physics professor in the face.”
You sigh, dropping a twenty into the lockbox. “Check the garage for the backup towels. And tell Brittany to aim lower. Has the line of cars slowed down?”
“A little,” Jess admits, wiping her brow. “It’s barely noon, though. The frat guys won’t drag themselves out of bed for at least another hour.”
You look out at the street. She’s right. The morning rush of faculty and early-risers has died down, leaving an empty spot in the driveway. If you want to hit your fundraising goal for the women’s shelter, you need a second wave. A big one.
“We need a draw,” you mutter, tying your hair back up into a higher ponytail. “Something to get the foot traffic to stop.”
“I think your draw just arrived,” Jess says, her voice suddenly dropping an entire octave. She points toward the sidewalk.
You follow her gaze, and your breath catches in your throat.
Walking down Sorority Row, looking like a slow-motion shot from a movie, are four massive guys. Garrett looks annoyed, Logan is already grinning and waving at a group of sophomores, and Tucker is casually spinning a key ring around his finger.
And leading the pack is Dean.
He’s wearing a pair of faded board shorts, flip-flops, and a gray Briar Hockey t-shirt. Sunglasses hide his eyes, but the moment he spots you standing by the cash table, a slow, devastating smirk spreads across his face.
A collective gasp ripples through the sorority girls on the lawn. Two freshmen actually drop their hose. The hockey team doesn’t just show up to random philanthropy events unless there’s a camera crew involved.
You cross your arms over your bikini top, fighting the massive smile threatening to break across your face as Dean stops right in front of your table.
“Good morning, Madam President,” Dean says smoothly. He pulls his sunglasses down, resting them on the collar of his shirt. His green eyes travel down the length of your body, lingering on the exposed skin of your stomach before snapping back up to your face. The heat in his gaze is entirely inappropriate for a Saturday morning charity event.
“Di Laurentis,” you say, keeping your voice even despite the butterflies staging a full-scale riot in your stomach. “What are you doing here?”
“We’re here to wash cars,” Logan chimes in from behind Dean, dropping his bucket onto the grass. “Obviously. Show me to the nearest CR-V.”
“You don’t have to be here,” you say, looking back at Dean. You lower your voice so only he can hear. “You won the bet, Dean. You proved your point. Vigorously. Multiple times.”
Just the memory of last Saturday night sends a flush of heat up your neck. You haven’t seen him all week — midterms, chapter meetings, and his away games kept you completely separated. But you certainly haven’t forgotten. You haven’t been able to think about anything else.
“I know I won the bet,” Dean says, stepping a fraction closer. “And it was the most satisfying victory of my athletic career. But the guys and I took a vote. We decided we want to participate anyway.”
“Oh, really?” You raise an eyebrow. “Just out of the goodness of your hearts?”
“Not exactly,” Garrett grumbles, crossing his muscular arms. “Dean wouldn’t shut up about it. He threatened to hide my skates if I didn’t show up. Put me to work, Y/N, before I change my mind and go back to bed.”
You laugh, motioning toward the empty driveway. “Grab a hose, Graham. The sponges are in the buckets.”
Garrett, Logan, and Tucker disperse, immediately swarmed by a giggling flock of Delta Zetas who are suddenly very eager to demonstrate proper soap application techniques.
Dean doesn’t move. He stays right in front of your table, leaning his hip against the edge.
“The team’s participation comes with a new condition,” Dean says softly, his eyes locking onto yours.
“A condition?” You tilt your head. “I didn’t agree to any conditions.”
“You’re going to want to agree to this one,” Dean promises, that wicked smirk returning. “We wash cars today. We bring in the crowds. And in exchange, you agree to go on a real date with me tonight.”
Your heart does a stupid, happy little flip. “A date.”
“A real date,” Dean confirms. “No bets. No ulterior motives. Just you, me, a disgustingly expensive Italian restaurant downtown, and absolutely zero talk about hockey or sorority budgets.”
You bite your lower lip, trying to maintain a facade of careful consideration. “I don’t know, Dean. I’m pretty busy.”
“I am offering you free labor, Y/N. Look at them.” He gestures behind him.
You look. Garrett, Logan, and Tucker have already pulled their t-shirts over their heads, tossing them onto the grass. The reaction is instantaneous. Cars that were driving past suddenly hit their brakes. A group of girls walking on the opposite side of the street literally change direction and sprint toward your lawn.
