44

[garrettgr4h4m]

nini…! she / them 18+ wlw european

movies daenerys targaryen batman deftones greek mythology megan thee stallion garrett graham lh44 + more.

masterlist (under construction…)

keep reading for… extras-requests-&-rules !

if you’d like to tip me, you can do so here <3

requests are currently open.

extras~

if you’re any of the following, please exit this blog; know that this isn’t a safe space for you. dni if you’re racist, ableist, homophobic, zionist, misogynist, islamophobic, pro trump, pro life or pro ice.

if you’re a minor, i hope you’re selective about what you read ! therefore, please do NOT interact with the mature works on this blog.

i am a very new (fanfic) writer so i’m open to suggestions, tips and any resources that might help me !! id love to make friends on here, so please don’t shy away ^^ if you spot any typo or mistake, please just shoot an anon ask pointing it out and i’ll modify it (i greatly appreciate that, i wouldn’t feel offended in any way. i triple check everything usually 🥹). english isn’t my native language and i might use semicolons a bit too much since i’m already used to it <3

request faq~

i take my time with writing, so requests won’t be posted immediately ! i also won’t always be able to fulfil every request; sometimes it’s just not up my alley (smut with certain kinks), or i’m just too busy to write (which is pretty often now, unfortunately). i’ll just reply to the ask, declining it :3 that said, please don’t hesitate to request !

i am currently writing only for garrett graham, but i’ll definitely be open to other off campus character in the future (heavy on the girlies !!!). reader’s race is not specified, as well as gender neutral (i will always mention any terminology that suggests otherwise). when it comes to smut, i feel most comfortable writing afab!reader.

request do’s & don’ts~

do’s: send fluff, angst and smut requests; please be nice and respectful <3

don’ts: send a request too specific. please describe the situation, but if you request reader to be blonde, have a name, etc. i won’t be writing that (it’s no longer character x reader atp). BUT ! i’m happy to accept requests wherein reader is curvy, plus size, generally smaller than the character (height difference 😛), etc.

i will in no way write pedophilia, incest (including stepcest), rape, anything involving bodily fluids (besides cum and spit), age play, omega-verse. there’s probably more things that can be added here, but i’ll update it as i go :)

[garrettgr4h4m]

unfortunately updates will be slow for a while !! i somehow caught a cold (yes, in 25-30 celsius weather, BUT it’s so cold in the mornings) and it’s incredibly irritating :( i’ll try my best to work on the charity car wash fic and also tackle the father (to-be) garrett requests you guys left 💟

[garrettgr4h4m]

i’ve seen all of your requests asking for new papa garrett and i swear i’ll continue it (after completing the the car wash fic) once i get the time :33 ! i’ve been plenty busy with life and i only get the time to write late at night, but being so tired i just prefer to read instead then😣

[jalenspuckbunny]

john tucker finding out his girlfriend has nipple piercings ৎ୭˚˖٠

❥ PAIRING : john tucker x fem!reader

❥ BLURB : as you and john tucker are about to have sex for the first time, he finds out something… rather interesting about your appearance.

❥ CONTAINS : mentions of nipple piercings, suggestive content, swearing, boobs, and that’s it!

❥ AUTHORS NOTE : hii! firstly again, i want to just thank everyone for the love on my two tucker headcannons, it truly means so much that so many people love and appreciate it because i truly believe we need more tucker love in the world! also, this is my first full fic so if you find any errors please note that this is not proofread! and lastly, thank you to this lovely anon who sent this request, feel free to also send a request. i hope you all enjoy <3

tucker’s lips were firmly pressed against the side of your neck, creating a hickey that you know you’ll have trouble covering up for tomorrow’s class. soft moans escape your lips as he continues his attack on your neck, trailing it down towards the top of your boobs.

“you sound so pretty for me,” tucker mumbles as he kisses back up to your lips. you smile as you kiss back, his hands reach for the end of your shirt, silently asking for permission. you nod without hesitation, lifting your arms up over your head.

he grins, slipping the shirt over your head, leaving you in your bra and skirt. he throws the shirt somewhere that you don’t care to look for before his lips are back on yours, kissing you deeply but gently, wrapping his arms around your waist before lifting you up and placing you on his desk. you gasp softly before kissing back, wrapping your arms around his neck.

his hands roam from your waist up your back and eventually to where the clasp of your bra sits. he pulls back from the kiss, “can i take it off baby?” he asks, looking at your eyes for any uncertainty.

you nod, trying to go back in for a kiss but he stops you. “i need words from you angel,” he deadpans. “yes tucker, you can,” you answer with visible desperation. being satisfied with that answer, he unclasps your bra, throwing it in the direction of your shirt.

he pauses once his attention is set on your boobs, confused by his expression on his face you immediately start to think something’s wrong. “what’s the matter tuck?” you push. when he doesn’t answer, you follow his line of vision down your boobs and realize why he’s staring so hard.

your pierced nipples that you got down freshman year of college.

you smirk, grabbing his jaw with your hand, snapping him out of his trance. “you like them?” you ask. unable to form coherent thoughts, he nods. your smirk widens, “i bet they’d look even better with your mouth around them,” you tease.

his mouth closes around your left nipple, sucking on them. your back arches into his mouth, your hands flying to his hair, tugging on his pretty curls gently. “you’re gonna be the death of me baby,” he mutters around your nipple before picking you up and placing you on his bed, fucking the shit out of you while watching your pierced tits bounce. <3

❥ TAGLIST : @misswarmsoul (comment or send an ask to be added)

[garrettgr4h4m]

fucking finallyyyy !!!!!!

[garrettgr4h4m]

are belmont’s eyes hazel or green? or both? i think i’ve used both to describe garrett’s eyes 😭

…oh well

[garrettgr4h4m]

like ok, chameleon

[garrettgr4h4m]

are belmont’s eyes hazel or green? or both? i think i’ve used both to describe garrett’s eyes 😭

…oh well

[pucksandpower]

civic duty

Dean Di Laurentis x Reader

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.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” McMahon snaps. “You don’t know her.”

“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.

Yeah. Seven o’clock can’t come fast enough.

[garrettgr4h4m]

squabble up just came on shuffle and my brain immediately went to jalen. tucker likes his country songs BUT i know he also would probably listen to k.dot

[garrettgr4h4m]

Father-to-be Garrett

pairing: garrett graham x pregnant!reader

word count: 2k !

warnings: fluff and more fluff, morning sickness (garrett holds reader’s hair back), pet-names (baby, my girl, tucker calls reader ma’am), she/her pronouns are used twice, the boys being silly and cute, pineapple on pizza (might be a warning for some… ❌).

notes: this was a request ! hope you like it <33 reblogs and comments are much appreciated 💟

Father-to-be Garrett comes in a package deal. The quiet time you spend together sometimes gets interrupted by his friends-slash-roomates, but the chaos never bothers you.

The kitchen is warm, smelling of flour and yeast. You and Garrett are standing at the kitchen countertop, a mess of dough and tomato sauce painting the marble. He finished training earlier so you came up with the idea to make something simple, something you could both participate in. He’s surprisingly good at it, his large hands kneading the dough with a practiced motion that looks more like a sport than cooking.

"More basil?" you ask, holding up the jar.

"Yeah," he says, leaning over to look. He reaches for a piece of pineapple, but you swat his hand away with a wooden spoon.

"Hands off the ingredients until we roll the dough," you tease.

He smirks, that crooked, familiar expression. "I'm just checking to see if it’s good."

You laugh, reaching for the rolling pin, but before you can start, the front door swings open with a bang. Logan, Tucker and Dean stumble in, mid-argument about a play from training.

"Is that pizza?" Logan asks, his eyes lighting up as he spots the dough. He heads straight for the island, leaning over your shoulder. "Tell me there's enough for five."

"There's enough for two. Well, two and a quarter," you say, subconsciously placing a hand on your small bump. "Unless Tuck wants to help us prep more dough? I know you guys are only good at eating this, not making it.”

"Yes ma’am! I’ll change and be right back.” Tucker says happily as he’s making his way up the stairs, never one to dismiss the chance of cooking with you.

Logan groans, but he settles onto the stool next to Dean. "Fine. But we're helping with the toppings. At least that, please." They both stare at the two of you with pleading eyes.

Garrett looks at you, a silent question in his eyes. "What’s gotten into you? You’ve never been so happy to help with cooking.” he says.

You shrug, a small smile tugging at your lips. “You can help. The more the merrier, I guess."

Garrett shakes his head, but he doesn't let go of your flour covered hip; you never even noticed his hands made it there once he finished kneading. "They're going to ruin the dough. They think they can spin and flip it around." he whispers into your ear, smiling at your giggle. As he hands a block of cheese to Logan so he can start shredding it, Dean notices a certain ingredient on the kitchen counter and groans.

“Come on, guys. Why is there pineapple here? Please tell me you’re not putting it on the pizza.” Dean complains.

