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dean’s chain swinging back and forth in your face… 18+ mdni. contains smut.
another grunt tore from deans throat, his head dipping down and eyes following down to where your bodies were connected. your legs wrapped tighter around his waist, keeping him planted deep inside you. sweat was beading in his forehead, damp locks of blonde hair sticking to his forehead. the air was thick, your bodies sticky and slick with sweat. you had lost track of how long you two had been at this and to be fair, it’s because you were under a spell.
dean’s gold necklace swung back and forth with each of his movements, completely mesmerizing you as he fucked into you. his heavy breathing matched yours, his breath mingling with yours. the pendant glistened in the LED lights dean had glued to the wall, which only mesmerized you more. of course you could feel him inside you. the way he reached all the way into your tummy, stretching you out… but you were also completely hypnotized by a stupid little chain.
“going silent on me already?” dean teased softly, eye scanning over your face, watching the way you eyes follow the necklace. your lips curled into a cheesy little grin, biting your lip as you had been caught red handed. your hands left dean’s scratched up back, his movements slowed as he watched you carefully. your finger hooked around the chain hanging from his neck, tugging it down towards you. dean leaned down, chasing the necklace as you guided it, and him, closer to you. he knew what you were doing, now and it made him smile, his dimples making your heart melt.
now, dean’s lips were hovering above yours, his nose brushing against yours softly. your heart was racing, thumping like a drum in your chest. you loved being this close, and intimate, with dean. finally, his lips pressed to yours, your arms wrapping around his neck to keep him pinned flush against you. he was still moving his hips, just much more slow and deliberate now.
he pulled away, just enough to really look at you, and there your eyes again. lain right on his chain again. he figured since you were already distracted by the little movements of it, he’d really make it with your time. dean picked up the pace, his lips slamming into yours, the bedroom flooding with the sound of his skin slapping against yours. your back arched, eyes rolling back as he desperately gripped at his flexing biceps. you felt like your body was ascending and gripping him was your only way to stay right here on the bed with him.
“don’t look away now, baby. keep your eyes on that chain, okay?” dean’s voice was soft, sweet, fucking innocent. he leaned down again, his nose rubbing yours. “open your eyes, baby. keep watching that chain.” he cooed, his voice so soft, it was melting and turning your insides to goo. turned your brain to goo too. your eyes slowly shifted back to his chain that was swinging back and forth directly above you. dean couldn’t help but smile as he noticed you finally looking at the pendant again. “good girl.”
within seconds, you were pretty much gone. completely hypnotized by the chain in your face, looking so pretty… on an even prettier man. the bedroom reeked of dean’s expensive cologne and sex, but neither of you cared. dean’s hips rocked into your yours, each thrust making your tits bounce. “fuck, you feel so good, baby. like an angel on earth. my angel.”
your eyes were trained on the metal still rocking in time with dean’s hips, a moan falling from your lips at how good he felt. his large hand splayed out on your outer thigh as he hitched your thigh up on his hip, giving him access to a slightly different angle. an angle that let him go deeper. “got a little drool.” dean teased, wiping the corner of your mouth though there was nothing there. okay, maybe you did have a little drool there. you leaned up, opening your mouth and gently biting down on the pendant swaying, your eyes locked on dean’s.
“shit, just like that, sweetheart.” dean groaned, the sound music to your ears. he wasn’t going to last much longer and he could tell you were close too by the way your pussy was gripping his cock. with just a few more thrusts, dean’s cock hitting your cervix, both of you came. hard. your body shuddered and jerked beneath him, toes curling and back arching. dean had let out this primal roar, his cock twitching as he filled you, painting your walls white. he gently brushed some hair from sweat slicked face, his fingertip lingering on your skin as he looked down at you.
after several moments of both of you just trying to catch your breath and come down from your fierce highs, you finally spoke. “i want that chain dangling in my face 25/8. not 24/7, that’s not enough. sun up to sun down. life or death.” too dramatic? dean let out an amused chuckle. he was definitely, absolutely, not opposed to that plan. whatsoever.
✦Clark Masterlist - Read on aO3! - Main Masterlist✦
✦summary: all week, clark's been acting strange. he won't go near you, won't look at you, and by friday he's vanished all together. everyone seems to know why but you. but nothing's going to keep you away from him. not for that long.✦
✦warnings/tags: friends to lovers, secret identity shenanigans, emotional angst, fluff, sex pollen, sex pollen level smut, a little plot for the porn (male masturbation, manhandling, clark's feral, emotional sex, dry humping, blowjobs and facefucking, dumbification, dirty talk, sensitive reader, finger sucking, clark gets nasty, body worship, crazy overstimulation, sex pollen stamnia, fingering, oral f!recieving, begging, praise kink, monster dick clark, he fucks like a machine, breeding kink), no use of y/n, no descrption of reader✦
✦wc: 10.5k✦
✦author's note: request and voted fic! i got. real horny with it✦
Clark has been acting strange all week.