“Well,” you say, trying to suppress your laughter. “If it’s for the good of the charity.”
“Exactly. You’re a humanitarian.” Dean reaches out, tracing a single finger over the back of your hand where it rests on the cash box. The light touch sends a jolt of electricity straight up your arm. “So. It’s a yes?”
“It’s a yes,” you agree.
“Perfect.” Dean takes a step back. “Now, where do you want me?”
“You’re a professional,” you tease. “I’m sure you can find a spot. Just make sure you follow the dress code.”
Dean’s grin widens. Without breaking eye contact, he grabs the hem of his gray t-shirt and pulls it smoothly over his head.
You actually forget how to breathe for a second. You saw him naked a week ago, but seeing him out here in the broad daylight is a completely different experience. His chest is broad, sculpted from years of brutal on-ice conditioning, the muscles in his stomach flexing as he tosses the shirt onto your table. The sunlight catches on the light dusting of hair trailing down his stomach, disappearing into the low waistband of his board shorts.
“How’s the dress code looking?” He asks innocently.
“Acceptable,” you manage to choke out.
“Glad to hear it.” Dean winks at you, grabs his bucket, and jogs over to join his teammates.
The next two hours are absolute pandemonium.
Word spreads across campus faster than a wildfire. The Briar hockey team is shirtless at the Delta Zeta house. The line of cars waiting to get washed stretches entirely down the block. Frat boys show up just to see what the commotion is about. Groups of girls from other sororities line the sidewalk, pulling out their phones to record videos of Garrett spraying Logan with the hose, or Tucker politely scrubbing the roof of a minivan for a local soccer mom.
And Dean.
Dean is putting on a show.
You sit on the hood of a dry, parked Jeep Cherokee near the edge of the lawn, taking your state-mandated break. Jess handed you a plastic cup of spiked pink lemonade ten minutes ago, and you are happily sipping it while watching the chaos unfold.
Dean is currently washing a sleek black Audi. He is entirely soaked. Water runs down the planes of his chest, catching the afternoon sun and making his skin glisten. Suds cling to his arms and the waistband of his shorts. He’s laughing at something Logan just said, his head thrown back, running a soapy sponge over the hood of the car with long, effortless strokes.
He looks unfairly sexy. It’s actually offensive to the general public.
Every few minutes, he glances over his shoulder, catching your eye through the crowd. He always gives you a quick smirk or a subtle wink, making sure you know exactly who he’s showing off for.
“I’m going to ask you a question,” Jess says, hopping up onto the hood of the Jeep next to you. She takes a sip of her own lemonade. “And as your sister, I demand absolute honesty.”
“Shoot,” you say, not taking your eyes off Dean.
“Did you sleep with Dean Di Laurentis?”
You choke on your lemonade, coughing as the sour liquid burns the back of your throat. “Excuse me?”
“Don’t play coy with me,” Jess says, bumping her shoulder against yours. “He has been staring at you like you’re his last meal on death row for two hours. And you keep looking at him like you want to drag him into the bushes.”
You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, feeling your face burn. “We’re … hanging out. It’s new.”
Jess lets out a low whistle. “Damn. Good for you. He’s gorgeous. A menace to society, but gorgeous.”
“He’s actually really sweet,” you defend him quietly.
“I’m sure he is.” Jess smirks, hopping off the car. “I’m going to go make sure Logan hasn’t flooded the neighbor’s flower bed. Enjoy the view.”
You smile into your cup. The view is indeed spectacular.
You watch Dean finish rinsing the Audi. He wipes his forehead with the back of his forearm, looking genuinely exhausted but incredibly happy. He tosses his sponge into the bucket, says something to Tucker, and then starts walking toward you.
Your heart does that stupid flip again.
He reaches the Jeep and stops right between your dangling legs, resting his wet, soapy hands on the metal on either side of your thighs. He is breathing hard, radiating heat. The smell of coconut-scented soap, clean sweat, and Dean completely overwhelms your senses.
“You’re working hard,” you note, reaching out to brush a stray, wet curl off his forehead.
Dean leans into your touch instantly. “I’m earning my keep. The lockbox looks full.”
“We broke our fundraising record an hour ago,” you smile. “The shelter is going to be thrilled. Thank you, Dean. Seriously.”
“I told you I’d deliver.” Dean steps closer, until his bare, wet chest is practically brushing against your knees. “Though I expect to be heavily compensated tonight. We’re talking appetizers, an entrée, and at least two desserts.”