“If my girl is craving pineapple on pizza, she’s getting pineapple on pizza.” Garrett comes to your defense. “And, it’s actually good!”

“Dean, don’t worry, you can choose your own ingredients. Besides, it’s not your fault your taste buds don’t work; pineapple on pizza is a delicacy.” You tease him and he sticks his tongue out in response.

Father-to-be Garrett is observant. He always pays attention to how you’re feeling, he doesn’t have to hear you voice your discomfort.

You’re halfway through a cup of tea when Malone’s becomes too much: the sound of the espresso machines, the loud laughs from a nearby table of students, and the clanging of cutlery against plates start to blend into an irritating sound. You rub your temples, closing your eyes for a second.

When you open them, Garrett’s already in front of you. He had been previously sitting with the boys, discussing some strategies for this week’s game, not wanting to disturb your calm with hockey talk. He’s standing with his back to the diner, his hands stuffed in his pockets. He’s been paying attention to you from the other side of the room.

"Too much?" he asks.

"Just a little." you answer.

Without another word, he reaches down and gathers up your books and hands you the cup of tea, which you finish. He guides you toward the door, his hand resting firmly on your waist.

"We’ll go to the mine and the boys’," he says, his voice low and steady. "I know how much you like my room, it’s quieter there. Plus, no random shouts from the living room. It’ll only be us." he adds, a slight smile at the mention of his loud friends, who are waving to the two of you as you’re leaving.

Father-to-be Garrett is giving. He loves taking care of you, always putting you above himself (as any man should). To him, there’s nothing better than being able to ease your burden.

The rain is hitting the window of the living room, a steady, rhythmic sound that usually helps you focus, but tonight it just makes the ache in your legs feel heavier. You’re curled up on the couch, a book resting forgotten on your lap, as you try to get rid of the dull pain in your ankles. The front door opens, and the usual chaos of the guys follows Logan’s loud laughter and the thud of a few hockey bags. The guys say their “Hi”’s to you as they make their way up the stairs.

Garrett walks in last, his eyes find you as soon as he enters. He doesn't ask if you're tired. He just sees the way you're rubbing your ankles and drops his bag by the door. He walks over to the couch and sits next to you.

"Move your legs, baby." he says.

You shift, lifting your feet and resting them in his lap. His hands are large, his skin warm and slightly calloused, but as he takes your right foot in his hands, his touch is incredibly careful. He uses his thumbs to apply firm, steady pressure to the soles of your feet, working through the tension with a focused intensity.

"Garrett, you don't have to," you murmur, closing your eyes. "You just got home from practice."

"I'm not tired," he says, his voice low and grounding. He doesn't look up, his gaze fixed on the task at hand, his thumbs tracing the curve of your heel. "Let me do this for you, please."

He works in silence for ten minutes, the only sound the rain and the steady rhythm of his breathing. When he finally finishes, he doesn't pull away. He keeps your feet resting against his thighs, his hands loosely encircling your ankles.

"Better?" he asks, finally looking up.

"Much." you admit.

He gives a small, satisfied nod and leans back against the sofa, his hand moving to rest on your knee. "Good. Whenever you want to, we’ll go upstairs.”

“Mhm,” you reply, eyes gently closing. “We can stay here for a while.”

“As you wish, baby.”

Father-to-be Garrett is part of a family. It’s not a blood one, but he doesn’t need that; he’s building a family with you. The house is often loud, but in moments of need, it turns into quiet support.

You wake up, not to the sound of the alarm, but to a sudden, violent lurch in your stomach. It’s a cold sensation that travels from your gut to your throat in a single second.

You don't even have time to fully open your eyes before you’re scrambling. You throw back the duvet, your hands fumbling for the edge of the mattress, and stagger toward the door. You stumble in the hallway, your feet hitting the cold hardwood, and dash to the bathroom.

Your knees hit the tiles, the cool porcelain of the toilet the only thing keeping you upright. You’re breathless, your eyes watering, the world spinning in slow, nauseating circles. You’re glad you’re wearing Garrett’s long t-shirt since it fits you like a dress, somewhat shielding you from the cold against your legs.

Behind you, you hear the heavy, hurried footsteps of Garrett. He’s in the room in seconds, kneeling on the hard tile beside you.

A large hand settles on the small of your back, steady and grounding. Another hand reaches out to gather your hair, pulling it away from your face and holding it securely.

He stays there, kneeling on the hard tile, completely unbothered by the fact that he’s sitting on the floor in his boxers. "Just breathe," he murmurs, his voice a low, gravelly rasp. "I've got you."

The sound of the commotion has clearly woken the house. A moment later, the heavy door to the hallway creaks open just a smidge.

"Is she alright?" Tucker’s voice is hushed but urgent. "Do we need ginger tea? I also have some crackers in the pantry or I can prepare a toast."

"I’ll get some water and meds.” Logan says, his voice uncharacteristically soft.

Dean’s voice drifts in from the hall. "I'll go check if there's any peppermint in the kitchen. That helps with the stomach."

Garrett doesn't look back at them. He just keeps his focus entirely on you, his hands tracing steady circles on your back.

"They're just worried," Garrett says quietly, his eyes searching yours as the wave begins to subside.

He reaches for a washcloth, soaks it in cool water, and gently presses it to the back of your neck. He stays there, while the muffled sounds of the guys in the kitchen can be heard.

When the wave finally passes, you lean back against the wall, trembling; you feel exhausted.

"I'm fine," you whisper, though your voice cracks. "You and the guys should go back to sleep. You have practice in an hour."

Garrett moves the washcloth to your forehead. “You’re not fine. You’re exhausted and sick. Practice can be delayed. Let me take care of you. Hell, even the boys want to, in their own ways.” he says.

“Okay.” you say, the exhaustion settling in.

He doesn't wait for a second confirmation. With an effortless strength, Garrett slides one arm behind your back and the other beneath your knees, lifting you from the bathroom floor. You instinctively tuck your face into the crook of his neck, the scent of him calming you.

He carries you back into the bedroom and settles you into the center of the bed, pulling the duvet up to your chin.

Within minutes, a quiet knock can be heard before the bedroom door creaks open.

Tucker is in the lead, balancing a tray. He sets it carefully on the nightstand, the aroma of warm ginger and toasted bread drifting toward you. "Small bites, please," he says, his voice a soft, encouraging murmur.

Logan follows close behind, carrying a fresh glass of water and the meds he promised he’d bring. He sets them down beside the tray, his eyes scanning your face for any sign of renewed distress. "Eat something before you take those." he advises quietly, offering a small, reassuring nod.

Then comes Dean. He’s holding a small bowl with a handful of hard peppermint candies. "For the nausea," Dean says, his voice dropping to a low, soothing register as he leans over to place it on the nightstand next to the tray. "They’ll help clear the taste in your mouth. Start with these."

He gives you a small, gentle wink as the guys begin to retreat. Tucker gives a final, watchful glance and Logan offers a quiet, "Call us if you need anything". They leave the room as quickly as they entered.

Garrett shifts closer, his presence a warm weight at your side. He unwraps one of the peppermint candies Dean brought, giving it to you. The sweetness immediately gets rid of the lingering taste of sickness in your mouth.

Next, you take a small, tentative sip of the warm ginger tea Tucker prepared. The heat offers a comforting sensation, making it easier to manage a bite of the simple toast he made.

You finally take the meds Logan brought, washing them down with a few sips of the water.

Your eyes begin to slowly, but surely, close. Garrett moves next to you, previously sitting on the edge of the bed, helping you reach the bedside table. You lean your head against his shoulder and a deep sigh escapes your mouth.

“Rest, I’ll be here.” he says, placing a kiss on your forehead.

[garrettgr4h4m]

The Muse part.2

Seems like study sessions are never really about studying…

pairing: garrett graham x afab!artistic!reader (established relationship)

word count: almost 4.3k !

warnings: SMUT ! MDNI !!! pet-names (baby, pretty girl, good girl, angel), reader’s curvy in my mind, but it’s not explicitly mentioned, p-in-v, unprotected sex (don’t be like them), oral (f. receiving, munch!garrett 🫦), fingering (f. receiving), overstim, mirror sex (barely), cowgirl, boobs play, body worship, strength kink if you squint-garrett is once again bigger than reader.

notes: it’s almost 2 am and i’m fighting for my life. i hope you enjoy and if you do, please reblog and comment your thoughts, don’t be a silent reader <33

if you haven’t read it yet, i recommend checking out part.1 !!

“You spent all that time studying me. I think it’s only fair that I return the sentiment.”

The heat between you is stifling, making the air in the room thick and impossible to breathe. You try to find your voice, but the words die in your throat as soon as they form. “Well, I-“ You stumble, your voice barely making it to his ears. Your hands, still curled tightly around his biceps, tremble slightly. The sheer presence of him, the solid weight of his muscular thighs beneath you, and the radiating heat of his chest send a jolt through you as your nipples harden against the thin fabric of his t-shirt. Everything is making your brain feel like it’s short-circuiting; you squeeze his arms harder, grounding yourself.