He got into work on Monday with a red face, and you didn’t question it. He runs everywhere. It’s a little ridiculous he doesn’t have a red face more.
“Want some water?” You’d tapped on his desk, and he’d let out a sharp breath.
“Yeah.” His voice had been strangely rough, his glasses almost slipping off his nose. “Water- Water would be nice. Thank you.
He hadn’t looked you in the eyes.
Not when you brought the water to his desk, or for the rest of the day. When you got in the next morning, he was already at his desk, but didn’t do more than mumble a good morning. His shoulders had squared and rippled, when you’d walked past.
You’d gone to the bathroom, and made sure you didn’t reek of something rancid. Maybe there was a sulfur leak in your apartment and you’d just gotten used to it. Maybe you’d stepped in dog poop on the train and no one’s told you.
“Do I smell bad?” You’d asked Jimmy, and he’d looked at you like your were crazy.
“I don’t know? I don’t go around smelling people like a- A serial killer-“
“I’m not asking you to smell me like a serial killer.” You’d hissed, leaning down to block him in his chair. “I’m asking you to smell me like a friend, Lois smells me all the time-“
Jimmy had eyed you suspiciously. “If this is some weird mating dance, I’m not interested-‘
“It’s not a mating dance!”
“It seems like a mating dance-“
“It’s not-“ You’d shaken your head. “Just stop being a fucking pussy and smell me!”
Someone had cleared their throat behind you. Jimmy’s eyes had widened, fixed right over your shoulder, and you’d known who it was before you turned.
You know that low, controlled sound. You know the rush that his attention brings, and the shiver up your spine whenever he’s close. You close your eyes tight, breathing through your nose, and turn to Clark with a plastered smile.
“Hi, Clark! No one was trying to smell anyone-“
You cut yourself off when you see him. You almost forget how to speak.
He’s a wreck. Curly hair is plastered to his brow, his white button up is more sweat stains than dry spots, and there’s a vein pushing out of his neck that seems painful. His glasses keep trying to slip off his nose, and he’s shifting like even just standing is uncomfortable. He’s pale and red all at once, ruddy in his face and paper white in his fists. The flush deepens near his neck, and returns to his arms right before the cut off of his rolled up sleeves. He’s breathing through his mouth.
His eyes are black, and gleaming.
You scramble away from Jimmy, yanking yourself back from going to press a hand to Clark’s brow.
Clark takes a jagged, stumbling step back.
You look back to Jimmy, and he gives you a tight shake of his head. He doesn’t know what to do either. You’ve never seen Clark with so much as a paper cut, and now it looks like he needs a hospital.
“Hey, buddy.” Jimmy tries, voice soft. Like he’s speaking to a feral animal. “You feeling alright?”
Clark jerks his head to Jimmy, and his nostrils flare. Like he’d almost forgotten Jimmy was there.
Jimmy leans back. And you know he doesn’t mean to. It’s Clark. The softest, sweetest heart you know, shoved into a giant’s body.
But like this, Clark doesn’t look like a man. He looks like something that’s crawled out of your darkest wet dream. Like something that should be in the sky, fighting Superman. With the black eyes and sudden, jagged movements, he looks like an animal.
He looks dangerous.
And he doesn’t respond right away. Clark stares at Jimmy, breathing heavily, then squeezes his eyes shut. You and Jimmy exchange another worried look. If he’s been corrupted by something—in this world, you can’t rule anything out—and he attacks, you’re not sure you can fight him off. Emotionally or physically. Clark’s huge, he’d crush Jimmy with one fist and you’d be nothing but an annoying fly to be swatted across the room.
But whatever’s going on with Clark, he seems to drag it under control. He opens his eyes, and a thin ring of blue is back.
“I’m fine.” He rasps, staring at Jimmy. “Just- Didn’t sleep well. You know.”
Jimmy blinks. “No, uh- I don’t-“
Clark looks at you.
And you could swear the blue flickers, when your eyes meet.
“You smell good.” He mutters.
He turns like something’s dragging him, and walks away. You and Jimmy stand there for about three more minutes—in total baffled silence—before Jimmy’s mouth falls open.
“What the fuck is up with him?”
Nobody seems to be sure.