“I think I can manage that.”
“Good.” Dean tilts his chin up, his eyes dropping to your lips. “Can I kiss you? I know we’re in public, but you look incredible in that bikini and I have zero self-control.”
You laugh, tangling your fingers into his damp hair at the nape of his neck. “Yes, you can kiss me.”
He doesn’t need to be told twice. Dean leans up, capturing your mouth in a deep, wet, entirely distracting kiss. He tastes like lemonade and sunshine. You pull him closer with your knees, letting your eyes flutter shut as he hums in approval against your lips.
“Well, well, well. Isn’t this a touching scene.”
The loud, grating voice slices through the bubble of your perfect moment like a rusty knife.
You freeze. Dean pulls back, his body stiffening instantly.
You look over Dean’s shoulder. Standing on the sidewalk, holding a red solo cup and flanked by two of his giant, meathead friends, is McMahon.
He looks you up and down, his lip curling into a condescending sneer. Then he looks at Dean.
“Slumming it, Di Laurentis?” McMahon asks loudly, making sure the people around them can hear. “I heard you were desperate for a date, but I didn’t think you’d settle for my sloppy seconds.”
A dead, heavy silence drops over your immediate vicinity. The music is still playing, the water is still running, but everyone within earshot has stopped what they’re doing. Even Garrett and Logan have dropped their hoses, their heads snapping toward the sidewalk.
Your stomach plummets. You instinctively pull your legs back, suddenly feeling entirely too exposed in your bikini, the old, familiar shame threatening to choke you.
But Dean doesn’t step back. He doesn’t let you pull away.
He stands exactly where he is, keeping his hands planted on the Jeep, shielding your body with his own massive frame. Slowly, he turns his head to look at McMahon.
All the playful, charming energy evaporates from Dean’s demeanor. His jaw tightens, the muscles in his back cording with tension. He looks terrifying. He looks like a guy who spends three hours a day slamming people into glass walls for a living.
“What did you just say?” Dean asks. His voice is eerily quiet. It doesn’t boom. It doesn’t yell. It just carries.
McMahon puffs his chest out, trying to look intimidating, but you can see the slight hesitation in his eyes. He clearly wasn’t expecting Dean to look quite so murderous. “I’m just saying, man. You could do better. I already warned you she’s a dead end in bed.”
Garrett takes a step forward, his hands balling into fists, but Dean throws a hand up, stopping his friend in his tracks.
“I don’t need you to fight my battles, Graham,” Dean says, never taking his eyes off McMahon.
Dean turns fully around, facing the wide receiver. He crosses his arms over his bare chest. He doesn’t look angry anymore. He looks amused. And somehow, that’s so much worse.
“You know, McMahon,” Dean says smoothly, his voice carrying perfectly over the background noise. “I actually owe you a thank you.”
McMahon frowns, clearly thrown off script. “What?”
“I said thank you,” Dean repeats, a sharp, patronizing smile touching his lips. “Because if you weren’t such a loudmouth, incompetent idiot, I never would have found her.”
McMahon’s face flushes a dark, ugly red. “Watch your mouth, Di Laurentis.”
“No, you watch mine,” Dean steps off the grass and onto the concrete, closing the distance until he is standing a foot away from McMahon. He has a solid two inches of height on the football player, and he uses every bit of it, looking down his nose with absolute disdain.
“I tried to give you the benefit of the doubt, man,” Dean says loudly, making sure the surrounding crowd can hear every single word. “I really did. I thought, ‘Hey, maybe he’s just new at this. Maybe he doesn’t know where the clit is.’ But then I spent some time with Y/N.”
You cover your mouth with your hand, your eyes widening as a few sorority girls in the background gasp.
“And let me tell you,” Dean continues, his tone conversational but his eyes lethal. “There is absolutely nothing wrong with her. In fact, she is perfectly, beautifully responsive. Explosive, actually.”
McMahon’s jaw drops. “You’re lying.”
“I don’t need to lie,” Dean laughs, a harsh, dismissive sound. “She came three times, McMahon. Three. In the span of an hour. And the only thing she needed was a guy who actually knows what the hell he’s doing.”
The silence on the lawn is absolute. A few frat guys in the back actually let out low whistles of impressed shock.