“Even before you started drawing, I saw you having a hard time focusing on studying,” Garrett murmurs, his voice dropping into a lower register. He doesn’t pull away; he’s somehow able to lean in closer, his forehead still firmly pressed against yours, forcing you to meet his intense gaze. “You’ve been looking at me all night long, baby. Let me look at you now.” 

His eyes aren’t just watching you, they’re consuming your entire being. They track the frantic pulse in your neck, the way your lips are parted and damp from your heavy kisses, the way your eyes are wide and unfocused. Even after all this time, he still finds a way to make your breath catch, to make you feel this undone. 

You try to find a retort, something to reclaim the composure you lost the moment his gaze locked onto yours. Your eyes keep dropping to his lips and he can’t help but do the same. “The light was perfect… ‘nd you were there, so-“ You voice, but it’s so breathless. 

Garrett lets out a low laugh, the sound rumbling deep in his chest and echoing against yours. It’s warm, indulging and devastatingly fond. “A mess,” he murmurs, his thumb tracing your jaw with a softness that makes your eyes flutter shut. “You’re a beautiful and breathtaking mess.”

He doesn’t give you time to protest (truthfully, there’s nothing to protest about). With a sudden, effortless strength that makes your heart lurch, he shifts. His hands slide from your waist to the underside of your plush thighs, his grip unyielding. He lifts you, his muscles flexing underneath his skin, and settles you back against the pillows. The mattress shifts under you, the springs creaking in the quiet room.

He hovers over you, smirking down at your dumbfounded reaction. “It seems we’ve found ourselves in this position once again.”

You giggle at his words, a softness in the sound, but you cease once his hands begin their slow, agonising journey. He traces the swell of your hips, his palms warm and slightly calloused, pressing into the soft give of your skin. Garrett’s gaze remains locked on yours, intense and unswayed, before he reaches for the hem of your t-shirt. He moves with a steady confidence; he pulls the fabric up and over your head, tossing it somewhere into the shadows of the room, leaving you shivering slightly in the cool air of the bedroom. You are left in nothing but your underwear, your skin flushed and sensitive under the amber glow of the lamp.

His eyes darken as they sweep over you, a low appreciative grunt vibrating in his chest. “God, you’re so beautiful,” he murmurs, the sound close to a moan. 

He leans down, his large, warm hands sliding up to cup your breasts, his thumbs grazing your nipples until they are aching. He licks a slow, wet path, upward from your stomach, his tongue tracing the curve of your ribs before he focuses on your breasts. He takes one in his mouth, his tongue swirling around the sensitive peak, his teeth grazing you, making you cry out. He licks and nuzzles, his breath hot against your chest, making you roll your hips in a desperate search for more.

The sound of your own ragged breathing fills the quiet space, highlighted by the wet sounds of his appreciation. Your hands instinctively find their way into his dark curls, your fingers tangling deep in the hair to anchor him to you. You pull him closer, as you arch your back to meet his mouth. At the sudden tug of your fingers, a guttural moan escapes him, vibrating against your skin. 

He is devastatingly thorough. He alternates between your breasts; one moment, your left breast is being engulfed by the warmth of his mouth, and the next, he has shifted to the right, his tongue swirling around the peak. His hands are never still; they are a constant presence, fondling the weight of your breasts and twisting your nipples between his calloused fingers. Every time he tugs at a nipple, a small, broken sound escapes your throat.

The heat of his mouth starts to shift. He doesn’t pull away entirely; instead, he begins a slow descent. His kisses move from the swell of your breasts to the valley of your cleavage, his lips grazing the skin of your stomach. You find yourself gasping, your hips lifting off the mattress in anticipation, your body needing the contact. 

“Garrett…” you whine, the name breaking with a breathy exhale. You’re chasing him, your hands still anchored in his hair, guiding his head downward. 

He responds in a low chuckle that vibrates against your abdomen. As he looks up with a mischievous glint in his eyes, you can tell he knows exactly what he’s doing to you. His hands slide down from your waist, his large palms sweeping over the curve of your hips to hook into the elastic of your underwear. With a gentle, deliberate tug, he slides the fabric down your legs. The cool air of the room hits your skin for only a second before the warmth of his breath replaces it. He pauses there, hovering just inches away. His eyes lift for a moment; it’s a silent, heavy question, as if he’s looking for permission to carry on further. When you answer by arching toward him, a desperate invitation, he moves in closer. 

His gaze drops, taking you in. The dim light of the lamp catches the glistening sheen of your skin, and his eyes narrow, noting the way you’re already slick for him. Your body responded to the way he’s been worshiping you, leaving you helplessly wet. He doesn’t look away; instead, he memorises the way you reacted to him, feeling prideful. 

“Look at you,” he murmurs, his rough voice making your toes curl. “So ready and beautiful for me, baby.”

“Please,” you gasp. Your voice is thick, the word sounding more like a broken plea than a request. “Garrett, please. Don’t make me beg, baby.” 

He finally gives in, his gaze never leaving yours. The first brush of his tongue against you is so sudden and intense that your entire body jolts. A loud cry breaks from your chest, breaking the silence of the room once again as your head tosses back against the pillows, your fingers digging into the muscles of his shoulder. 

He devours you completely. Garrett’s focus has narrowed down to the way you taste and the way you sound. His warm, wet mouth leaves you gasping for more; his tongue lapping and pressing against you with a hunger. He wants to be as close as possible to you; he reaches up, his large hands sliding beneath your knees to lift and drape them over his broad shoulders, opening you up even further, tilting your pelvis to grant him more access. 

Somehow, in your delirious state, your hands find his, your fingers intertwining. You squeeze his hands so hard, nails digging into his skin as you try to anchor yourself to him. Every time his tongue grazes the sensitive bud of your clit, your fingers tighten and a broken sound escapes you. His mouth moves from the soft, swollen folds and back to your clit; his breath hot and ragged against you. He licks and laps, his tongue flattening before narrowing to focus on the center of your pleasure. 

As he intensifies his pace, his movements become more urgent. He separates your hold on his hands; instead, he uses them to spread you out even wider. Your hands make their way back to his hair, tugging on the curls, causing him to moan against you, sending a shiver up your spine. He drives his tongue in and out of you, the sensation overwhelming-a heat that makes your hips buck against his face. His hands move onto your hips, pulling you closer and closer. He focuses his attention on your clit with a sharp intensity. 

The sound of his heavy breathing and wet lapping against your heat, the firm grip of his hands all create a sensation that urges you closer and closer to the edge. Your breath is coming in short, jagged gasps, as the tension in your lower belly coils tighter, ready to snap.

Garrett senses you. He feels the way your muscles are beginning to quiver. He doesn’t pull back, his tongue flattening and his fingers make their way to your clit, applying increasing pressure. “That’s it,” he murmurs against your folds, his voice a rumble that you feel more than hear. “Just let go. Give it to me like a good girl.”

His words send you over the edge. The tension snaps, and a surreal wave of pleasure crashes through you. Your hips buck hard against his face, your body arching off the mattress as a long, broken moan escapes your throat.

But Garrett isn’t finished with you, not even close. Just as the first wave of climax begins to ebb, he leans back in, refusing to let the sensation fade. His tongue returns to your clit with a sudden intensity that has your legs shaking, still propped up on his shoulders. In your delirious state, your eyes drift upward, changing the view of Garrett’s face between your thighs with the hazy reflection of the mirror behind him. You see the shape of his broad back, his shoulders tensed as he pleasures you. 

Overstimulation settles in, urging you to make him cease the onslaught. Overwhelmed, you try to pull away, but his hands shift. He clamps down on your hips, fingers digging into your skin. He holds you in place, pinning you down so he can continue his work, like a man starved. You moan in protest, feeling another orgasm forming, waiting to crash over you.

“Garrett, stop, it’s too much-“ Your voice breaks. “I can’t.” You try to shake your head against the pillows, your fingers tangling in his hair, trying to pull him away. “You’re too greedy! You-you’re going to kill me,” you whimper, but a breathless laugh escapes you. 

His response is a low growl against your skin. “Don’t fight it,” He murmurs, his fingers tightening on your hips. You try to find the breath to argue, but the words die in your throat as one of his hands leaves your hips and makes its way to your center. His fingers slide between your thighs, now accompanying his wet tongue. As his tongue swirls against your clit, his middle finger slides deep inside with ease. “Look at you, baby. It slipped right in.” he looks up at you, finding your eyes half open, already staring at him.“Just a little longer. Can tell you’re almost there.” His words are slurred against your skin.