On Tuesday, he seems a little better. He eats lunch with you. Wheels his chair next to yours like usual while he’s editing, because you always catch typos he misses, and he’s a good reporter but not the best writer.
“You can’t use that word here.” You tap his laptop screen. He frowns.
“There are no other words I could use, though-“
“Corrupt?”
“But- Oh.” He sighs, hitting backspace. “See? That’s why you’re the expert.”
You laugh softly, and Clark gives you his usual small, almost shy smile.
“How’s your piece coming?” He asks kindly—always kindly—and you groan.
“Dogshit.”
“I’m sure it’s not that bad-“
“My main source backed out.” You grumble. “Like a little baby bitch. I can’t make this level of accusations again LuthorCorp without a source, it’s asking for a defamation lawsuit, and after the last one Perry would kill me-“
“But you won the last one.” Clark frowns, and you give him a pointed look.
“Yeah. Because I had a source.”
“Ah. Right.” He pauses, pushing his glasses slowly up his nose.
You watch the movement as subtly as possible. You love it when he does that. It’s a tiny, adorable quirk that makes you want to rip his hand away and push them up yourself.
“What if I said I have a source for you?” He asks softly, and you perk up.
“Really?”
“Yeah, really.” He grins. “You know, I’d think you’d have faith in me, I wouldn’t lie about that-“
“Shut up, I’m excited-“
“I can tell.” He boops your nose, and you stick your tongue out at him.
He does that all the time. He says you get a bunny nose when you’re excited about something, and then you hit him because nothing about you is bunny like.
Sometimes you say that, and he chuckles.
You have no idea. He mutters under his breath.
And sometimes he hits your nose, and your breath hitches because he touched you.
Today you keep it under control.
It’s Clark that freezes. Coughs and goes red, wheeling his chair an inch back. You frown at him, ready to ask what’s wrong, but he shakes his head like he’s already denying you an answer.
“It’s- Uh- Superman.”
You blink. “What?”
“Superman can be your source.” He grunts, shifting in his chair. “I can ask him to. For you.”
“I- You don’t have to.”
“I want to.”
“I can find someone else-“
“No, I- I’ve got it.”
He stares at you. You stare back, heart swelling with something sweeter than you usually allow it to feel.
You’re used to your feelings for Clark. You try not to think about them, especially not in his presence. There’s no amount of love you’d risk your friendship for.
But he makes that rule hard to follow sometimes. When he starts being stupidly perfect.
You smile at him, wide and unrestrained. “Thank you.”
He nods—tight and jerked—stares for a long, long moment. He shoots to his feet.
“I have to go to the bathroom!” He announces to the whole bullpen.
Clark sprints away. Jimmy gives you a questioning look, and you shake your head.
He doesn’t come back for an hour. When he does, his face is wholly red again.
He’s back to not looking you in the eyes. Back to looking so sick you’re worried he might be going feral.
And you have no idea what to do.
Lois gets back on Wednesday, and the first thing she says to you is What’s up with Smallville? Perry corners you at your desk to ask if you’ve got any idea what’s Clark’s been up to that might be doing this to him. Steve loudly jokes that everyone should be placing bets on when Clark passes out. Cat keeps trying to bring him tea—a thin guise so she can suggest home remedies to whatever super hangover he has—and Clark always drinks it with shaking hands.
He listens to all her suggestions without interrupting, but whenever Jimmy suggests Urgent Care—you’ve given up on trying to get him to the ER—Clark grunts a sound like no and won’t hear another word.
You’re getting really worried. Everyone gets sick, but Clark’s always talking about his very good immune system.
And nobody gets sick like this. Legally, Perry should be making him go home, but no one can get close enough to confirm a fever, and it’s somehow not effecting his work performance.
“Clark.” You sit on the edge of his desk, keeping your voice soft. “You need to go to a doctor.”
His whole body locks up. His fingers freeze on his keyboard, and he bows his head like he’s in prayer.
“Clark-“
“Please.” He says, so quiet you almost miss it. “Back up.”
You blink. “Back up?”
He nods, and there’s a sting in your heart.
He hasn’t asked anyone else to back up.
But you slide off his desk, and take a single step back. Another, when he doesn’t relax from the first.
You clear your throat, tucking your hands behind your back. Clark lets out a heavy, ragged exhale, and looks up.
He still won’t fully meet your gaze. His darkened eyes are fixed right over your head, and you try not to let it hurt more than it already does.
“Clark.” You’ve lost a little bit of nerve. You try not to let him hear it. “The doctor-“
“I don’t need a doctor.” He tells the ceiling, and you sigh.