“So,” Dean concludes, leaning in so close that McMahon actually takes a half-step backward. “The fact that you couldn’t get her off? The fact that you blamed her in front of half the campus? That isn’t her failing, buddy. That is a pathetic testament to your own sexual inadequacy.”
McMahon opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. He looks completely, utterly humiliated. His two buddies have actually taken a step away from him, clearly not wanting to be associated with the collateral damage.
Dean isn’t finished.
He drops the amusement. The lethal seriousness returns, dark and unyielding.
“If I ever hear you talk about her again,” Dean says, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous gravel. “If I ever hear you say her name, or look at her, or breathe in her general direction … I will not use my words next time. I will put you on the ground. Are we clear?”
McMahon swallows hard. He looks around at the massive crowd staring at him, judging him, laughing at him. He looks back at Dean, the reality of the situation finally sinking in.
He doesn’t say a word. He just turns on his heel and stalks away down the sidewalk, his friends trailing awkwardly behind him.
The crowd immediately erupts into whispers and laughter. Someone starts a slow clap that ripples through the hockey team.
Dean completely ignores them. He turns his back on the crowd and walks straight back to you.
You are sitting on the hood of the Jeep, staring at him in absolute awe. The lingering anxiety that McMahon’s appearance had sparked is completely gone. In its place is a rush of pure, unadulterated affection.
No one has ever stood up for you like that. No one has ever publicly, unapologetically claimed you.
Dean stops between your knees again. He looks a little flushed, the tension slowly draining out of his shoulders. He looks up at you, suddenly looking a little unsure.
“Was that too much?” He asks quietly. “I know you don’t like a scene, but I couldn’t just let him-”
You cut him off by grabbing the sides of his face and kissing him.
It’s not a sweet kiss. It is desperate, hot, and entirely public. You pour every ounce of gratitude and desire you have into it, your tongue tangling with his. Dean lets out a rough sound of surprise before his arms wrap tightly around your waist, hauling you flush against his chest, lifting you slightly off the hood of the car.
The crowd around you actually cheers, but you barely hear them.
You pull back, resting your forehead against his. You are both breathing heavy, smiling like idiots.
“That was perfect,” you whisper.
“Yeah?” Dean’s green eyes shine with relief and happiness.
“Yeah. Though you just ruined that man’s reputation forever.”
“He ruined it himself. I just provided the facts.” Dean smirks, rubbing his thumb over your hip bone. “Besides. I told him the truth. You are explosive.”
You swat his shoulder, laughing as a blush covers your cheeks. “Shut up and go wash a car, Di Laurentis. You still have an hour on the clock.”
Dean groans dramatically, dropping his head onto your shoulder. “You are a cruel, demanding taskmaster. I’m being exploited for my body.”
“You love it,” you remind him.
“I do,” Dean admits softly, turning his head to press a lingering kiss to the bare skin of your neck. “I really, really do.”
He pulls back, giving you one last, breathtaking smile.
“I’ll pick you up at seven,” Dean promises. “Wear something that’s easy to take off.”
“Dean!”
He just laughs, a bright, booming sound that echoes over the noise of the car wash. He winks, turns around, and jogs back over to grab his sponge, immediately shoving Logan out of the way to take over a sports car.
You sit on the hood of the Jeep, watching him work.
You think about the girl you were a week ago — convinced you were broken, resigned to a life of quiet disappointment, carrying the weight of incompetent men on your shoulders.
And then you look at Dean. Arrogant, charming, relentless, and fiercely protective. The guy who saw a wall and decided to tear it down with his bare hands.
You take a sip of your lemonade, a soft, permanent smile etched onto your face.
“ i’ll keep you my dirty little secret ! ” (⸝⸝> ᴗ •⸝⸝)
assorted pair ⋮ ⌗ ‧₊˚ ┊dean di laurentis x fem!reader
preview ⋮ ⌗ ┆you prided yourself on never getting caught up with a guy from a frat or a sports team at briar . but that changed when you encountered dean di laurentis at a party where you hooked up in the bathroom, now you’re having casual hookups but maybe you both want more .
warnings ⋮ ⌗ ┆smut, fwb, secret hookups, tucker mention. first time writing doggy style . . don’t crucify me pls . kinda poorly written flirting from MY opinion , i always think my own writings dog water so don’t mind me tm, dean calls reader baby.
kash’s note ⋮ ⌗ ┆quick blurb bc im avoiding that special like da plague lwk .. IM WORKING ON IT I SWEAR .. i’ve been OBSESSED with off campus since it came out 🤗 also, i may make a prequel to this abt the party . . MAYBE .
enjoy lovelies , happy reading ! ⋆˙⟡ ㅤ♡ྀི
“im here.”
deans phone lit up with your message.