He picks up the pace, his tongue lashing against you while he slips another finger in,  stretching and filling you. The sensation is so strong; you cry out, eyes closing tightly, hands now finding the tensed planes of his back grounding, nails leaving behind moon crescents on the skin. He doesn’t flinch, the sting fuelling the want. “That’s it, angel.” 

You come panting for the second time tonight, moaning his name over and over again. Your hips buck against his face one last time, before your muscles give up, turning to putty beneath his hands. 

He doesn’t pull away; instead, he reaches up and guides your legs off his shoulders, sliding them down until they wrap around his waist. He readjusts his weight between your thighs, pulling you flush against him. Garrett lowers his head, pressing his face against your lower stomach. He lingers there, his nose brushing against your skin, breathing steadily. When you open your eyes, you see him looking at you with a soft, tender gaze.

You can’t help it; the stark difference between him now and him earlier makes you giggle. “Hmm, what happened to the guy who was trying to tear me apart?” 

He lets out a quiet sound, something between a chuckle and a sigh. He doesn’t take his eyes away from you, staring at you lovingly. Slowly, he rises, his body sliding up against yours until his chest is pressed against your breasts. He captures your lips in a sweet kiss; there’s no urgency in him now, no rush to take your breath away. 

When Garrett pulls back, he stays close, his eyes searching yours. Before he can say anything, you lean closer, rubbing your nose playfully against his. “Hi, baby,” you say, closing your eyes and smiling in response to the comforting presence of him. He grins at your warm smile, eyes softening.

“Hi.” he breathes back, the word a low, vibrating caress. For a long moment, you just stay there, together; his eyes trace every line of your face as if he’s memorizing you. The air in the room is thick, heavy with the scent of skin, but the desperate edge has been replaced by a simmering, intentional heat.

"You're still shaking," he murmurs, his voice dropping into that quiet register that makes your toes curl. He leans down, pressing a series of slow, lingering kisses along your jawline, his lips grazing the sensitive skin just below your ear.

"Garrett," you whisper, your breath hitching as his hand slides from your hip to the soft curve of your waist, his thumb tracing the dip of your side. "You're going to make me lose it all over again."

He lets out a low, melodic laugh against your neck, the sound vibrating through your entire body. "Is that a warning or an invitation?"

"An invitation," you murmur sheepishly, the word a breathless confession.

Garrett doesn't need to be told twice. He shifts, his large hands sliding under your thighs to lift you. He doesn't lay you back down; instead, he maneuvers you so you’re straddling him, your back to his chest as he settles you onto his lap. 

The position forces you to face the large mirror at the foot of the bed, through which you had earlier been admiring Garrett. In the dim glow of the lamp, the reflection is a hazy blur of skin. You can see the broad, tensed expanse of his chest behind you and the way his powerful thighs frame yours. The sight of the two of you intertwined, flushed, and messy is enough to make your head jump.

As he wraps his arms around your waist, pulling your hips flush against his, he takes the opportunity to lean forward, burying his face in the crook of your neck, his breath hot against your skin. He shifts, his hips tilting upward to press firmly against you. The sensation is immediate: through the thin fabric of his gray sweatpants, you feel the unmistakable length of him pressing right against your center. The shape of him is searing, making your breath hitch. 

You tilt your head back against his shoulder, looking at your own dazed reflection in the mirror. "You know," you tease, your voice trembling slightly as you catch his eyes in the glass, "for a man who's supposed to be studying psychology... you're being very... unscientific right now."

Garrett lets out a laugh. He nuzzles the sensitive spot behind your ear, his teeth grazing the lobe. "Psychology can wait," he murmurs. He tightens his grip on your waist, his fingers digging into the soft curve of your hips. "Right now, there's only one thing that’s on my mind."

"And what's that?" you whisper, your hands reaching back to grip his forearms, feeling the hard muscle of him.

"You," he says.

"Well," you murmur, a sudden spark of defiance lighting up your gaze as you meet his eyes in the mirror. "You should do something about that… Actually, maybe I’ll start.”

Before he can react, you slide off his lap, but you don't pull away. Instead, you turn around, your hands sliding to his chest as you press him back. Garrett lets out a surprised, low grunt as you guide him down, his muscular back hitting the mattress with a soft thud. 

You settle back over him, straddling his hips, your knees digging into the bed on either side of him. The look on his face is a mixture of shock and hunger; his eyes meet your mischievous gaze, a smirk painted on your lips.

His hands fly to the waistband of his sweatpants, his movements uncharacteristically hurried. "Let's get these off," he rasps, more to himself, his voice breaking on the last word. 

You reach down to help him, your fingers trembling slightly as you hook them into the soft fabric. You peel the sweatpants down, along with his boxers, exposing him. Even after all this time, the size of him still steals the air from your lungs. His member is a thick, heavy weight, looking even more imposing as it stands proud and hard against his stomach. His chest is heaving, the skin slick with a sheen of sweat. His abs ripple with every breath, the deep ridges flexing unconsciously. As you place your hands on them to balance yourself, your gaze fixes on the two, small, faint indents on the left side of his stomach, intimate details only you’re able to admire from so close. 

Guiding the head of his cock towards your entrance, you sink onto it; the first contact of him against the entrance of your pussy making your head fall back in a silent, soaring moan. The sensation is overwhelming, a slow, stretching fullness. You stop for a second, letting your body adjust to the size of him, your eyes fluttering shut.

"There you go," Garrett whispers, his voice a low, encouraging rumble. He doesn't push; he waits, his hands steady and strong on your hips, guiding you as you begin the slow, rhythmic motion of taking him in. "Just like that. Look at me, pretty girl."

You open your eyes, finding his in the dim light as you begin to move. His eyes are dark, darting from your eyes to your lips, searching for any reaction that might suggest you’re not comfortable. His thumbs trace circles against your hip bones, enjoying the stretch of you around him. 

“That’s it,” he rasps. “You feel amazing, baby. So tight for me.” 

His words of encouragement make you pick up the pace, a needy rhythm; the sound of your skin slapping against his fills the room. You lean forward, your breasts brushing against his heaving chest, and a small sob escapes your mouth, overwhelmed by the position. 

“Shh, easy,” he murmurs, his hands taking a firmer grip on your hips. “Don’t rush, I got you.” He tilts his hips up, meeting you in the middle with a force that makes your entire body jolt.

“Garrett,” you gasp, your voice breaking as you arch your back, trying to let him sink even deeper into you. “It’s too much... you’re so big.” 

The sound of your voice, the way you whimper his name, causes a long moan to exit his mouth. His head lolls to the side, and his gaze drifts toward the mirror. He freezes for a second, his breathing getting deeper as he catches the reflection. 

In the faint light, he sees you. He sees the curve of your back and the way your skin glows as you move rhythmically atop him. From his angle, you are a vision of desire, your head thrown back in pleasure.

"Don't stop," he commands, his voice dropping to a rasp. He reaches up, one of his large hands sliding from your hips to your jaw, directing your eyes to the glass, his eyes locked on your reflection in the mirror as he watches you take him. "Look at yourself, baby. Look at how you're taking me."

You look back over your shoulder to catch the reflection. In the mirror, you see the arch of your spine and the heavy, rhythmic bounce of your ass as you ride him, the friction creating a filthy, squelching sound that makes your face flush. You are so drenched; as he thrusts up to meet you, you coat his shaft in a translucent sheen that smears across your skin and his.

"God, you're so fucking wet," Garrett groans, his eyes now fixed between you, on your pussy stretching around him. He’s admiring the way he easily slips inside, engulfed by your swollen folds. 

You’re moving with a desperate, rhythmic hunger, but as the peak nears, you feel the first hint of your strength beginning to fray at the edges. Your muscles are trembling, your hips feeling heavy and sluggish.

Garrett notices; he sees the way your movements are starting to falter, the way your breath is hitching in a way that sounds like exhaustion.

Instead of letting you slow down, he decides to take the burden from you.

With a grunt, he shifts his weight. He guides you back, his large hands gripping your hips to guide you down until you're pinned against the mattress. Before you can even process the change, his massive frame is looming over you.

Garrett tilts your head back to catch your lips against his. The kiss is eager, but sweet, as if he’s checking in with you. He shifts his weight, settling over you. He supports himself on his elbows. 

His hips rock into you unhurriedly, but you urge him closer, locking your legs around his waist. “Faster, please.” you say.

"You're sure?" he murmurs, his eyes searching yours. Your nod causes him to lean down, his chest pressing firmly against yours, and the slow thrusts transform into a relentless rhythm. The tempo picks up, his hips slamming into yours with a purposeful force that leaves you gasping.

The sound in the room changes, it deepens into a wet, frantic slapping accompanied by the deep breaths and moans. He fills you so completely that the deep sensation pushes you closer and closer to the edge.

You’re grasping at the sheets, your knuckles straining against the fabric, your breath coming in jagged gasps that barely count as breathing. Garrett notices the way your body is beginning to tremble, the way your eyes have clouded over. He doesn't slow down; instead, he keeps up the pace and leans closer into you, his voice a rasp in your ear. "Almost there," he murmurs, his breath hot and ragged. "A little more."