“You’re sick-“
“No. I’m not.”
“Dude, I- I can feel your fever from here.” The heat, rolling off his body like he’s an active star. “At least just go so they can say you’re not sick.”
He doesn’t answer. You almost take a step forward, before reeling yourself back. He doesn’t want you too close.
“Please?” You say. “It would make all of us feel better.”
That makes him look at you. For just a split second, barely a heartbeat, but long enough.
His eyes go wholly back. He wheels his chair backwards, like there’s something toxic coming off of you that he’s trying to avoid.
And it hurts. It hurts so much your face burns with shame, and your stomach does a sick clench of pain.
It’s never fun, for the man you’ve quietly been in love with for years, to look at you like you’re proximity might kill him.
The only thing that stops you from crying is worry for him.
But that’s not enough to hold back the crack in your voice.
“Clark- Please-“
He shakes his head, jaw clenching. You swallow, and take another step back.
“Oh- Okay. Sorry.”
You turn on your heels. Behind you, Clark rasps your name.
And you look back. You can’t help it.
But all he does is stare at you.
So you walk away.
Clark doesn’t come in on Thursday. Jimmy goes to check on him, but won’t report back on what he finds. When he gets back to the office, his face is bloodless and eyes wider than an owl.
“Is he-“
“He’s not sick.” Jimmy stares at you like you’re a ghost. “He’s- Um- We should- Give him space.”
You frown. “But-“
“Lots of space.” Jimmy mutters under his breath, already walking away. “And maybe me some bleach. Freakin’- Gross-“
Lois comes up next to you, watching Jimmy head into the bathroom. You’re wringing your hands, lips pressed in a painfully tight line, and Lois grabs your wrists.
“Don’t go visit him.”
You shoot her a glare. “I wasn’t going to-“
“Yes, you were.” She raises her brows. “Don’t.”
“But-“
“Don’t.”
“What if he needs something-“
“I texted his cousin. She knows what to do.”
“To…” You narrow your eyes, pulling your hands from Lois’ grip. “You know what’s going on with him, don’t you.”
Lois shrugs. “Yeah. Maybe.”
“Lois-“
“He’s going to be fine.” She says, giving you a firm look. “Don’t check on him.”
She walks away without another word.
On Friday, you go to Clark’s apartment.
You don’t go inside. Lois’ voice keeps ringing in your head, and while you’re more than willing to disobey her, it’s the way she’d said it.
Don’t.
His door is right there.
Lois’ voice fills the gaps in city noise. Pointed and direct. Almost hopeless. Like she knew you wouldn’t listen.
Don’t.
You made him soup, because you’re pathetic. He’d left his jacket at work on Wednesday, and you’d brought it home to clean up before returning it. You’d had a whole painted daydream made of pastels and watercolor, where you’d give Clark his jacket, he’d swoon with how romantic that is, and then kiss you.
But like real watercolor, the colors bleed and run. Blur together. It’s too fuzzy a picture to be reality.
You stand at his door. You don’t remember walking inside the building.
Don’t.
But you want to.
Don’t.
He could need someone, what if his cousin was busy, what if he’s been waiting for you to check on him-
Don’t.
Lois’ voice isn’t louder than your heartbeat. But it’s level. And your pulse is erratic in your throat and fingers.
And you keep seeing Clark’s face. Keep thinking of how he’d been stiffer than concrete, until you’d moved away.
He wouldn’t want to see you right now. He’d made that clear.
You put the soup and jacket on the doorstep, and ring the doorbell.
Before Clark can open it, you walk away.
On Saturday, you hole up in your apartment and work.
It’s a distraction. Anything not to think of Clark. To think of how sick he is, how he might be in pain, how he might need help but not from you. How lately he can’t stand to be in the same room as you, and apparently everyone gets to know what’s going on with him except you-
You groan, tipping your head back against the couch.
This is exactly what you’re trying not to think about.
It’s hard, though. Impossibly hard. If only because you open your email, and see a bunch of messages from Clark. You open Teams, and his messages are pinned at the top. You send Jimmy something, and have to include Clark as a contributor. Lois sends you something, and Clark is CC’d.
He’s everywhere. You can’t stop checking your phone for a message, even if Jimmy says he’s basically out of commission. Can’t really do anything right now, he’d grumbled, making a sour face. Too… Sick.
He’d said it weird, but everything about this is weird.
Usually you’d talk to Clark about that.
You miss him.
Goddamnit.
Apparently, you’re very bad at not thinking about Clark.
You busy yourself. Clean the apartment, do the laundry, waste the day, don’t think about Clark.