“hurry up. im freezing.”
his eyes rolled at the message. you could be so dramatic sometimes, and that’s one of the many things he enjoys about you. “why are frats so far away from campus?!” you whisper shout at him as he snuck you through the back door. “shh.”
“sorry.” you threw your hands up unapologetically. you had on his hoodie, a pair of sleep shorts, a white tank and some crocs.
“these stairs are too creaky at night. c’mere.” he took your hand, making you follow behind him. before stepping onto the first step he held out his hands. “what are you doing di laruentis?” you asked teasingly. “get on my back.”
you giggled at his request, “you’re so hysterical sometimes.” you roll your eyes at him, knowing theirs a smile on his face. once you were on his back you got comfortable and put your head into his shoulder. every step dean took a creak followed under his weight on the step.
you perked your head up after the fifth time. “thought you wanted to be quiet?” you whispered in his ear. “shut up.” you grinned.
once he made it all the way up the stairs he made a hushed motion to his lips. he took your hand again, then tucker opened his room door. dean pushed you inside of his.
“dean, man why are being so loud. go to bed, you know i have to be up early.” he said groggily. “sorry tuck, i was thirsty.”
tucker shut the door in his face.
dean snuck back into his own room. “sorry for pushing you..” he scratched the back of his head. “i’d never play hockey again if i was on ice with you.”
he smiled widely at your remark, “thank you!”
“you’re such an arrogant asshole sometimes, i don’t even know why—” you complaints were immediately shut down by dean putting his lips on top of yours.
he pulled away, cocky smirk displaying all over his face. “why you what now?” you wiped your lips. “was i saying something?” you asked with faux confusion.
a soft chuckle left dean. “yeah, somethin’ like that.” you smiled at each other for a second, the atmosphere grew silently comfortable. you both looked deeply into each others eyes letting the moment feel real, even for just a second.
the two of you looked at each other with hearts dancing around your pupils. you took unziped the sweater, then your top and he followed suit. “you like following my lead. don’t you deano?”
“what’d i tell you about calling me that stupid name?” he said in a hushed tone. you tilted your head to the side. “i don’t remember.. maybe you’ll need to remind me?”
ᥫ᭡.ִֶָ𓂃
your whimpers and moans we’re softened by the pillow your face undeniably being shoved into. deans hips pistoned into you at a bizarre pace, hitting exactly where you needed him to.
“baby, you gotta be quiter if you don’t want ‘em to hear you.” a sob ripped from you as deans pace was getting relentlessly faster and sloppy. “understand why i don’t want you calling me deano, yet?”
you shook your head in a ‘yes’ motion. “words.” he gripped your hair forcefully, lifting you up from the pillow. he loved seeing you like this, unable to form a cohesive thought, no attitude, just feeling everything at once. “y-yes. i understand.”
“anytime you even think of calling me that dumbass nickname, you remember how i’m fucking you dumb right now.”
you shook your head yes again. he felt merciful, and didn’t force you to speak up again. he loosened his grip on you,but only by a little.
his stamina was unmatched, pumping in and out of you like your lives depended on it, his hand lowered to cunt pinching down on it and his dick hitting that spot that’s been needing his attention for weeks now.
“oh! ohhhmygod! right there dean!” he covered your mouth with his hand to soften your voice.
overstimulation started to come over you, you couldn’t even tell how many times you came prior to this. you tried reaching for his headboard, looking up through your teary eyes, clawing at it.
“nope, nuh uh, no running. you’re taking it whether you want it or to or not. and you better hold it.” you felt his chest pressed against your back, his voice hot right up against your ear.
you could barely reply with actual words, a string of moans and broken mumbles left your mouth.
“what was that baby? couldn’t hear ya?” he said teasingly.
“dean. can’t hold it.” you said through broken whimpers and tears.
“you will, be a good girl and take it. i can tell your close baby, so am i. just hold out for a bit more, i know you can do it.” your grip on his sheets tightened into a fistful.
“so close baby, just a bit more.” he groaned. “im so close.” he repeated more to himself like a prayer. his room filled with his bed creaking, your moans and his groans. “let go baby, finish for me.”
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