He drives into you once more, harder and deeper than before, and the tension finally snaps. 

A violent wave of pleasure crashes over you, and you arch your back, your fingers digging into his shoulders as you cry out his name. Your internal muscles squeeze around him in rhythmic pulses, and the world disappears, leaving nothing but the white-hot intensity of the release.

Garrett lets out a guttural groan, his own composure finally fracturing. He thrusts one last time, burying himself as deep as possible, and you feel him come, filling you completely. He collapses against you, his face buried in your neck, his body shaking with the aftershocks of his own release.

For a long time, neither of you moves. The only sounds are your shared, ragged breaths.

When he finally pulls back, his eyes are dark and clouded, but there is a tenderness in them. He kisses your forehead, a brief, lingering touch, before sliding off the bed. He disappears into the bathroom and returns a moment later with a warm, damp washcloth. 

He doesn't ask; he just sets himself between your legs and begins to clean you up with gentle care. His hands are steady, his touch light; he doesn't say anything, but he focuses on the task, making sure you're perfectly comfortable.

Once you're clean, he reaches for the duvet, pulling it up over both of you and drawing you against his chest. He wraps his arms around you tightly, his chin resting on the top of your head. 

"’m here. Just rest." he whispers, his voice low and grounding.

You feel the weight of your own limbs, the pleasant, heavy ache of your muscles. You find yourself tracing the faint lines of his forearm with your fingertips, the skin is soft and warm.

Garrett doesn't say much, but he doesn't have to. He shifts slightly, pulling the duvet higher up your shoulders. His fingers, large and warm, start tracking soothing circles in the palm of your hand.

You find yourself leaning into him, your cheek pressed against the warm and slightly sweaty plane of his chest, listening to the thrum of his heart. A sleepy warmth settles within you. 

“Garrett?” you mumble against his chest.

“Yeah?” His voice is sleepy, his chin still resting on the top of your head.

“I love you.”

At the words, his arms tighten around you. He shifts, pressing a warm, lingering kiss against your temple.

The last thing you hear before you drift off into sleep is his quiet “I love you, too.”.

[garrettgr4h4m]

The Muse part.1

Studying for philosophy ends up being an… anatomy arts class?

pairing: garrett graham x artistic!reader (established relationship)

word count: 2.6k !

warnings: suggestive !!! innuendos + a bit of a steamy make out sesh at the end ! non-descriptive reader, but terminology such as “lady” , “pretty” is used. it’s implied that garrett is bigger than reader (i mean in all ways, he’s a big boy after all).

notes: there might be a part 2 with smut, but please tell me what you think ! this is my first fic (ever) :3 @musingsofheaven was of great help, thank you sm !! ur tips were life saving <3 sneak peek of part 2 is here, i couldn’t control myself. oops !

UPDATE ! part.2 has been posted !!!

reblogs are GREATLYYY appreciated !

“Do you need help with philosophy still?”

You ask the question softly, not wanting to disturb Garrett’s reading. He’s sprawled out on his stomach across the center of his bed, his head turned to the side on his pillow, staring at his textbook like it offended him. He’s shirtless, his skin still warm after the shower he took in the locker room following today’s training. His back muscles are taut, highlighted by the lamp’s yellow light.

He lets out a low groan into his pillow, half frustration and half exhaustion. “I think Nietzsche is personally trying to insult me at this point,” he mutters, voice muffled. “His work clashes against itself.“

You giggle at his words, enjoying his complaints. “I know, baby. I think that’s the point of us learning philosophy.” You move from his side and instead settle yourself on his lower back, your legs tucked on either side of his hips.

He doesn’t protest; he never does. He shifts slightly, the taut muscles of his back now relaxing, allowing you to feel every rise and fall of his body against your thighs.

“You’re not even looking over your notes,” he says, though there’s no bite behind it. He doesn’t turn around, but you can hear the smirk in his words. “What are you planning to do now, huh, pretty?”

“Don’t worry about it, I am being productive! It’s just in a different way. Now, don’t move,” you say, already reaching for your sketchbook and pencil.

Garrett laughs at your words, already used to modeling for your drawings. This time, he’s actually aware he’s being drawn. Usually, he’d learn you decided to sketch him when you’ve already finished, showing him the final portrait. He’s still not used to it; he feels an array of different emotions - admiration because he will never be able to understand how you do it, shyness because he’s still not used to anybody (especially you) paying this much attention to him and all the little details that make who he is, and last but not least, pride because you chose to draw him instead of somebody else (he’s your muse, after all).

You begin with the broad lines of his shoulders. The pencil scratches softly against the paper, the only sound that can be heard besides your rhythmic breathing and his low hums.

The peace is interrupted, though.

“No, Tucker! You absolute moron! Go to the left!” Dean’s voice booms from the floor below, followed immediately by the clacking of controller buttons and a heavy thud that sounds like someone being pushed off the couch and onto the floor.

“It was part of my strategy, Dean! I had it!” Tucker bellows back.

You feel Garrett’s entire torso shake with amusement, and you can’t help the laugh that escapes you.

“I wonder where Logan is.” Garrett muses, his voice vibrating beneath you. “If he were there too, we wouldn’t be able to hear each other over the three of them and their ‘strategic planning’.”

As soon as those words leave his mouth, a third voice joins the two. “You idiots! We’re being obliterated by fucking bots!” Logan complains.

At the sound of Logan, Garrett shouts back. “We’re trying to study here! Keep the commentary to a minimum, or at least talk quietly!”

A few seconds of silence follow before somebody responds. “Studying, huh? We all know when you’re with your lady, the least of your worries is having to study, G!” Dean shouts back.

Garrett sighs loudly. “That mother-“, he starts, but you interrupt him.

“It’s okay!”, you say, giggling. “You know their teasing doesn’t work on me. Besides, I know just how to respond.”

You take a breath and raise your voice to reply.“Dean! How about you worry about scoring in your video game first, and then you can worry about Garrett scoring? And I mean literally!”

As soon as the words leave your mouth, two sets of giggles erupt from downstairs, followed by a quieter, “Okay, okay!” from Dean.

You turn around to find Garrett already looking at you, a wide smile stretching across his face.

“Did you know that I love you? Like, a lot?”, he asks, his green eyes focused solely on you.

“Hmm,” you reply, smirking at him as you take your previous position and continue sketching. “You’ve told me a few times. But definitely not enough.”

“Not enough,” he repeats, his voice dropping an octave, losing its previously playful edge. He doesn’t move to sit up; his stomach is still glued to the mattress, and his hands are no longer holding onto his textbook. They’re now clenched tightly, holding back from flipping both of you around and grabbing your waist. He yearns to be chest-to-chest with you; you’re currently so close yet so far.

You try to focus. He looks back over his shoulder again for a second, and in doing so, your eyes meet for the second time. Your breath falters under the weight of his gaze, a gaze that holds so much emotion behind. You break eye contact and look back down at your sketchbook; the broad expanse of his shoulders had only just begun to take shape before the chaos from downstairs had torn your focus away. Now, you move to the details, the parts of him that only you can capture.

Your pencil glides over the paper as you trace the dark, unruly texture of his hair. You spend a long time on the curls, trying to capture the way they catch the light and fall in thick, dark waves against the nape of his neck. Moving downward to his upper back, you draw the tiny mole situated on the left side of his tattoo. As soon as you start working on the sharp line-work of the tattoo, Garrett interrupts your movement by uttering two words.

“Hey, pretty,” he says.

“Yes, G?”, you respond. “I’m now drawing a part of you that always makes our showers longer than they should be,” you add.

“You’re going to have to specify. You know, my lips are usually a big distraction, my biceps and abs, but especially my di-“, he adds, but you interrupt him.

“Your tattoo, you big dork. I’m drawing your back after all, get your mind out of the gutter.”, you quip. “What did you want to say before you started boasting about your big, strong biceps and chiseled abs?”

“I never used those adjectives to describe them, but you would be correct.”, he adds proudly. “Anyways, tell me. Am I doing a good job? Being a good subject, a good model?”, he asks.

“You’re doing a very good job, pretty boy.”, you praise him. “You’re not going to have to do it for much longer, hope you’re not feeling stiff. This might not have been the best position for me to take.”, you add.

“None of that. I feel more at ease with you sitting on me, but I would prefer it if we were facing each other. Maybe next time if you want to draw my big pecs, you could be sitting on my lap instead.” You could hear the smirk in his words.

“I don’t think I’d get any work done, you wouldn’t be able to sit still.”, you say, continuing to work on the tattoo. You can’t resist; you lower your body closer to his back, feeling the warmth radiating from him, and touch the lettering. For a short moment, his breathing quickens, but you return to your initial position after briefly caressing him. The distance between your upper body and his back is more noticeable now, and it’s driving him crazy.

As you move lower with your drawing, you capture the delicate glint of the thin gold chain that rests against his spine. You work toward the small, shallow dimples at the base of his back, the shadows there inviting. You once again can’t hold back and gently place your fingers against the skin on his lower back, just above those indents.

A low, almost unnoticeable growl vibrates through his chest. “I was already having a hard time studying, but then you decided to ditch your textbook for your sketchbook and sit on me. That was bad enough, and now you’re feeling me up?” The words are teasing, delivered with that familiar edge, but the way his voice slightly cracks betrays him. He isn’t actually complaining. If he were, he would’ve moved; he would’ve shifted his weight or sat up. Instead, he remains still, his muscles now taut and expectant under your fingertips, as if he’s waiting for you to continue.

You feel a sudden, heavy warmth bloom beneath your skin, but you don’t pull your hand away. If anything, you become more daring, your thumb tracing the curve of his waist with a slow, deliberate pressure. “It’s called observation, Garrett.”, you murmur.

“Observation, huh?” He lets out a breath that is half laugh, half sigh, and finally turns his head just enough to catch your eye again. The playful smirk is there, but his eyes are intense and focused entirely on you. “Is that what we’re calling it now?”

He reaches back, his hand finding your thigh where it’s tucked against his hip, his palm warm and heavy against your skin. He doesn’t squeeze, he just holds you there.

“Keep going then,” he says, his voice dropping to a rasp. He turns his head back and settles against the pillow. “I won’t interrupt you anymore.”

The weight of his hand on your thigh is a grounding force. You have a hard time adjusting to it; taking a slow, stabilizing breath, you force your hand to stop its tremor before you return to your paper. Every time you move your hand, you are acutely aware of the friction of your skin against his, the way the heat of his body seems to pulse, clashing with the warmth of your own.

You descend back into your work, your pencil moving with a renewed intent. Because of the way you are positioned, straddling him, your own naked thighs are visible in the periphery of your vision, framing his lower back and hips. You decide to include them, as well as his grip on your thigh. You capture the soft, curved lines of your own legs as they press against the hard muscles of his. Then, you focus on his hand, the way his large, calloused fingers wrap around the swell of your thigh. He almost touches the hem of the t-shirt you’re wearing. His t-shirt.

“How much longer?”, he asks, his voice low and steady. “Even the idiots downstairs have calmed down, miraculously.”

“Almost done,”, you murmur, adding the final details to the sketch. You trace the delicate architecture of his spine, your eyes once again fixed on the dimples at the base of his back. “What were you able to memorise during this extremely informative study session?”, you ask.

Garrett doesn't answer right away, the question hangs in the air unanswered. Instead, the only response you get is the warmth of his hand, the one anchored to your thigh, slowly sliding upward, the loose grip disappearing completely as he inches closer and closer to your hip. His palm is moving with agonizing slowness underneath your shirt, his touch light but deliberate. He doesn't grab; he just grazes the skin, his touch is light, almost teasingly so. He finally lets out a breath, a low, heavy sound that vibrates against the mattress.

“You’re a very hands-on artist, baby,” he murmurs. “Which is something new to me, you’ve not done this before. I do have to say, the other times you’ve drawn me, I was fully clothed.” He still hasn’t turned around to face you, remaining patient and letting you finish the drawing.

“I’m done,” you voice a little softer, a little breathier than intended. You carefully set the sketchbook on his bedside table. You look down at his broad, muscular back and add with a teasing smile, “If you didn’t like it, I’ll remember it for the next time. I’ll keep my hands to myself.”

The second the words leave your lips, he reacts. Before you can process the shift, the world tilts. One moment you’re straddling him, looking down at the expanse of his back, and the next, a powerful hand is anchored at your waist, while the other catches your shoulder, guiding you back against the pillows with immense strength.

In one fluid motion, he has flipped the script; he’s hovering over you, his large frame casting a shadow that swallows you whole. He settles between your thighs, the weight of him solid and grounding, pinning you against the mattress. Curls that were already astray are mussed from the movement, and his green eyes are darker.

For a moment, nobody moves. The two of you stare into each other’s eyes. The air between you feels thick, charged with tension. His gaze drifts away from yours for a second, traveling to the bedside table where your sketchbook lies closed. He reaches out and pulls it towards him, shifting back onto his knees. As he moves, the dim light of the room catches the defined lines of his abdomen. From your vantage point, you have a full, unobstructed view of him. The way the muscles of his stomach ripple with every breath, the sharp V of his hips disappearing into the low waistband of his gray sweatpants.

He flips the cover open. “Holy shit,” he breathes, and the sound is a genuine, breathless laugh of pure awe. “This is amazing. This isn’t the first time you’ve drawn me, but it’s just… different. How-How do you even do that, baby? It’s amazing seeing you do this every single time.”

Before you can tease him about his reaction, he’s moving. He reaches out, his hands sliding to your hips, pulling you forward, settling you firmly into his lap; your bodies slot together like they have many times before. He doesn’t wait for an invitation and leans in, his mouth finding yours in a kiss that is hungry and deep. His mouth parts open and his tongue sweeps against your lips, wanting to intertwine with yours. You oblige and open your mouth, his tongue sweeps against yours, making your head light and your fingers curl around his biceps. Between tongue swipes, he briefly pulls back and smirks at you, watching with a flicker of amusement as you instinctively chase after his lips, desperate to close the gap. He lets out a low, breathy laugh before pulling you back in.

Every time his lips press harder against yours, a low hum releases from his chest. His hands, large and heavy, don’t stay still. One hand slides up to cup your jaw, gently tilting your head back for better access while the other grips your hip, his fingers digging slightly into your skin.

The friction of his sweatpants against your thighs, the heat of his bare chest pressing into your front, and the overwhelming sensation of his mouth on yours create a sensory overload that makes you feel like floating.

When he pulls back just an inch, his lips are swollen and glistening, and his breath comes in short, ragged bursts. You are caught in the same feverish state; your own lips are flushed and damp, your breathing just as shallow, and your eyes wide and dark, yearning for more.

“You’re so amazing,” he says, his voice a low rasp against your lips. He sounds breathless. Garrett leans forward until his forehead rests against yours. He doesn’t need to say anything else; the way he looks at you says it all.

A slow, intent smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. “You spent all that time studying me. I think it’s only fair that I return the sentiment.”

[garrettgr4h4m]

unfortunately updates will be slow for a while !! i somehow caught a cold (yes, in 25-30 celsius weather, BUT it’s so cold in the mornings) and it’s incredibly irritating :( i’ll try my best to work on the charity car wash fic and also tackle the father (to-be) garrett requests you guys left 💟

[archxve]

breaking the rules | series list

john tucker x fem!reader

warnings -links added as theyre posted, mentions of cheating (not any of the main characters but readers dad cheated on readers mom when she was young), mentions of sex, avoidant reader, she/her pronouns, athlete x athlete hating!reader, more to be added, one chapter is a smau

when you break the rules you've made for yourself with john tucker.

or

when john tucker slowly starts getting under what you've locked away for so long and you fall for him, regardless of him being an athlete.

rule one — flirting

rule two — phone number (smau)

rule three — sex

rule four — dating

rule five — marriage

taglist : open -> please ask here to be added, not on any of the chapters otherwise i might not see it!!

status : wip

[fezrus]

Thigh high

John Tucker x Reader

Tucker finally catches you staring at his thighs and decides a cooking lesson isn't what you actually need.

word count : 2.1k — explicit — thigh-riding — dry-humping — praise — tuck being super sweet and cute and a giver — tuck (he deserves a warning cause damn) — my boy tucker deserves the filth so i'm not sorry about that one — enjoy and please tell me what you think !

There was a fine line between patience and sheer torture, and John Tucker had been dragging you across it for months.

It wasn't his fault, that was the worst part. He wasn’t playing games—he was just genuinely, wholesomely oblivious. Every time you wore his favorite jersey, or intentionally leaned close to touch his forearm while he laughed, or made a pointed comment about how he’d make an incredible boyfriend, Tucker would just beam, give you that sweet, devastating dimpled smile, and say something like, "Appreciate you, darlin', always so good to me."

Always so good to him. His polite deflections were a special kind of psychological torture.

Right now, you were sitting at his kitchen island, supposed to be chopping garlic for the shrimp scampi alfredo he was teaching you to make. Instead, you were entirely hypnotized by the view.

Tucker was standing at the counter, leaning over a cutting board. He was wearing a pair of very, very thin, gray athletic shorts. Because he was leaning forward, the fabric was pulled tight, completely mapping out the staggering size of his thighs. They were dense, farm-boy quads carved out by years of heavy squats and explosive skating. You could see the distinct, powerful sweep of muscle definition, and the way they flexed every single time he shifted his weight.

You swallowed hard, your grip tightening on the knife. You wanted to bury your face in them. You wanted them gripping your waist. You wanted—

"Uh, darlin'?"

Tucker’s sweet voice shattered your trance.

You blinked, snapping your eyes up. He was looking at you, a half-bun of messy dark curls sitting on top of his head, holding a block of aged asiago cheese. He was frowning slightly, but his eyes were warm and amused.

"You've been hacking at that same clove of garlic for five minutes, and I think you're about to slice your thumb off," he laughed, stepping away from the counter.

"Oh. Right. Sorry," you muttered, looking down at the mangled garlic.

"Everything alright?" He walked over, stopping right beside your stool. He was so close you could feel the heat radiating off his bulky frame. "You've been quiet all evening. Not like you."

"I'm fine, Tuck. Just... distracted."

"By the cooking?" He smiled, entirely missing the mark. "I can take over the chopping if you need a break."

Amused, Tucker leaned closer, resting one hand on the edge of the counter to look down at your messy chopping board. The movement brought him directly into your space. Because you were sitting and he was standing, his broad chest was right at your eye level, and his solid leg was practically brushing against your knee.

The kitchen went dead silent, save for the low sizzle of the butter and garlic simmering on the stove.

You froze, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm. Up close, the sheer size of him was completely overwhelming, and your eyes helplessly darted right back to the thick muscle of his leg, just inches away from you. The weight of your own dirty thoughts made you dizzy, and a wave of mortification washed over you. You couldn't think, couldn't breathe, and you definitely couldn't handle him being this close while your brain was doing that.

"Tuck," you choked out, your voice tight as you gently pressed a hand against his chest to keep him from getting any closer. "Can you... can you back away just a little bit? Please?"

Tucker blinked, completely caught off guard. He froze, looking down at your hand, and then up at your face. The easy, golden-retriever warmth in his eyes instantly shifted into pure, panicked concern. He immediately took a large step back, his shoulders tensing.

"Did... did I do something wrong?" he asked, uncharacteristically quiet and hesitant. He looked entirely heartbroken at the idea that he’d made you uncomfortable. "I swear I didn't mean to overstep, darlin'. If I said something insensitive, or if I'm being a bad teacher—"

"No! No, Tuck, it's really not you," you interrupted quickly, your face burning a violent, hot shade of red as you looked away shyly. You wrung your hands in your lap, wishing the kitchen floor would open up and swallow you. "It’s... it’s a really silly thing. Honestly. I'm just being ridiculous, but I... I haven't been able to stop thinking about it all evening, and having you right there was just too much."

Tucker frowned slightly, his concern melting into soft, focused curiosity. He leaned forward just a fraction, throwing the dishtowel he was holding over his shoulder, trying to catch your eye, his tone incredibly sweet. "What is it? You can tell me. You know you can tell me anything."

You swallowed hard, your throat completely dry. You tried to find the words to explain the last three months of unrequited pining, but your brain entirely short-circuited. Instead of speaking, your gaze helplessly dropped again.

You just stared.

Tucker followed your line of sight. He looked down at his own lower half, at the thin, gray athletic shorts stretched taut over his quads.

He looked back up at you, his brows arching high in utter disbelief. He slowly raised a hand, pointing a thick index finger directly at his own leg.

You gave a tiny, incredibly embarrassed nod.

"You're... you're thinking about my legs?" he breathed, his voice dropping into a register that was completely new. The confusion on his face melted away, replaced by a sudden, breathless warmth.

He didn't back away this time. Instead, he took a slow, deliberate step forward, re entering your space again until your bodies almost touched. Up close, he was so bulky and warm, and as his eyes locked onto yours, his gaze softened into something... different. Heavier. His eyes dropped down, noting the deep flush spreading down your neck, the way your breathing had turned shallow, and the distinct, telling tension in your posture.

Tucker’s breath hitched. A slow realization hit him.

"Oh," he murmured, his voice deep and velvety.

A faint, endearing pink crept up his own neck, but he didn't back down. Instead, a sweet, slightly stunned smile touched his lips. He reached out, his large hands surprisingly gentle as they settled on your cheeks. He leaned in, leaving barely any space between your faces.

"Well, little darlin'," he whispered, his voice low and teasingly soft near your ear. "If it's bothering you that much... do you think you'd let me help you with it?"

You gave a tiny, helpless tremble. You couldn't even breathe, completely undone by the sudden, heavy hunger in his eyes.

"Yes," you whimpered.

The sweet, patient boy didn't hesitate. With one easy, seamless movement, Tucker took a step back, pulling up the barstool right next to yours. He sank onto it heavily, rotating his frame so his back was resting flush against the edge of the countertop.

He looked up at you through his long lashes, his chest heaving as he let out a low exhale. The golden-retriever innocence was far gone, replaced by a quiet intensity that made your pulse skyrocket. Without a word, Tucker raised his hand and firmly patted the top of his rock-hard thigh.

"Come here."

Your breath hitched, a sudden wave of nerves making you freeze. You stared at his leg, then up at his eyes, faltering on the edge of your seat.

Seeing your hesitation, Tucker's expression softened into a look of pure, reassuring patience. He reached out, sliding his hand over yours. His fingers wrapped around your wrist, warm and steady, and he slowly guided you off your stool. He pulled you into the narrow space between his knees, lifting you just enough to guide your legs apart until you were straddling his right thigh.

The contact was electric. Before you could pull away, he took both of your hands in his. He brought them down, pressing your open palms flat against the bare, burning skin at the hem of his shorts. He forced your fingers to curve around the thick, dense sweep of his quad.

"Touch it," he hummed, his voice a sweet command against your ear.

Even now, with the air thick and heavy between you, his true nature didn't change. Tucker was, at his core, a caretaker. He was the boy who always quietly made sure you were looked after, and this moment was another extension of that—him easing the ache you’d been carrying all evening, giving you exactly what you needed. But as your palms settled fully against his skin, his chest rose in a slow, deep breath, his eyes closing as he let out a shaky exhale. His thigh flexed under your hands—not to pull away, but leaning up into your touch, completely yielding to it. Because Tucker wasn't just doing this for you; he was sinking into it just as deeply, needing the closeness just as much.

The sheer sensation of his muscle flexing under your fingertips sent a jolt straight to your core. Your hips twitched instinctively, a helpless, desperate movement that ground your center right against the hard ridge of his leg.

Tucker let out a low, ragged growl, his hands instantly locking onto your waist to hold you right where he wanted you. "Do that again. Ride it, darlin'. Let me feel you."

All your built-up frustration broke. You shifted your weight, and slid your hips down against his leg in a heavy, deliberate rhythm. The friction through your clothes was devastating. Tucker leaned his head back, a choked sound escaping his throat as you rode him, his fingers digging possessively into your hips. He braced his foot against the bottom rung of the stool, angling his thigh up to give you more leverage, matching your frantic pace with steady, torturous upward thrusts.

The friction alone was sending him over the edge. Up close, you could feel the sheer, radiating heat rolling off him; he was burning up, a fine sheen of sweat breaking out on his forehead. Beneath the thin gray fabric of his shorts, his length had grown shockingly hard, straining painfully against his waistband as he watched you work yourself against him.

The pleasure built too fast, coiling tight and sharp in your stomach. You whimpered, your movements turning wild and uncoordinated as the edge rushed up to meet you.

As your body began to tighten and tremble, Tuck reached up. He brought his large hand to your face, cupping your jaw with a fierce devotion. His thumb brushed over your lips, parting them, and he pushed it ever so slightly into your mouth.

You didn't even think. Your eyes locked onto his blown-out pupils as you instantly wrapped your lips around his thumb, sucking on it desperately while your hips shuddered through a hard, breathless climax.

He leaned in close, pulling you up until your foreheads pressed flush together, his hot, heavy breath mingling with yours. As the waves of heat crashed through you, Tucker watched you shake, his attention entirely locked on you as he guided you through it.

"Good girl," he husked, the warm pad of his thumb moving gently inside your mouth. "Look at how perfect you fit against my thighs."

You cried out around his finger, your core pulsing helplessly against his solid quad as the release completely emptied you out. The intense, tight contractions of your climax clamped down on his leg, and the sheer sight and feel of you completely unraveling in his lap shattered whatever remaining restraint Tucker had left.

His jaw went rigid, his eyes rolling back as a harsh, violent shudder tore right through his bulky frame. He choked on a breath, his fingers digging bruisingly deep into your waist as his hips gave one last, desperate, involuntary jerk upward into you. He came hard right there in his pants, the thick heat of his release soaking through the front of his gray athletic shorts, matching the wetness you had left on his thigh.

For a long moment, the only sound in the kitchen was the ragged asymmetry of your shared breathing. Tucker’s forehead rested heavily against yours, his chest heaving as the tremors finally subsided, leaving him thoroughly spent and slumped against the counter.

Gradually, a slow, familiar warmth returned to his eyes. He slipped his wet thumb from your mouth and used it to gently tap the tip of your nose, that devastating dimple finally cutting through his dazed expression.

"You know," he chuckled breathlessly, looking up at you through his messy curls. "Next time you want to skip the lesson, all you have to do is ask."

He gave your waist an affectionate squeeze, his eyes dancing with mischief as he looked down at the dark wetness soaking through his shorts.

"You spent all that time on this one," he teased, his gaze dropping to where your hands were still molded around his right quad. A slow, playful grin touched his lips as he nudged his left leg slightly against yours, drawing your attention to it. "But I promise the other one is just as good."

@addisondavenport @slvrstrs @coolfrogs868 @ficdelusioncore @kristenm74 @jujuonthatbeat1357 @ayeeshuh @linnygirl09 @unknownsangel2 @rollsonrollss

[g0ldendesiree]

Betting Odds | John Tucker

summary: what are the odds that the girl they boys bet tucker won’t go talk to is already his girlfriend?

request: yes/no

warnings: drinking, swearing

word count: 1.42k

authors note: we've waited long enough and tucker finally gets to be added to our list of people I've written for! he is a cerified softie so I made sure I really leaned into that. Sorry that this is so short also! I’ve been in the thick of getting assignments done atm (I’ve got 1 and a bit left) so I should be back fully soon! Also keep on sending in those requests! I’ve had so much fun getting to start planning out the little concepts that you guys have.

Friday nights at Malone’s were always loud.

Too loud for Tucker’s liking, honestly.

Dean was halfway through his third beer and yelling at Beau over a hockey game playing above the bar. Garrett was trying to convince Logan to take shots with girls he definitely did not know. 

Tucker sat wedged between Beau and Dean in the booth, nursing the same drink he’d had for twenty minutes. 

Dean threw his arm over Tucker’s shoulders, “do you want to act like you want to be here?” Dean spoke dramatically as he sighed. 

Tucker didn’t even look up from his beer “I do want to be here.” He didn’t even sound convincing. 

Beau shook his head “look around, Malone’s is crawling with girls tonight.” He motioned to the surrounding tables of girls who were looking at them.

“And?”

Beau sent the boy a glare, “you have spoken to zero of them.” It was almost painful to the boys around them.

“Maybe I’m taking a vow of silence.” 

Dean snorted “no you’re being weird.” Beau was quick to clarify “more weird than usual.” Tucker flipped them both off without a beat.

Because the truth was simple: he wasn’t interested in anyone here.

Because he was already seeing someone.

Had been for months now.

Secretly.

Not because he was ashamed of you, actually, it was far from it. The problem was that the second the guys found out, his life would become unbearable. 

Garrett would become an overprotective father. Dean would question why you wanted to be with Tucker, and Logan would wonder how Tucker got you. 

So Tucker kept you to himself.

And you didn’t mind as you found it hilarious.

Especially tonight.

Because the second you walked into Malone’s, Tucker saw the exact moment Dean noticed you “oh my god dude.” Dean patted the boys chest as he pointed his head towards you.

Tucker took a sip from his drink as his eyes followed the blondes “what?” He cocked his head as he wondered what they wanted.

Dean nodded toward the front entrance “look at her.” Beau immeditely joined in “Jesus Christ.”

You were laughing at something your Allie said, pushing your jacket off your shoulders as you headed toward the bar.

Tucker bit back a smile, he had missed you “go talk to her!” Beau motioned to Dean to get up so that Tucker could move. 

But your boyfriend stayed calm “nope.” He shook his head as he smiled. 

He was intending to go nowhere “dude are you blind?” Logan groaned, getting involved. 

“She’s exactly your type.” 

“She’s anyone’s type.” 

Dean’s comment almost got a laugh out of Tucker. 

You glanced around, immediately letting your eyes land on Tucker in the crowded room as a tiny smile tugged at your mouth.

Dean caught it “oh my God,” he said looking like a kid in a candy store as he grinned “she smiled at you.”

Tucker leaned back casually “people smile at me all the time.” He tugged his fingers through the end of his hair.

Logan let out a snort as he shook his head “no they don’t,” Logan said.

The boys all got ready to push him in your direction “I am not doing this.” Tucker announced as he raised his hands in surrender.

Dean pointed accusingly “you’re scared.” His eye twitched as he almost wanted to hit the younger boy.

That got Tucker to look at him “scared?” Tucker raised an eyebrow slowly.

Beau grinned as he rubbed the boys shoulders “prove him wrong.” He urged Tucker to give it a shot.

You were fully aware of what was happening now. Tucker could tell by the way you were hiding your smile behind your drink.

Dean leaned across the table “ten bucks says he can’t even get her number.” The blonde was resorting to a bet to get Tucker moving.

Garrett snorted into his beer “twenty says he won’t even get half way there.” Garrett motioned to Tucker to get a move on.

Tucker sighed dramatically, setting his beer down “fine.” The table erupted immediately confirming that you knew what or who they were talking about.

“There he is!”

“Atta boy!”

“Don’t embarrass us!”

The boys all chanted as Tucker motioned to them to shut up.

You watched him approach with a dangerously amused expression.

And behind him, all of the guys were walking this like it was game 7 of a Stanley Cup final.

Tucker stopped in front of you.

You tilted your head innocently, “hi.” Your lower lip was caught between your teeth.

“Hi.”

Dean was practically standing on the seat trying to hear.

Tucker glanced back once at the table full of idiots watching him.

Then he looked at you again.

Without hesitation, Tucker slid one hand around your waist and kissed you.

Not quick, either.

A full kiss.

The kind that made your hand curl into the front of his shirt immediately.

The bar around you disappeared for a second beneath the whistles and shouting coming from the booth.

When Tucker finally pulled back, you were grinning so hard it hurt.

Behind him?

Absolute silence.

Dean looked horrified.

Beau’s mouth was literally hanging open.

Garrett nearly choked on his drink.

Logan slapped the table so hard the glasses rattled “huh?” Dean was almost speechless as he blinked repeatedly.

He shook his head “how did that?” He looked at Logan who was just as shocked.

Tucker didn’t even turn around yet almost amused that the boys were so shocked “you told me to talk to her.” He shrugged, making you grin.

“You kissed her!”

You shrugged, “he’s good with his words.” You tried to hold back a laugh as you never expected to meet the boys like this.

Dean recovered first.

Barely.

He looked between the two of you “this is absolute bullshit,” he declared as he knew that there was more to the story “there’s no way this just happened naturally.” You seemed too comfortable next to Tucker.

You were still tucked against Tucker’s side, laughing as Beau continued to stare at the two of you like you had told him Santa wasn’t real “thirty bucks,” Tucker reminded casually, holding his hand out toward Dean and Garrett without even looking at them.

They slapped their wallets onto the table in front of them “I can't believe this.” Dean grumbled as he shook his head. 

Logan was grinning now, delighted by everyone else’s suffering “this is my new favourite thing.” He laughed as he shook his head. 

Beau looked back at how you wrapped your arm around Tucker’s torso “you two know each other?” His words finally made the boys clock what was going on.

Tucker shrugged as he smiled “yep.” He shrugged grabbing the thirty dollars from the boys before he held it out for you to grab. 

You smiled as you took the money from him “thanks baby.” You pressed a kiss against his cheek as you slipped the money into your pocket.

Everyones face dropped, “baby!” Gasps travelled across the table.

Dean shook his head “I demand a redo!” He raised his hand as Garrett nodded in agreement. 

Tucker shook his head “you guys thought I didn’t have game!” He argued back as he squeezed your waist. 

Beau nodded as the other three went quiet, “y’know what it was kinda hot what you two did.” He confessed making the three boys glare at him. 

Tuckers cheeks turned red “so how did he get you anyways?” Logan asked as he watched you smirk. 

The truth was that Tucker needed a study partner and your professor nominated you. 

But your story was far more entertaining “have you seen this man?” You patted Tuckers chest making the boy turn even redder. 

The boys found this to be the funniest thing in the world “could have just asked me once I would have been swept off my feet.” Tucker felt like you were torturing him. 

And of course the boys were eating it up “this is perfect.” Dean quickly forgot about the bet as this all seemed far more entertaining to him. 

Tucker groaned “I hate all of you.” He grumbled pinching his fingers at your side. 

You smirked as you kissed his cheek “and you wonder why I waited to introduce you to them sweets.” The nickname rolled off of his tongue. 

Garrett laughed “how long have you been hiding her from us?” Tucker sucked at his cheek. 

“Spring Break?” 

The boys were back to looking offended “okay you go get more drinks.” Dean motioned to Tucker and the thirty dollars you had gone back to holding “we want to get to know her.”

[lackadaisies]

this is killing me 😭

[jalenspuckbunny]

god he’s so fine like i actually want to take the biggest bite out of his arms, imagine him fucking you in a headlock and you just bite his arms like 🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤

[garrettgr4h4m]

your mind… is amazing