He gave you this pencil. Let you borrow this sweater, that you’ve been hoarding like a dragon with gold since. Sent you the cheesecake in the back of your fridge as a birthday present, and it had been horrible but you’d kept it anyway.
You lie flat on the floor, and fail not to think about Clark a little more. Maybe you should text him. Just so he knows you’re thinking of him. Or text Lois and ask for his cousin’s number, so you can ask her if he’s okay. Or let the anxiety fully overpower Lois’ voice in your head, and go visit him.
You’re about to go with that last option, when there’s a bang on your window. You shoot up with wide eyes, expecting a massive bird.
Instead you find Superman, standing in your fire escape. It’s hard to see him, in the shadows of dusk. His head is strangely bowed, his shoulders slumped in a way you’ve never seen on TV. Maybe he’s just more casual, when he’s doing home visits.
But why is he home visiting you.
Usually that would freak you out. This week, it’s just another fucking thing.
You open the window slowly, poking your head outside.
“Hello?”
Superman looks up at you, and your mouth goes dry.
He doesn’t look well.
Red and pale face, messed up hair, heaving chest. Clenched fists, sweat-slicken face, blown out eyes with barely a ring of blue-
Like Clark.
Just like Clark.
And it’s not just the ragged appearance. It’s something deeper. It’s the way he’s staring at you like he’s worried you’re going to attack him. Like he’s restraining himself from moving, like you’re a repellant and he wants to fly away.
Or something else.
Without the glasses, there’s something else.
He looks desperate. The shadows on his face look longer. Maybe it’s just the sickness overtaking him, but he looks hungry. Desperate and starved. There’s an openness on his face that wasn’t there before. And he’s not looking at you like he’s afraid or skittish.
He’s looking at you like he’s a predator. Like you’re prey.
“Clark?”
“I’m here for your interview-“
You speak at the same time. Your voice is a breath. Superman—Clark? —pushes out his words like they hurt, and falters in a second.
He stumbles back like he’s been hit. You scramble forward to catch him, your body not worried about anything but Clark is going to fall.
Your hand wraps around his wrist. He makes a deep, rumbling sound from his chest. Almost a growl.
His eyes flutter. He moans out your name, trying to tug weakly away.
“Clark- Wait-“
Superman’s body goes slack, and he collapses in your arms.
At one in the morning on Sunday, too much is happening.
You put Clark—Superman? —in your bed. Took his temperature and dropped the thermometer in shock.
He’s burning at 150 degrees.
He should be dead. You’re not even sure how you touched him without burning up.
The thermometer clatters to the ground, and Clark shifts in his sleep. Groans out a garbled, pained noise that sounds like your name.
You swallow, hugging yourself tight. It’s hard not to reach out to him, but you don’t feel like you should. He hadn’t wanted you near him, and you’ve already crossed a few lines by putting him in your bed.
Then he moans, ripping the thin sheets off his body.
That time it was definitely your name.
Superman moaned your name.
You back out of the room slowly, with an embarrassing amount of effort. You can’t rip your eyes away from him.
Clark in your bed, calling for you and rolling around like a rutting beast. Whatever’s tormenting him isn’t enough to wake him up, but it’s enough to drive you out of your mind. You bite the inside of your cheek, and force yourself to close the door. It solves the looking at him problem.
It does nothing for hearing him.
And he’s loud. You’re lucky the apartments have thick walls between units, or you’d get a noise complaint. Clark is almost howling from his room, and whenever you give into temptation and go to check on him, he’s somehow managed to rip another item of clothing off in his sleep.
It starts with his top. The symbol on his chest gets torn to shreds, revealing a broad, flushed chest. He’s got a small happy trail. Muscles that you want to trace, and boobs that might be bigger than yours.
Your eyes wander to his abdomen. There’s a happy trail that leads down, down, down, and-
Oh.
That’s… Big.
You slam the door closed, and run back to the kitchen. Cold water does nothing against the heat building in your core. You splash it on your face and drink two glasses, but you might as well be downing sea salt. You’re thirstier than when you started.
The image seems to be burned behind your eyes. Clark’s bulge. Superman’s bulge.
You still haven’t really dealt with that.
Clark is Superman. Superman is Clark. You’re sure. You’ve spent the last hour on the couch, sketching out timelines and checking your work. The random disappearances in the middle of the day. How you’ve never seen him get drunk. The fact that he’s built like a Greek god but never works out, and whenever Jimmy asks him for a routine he just says grow up on a farm.
And be a Kryptonian. That would probably also help.
To be sure—you have to be positive, before Superman wakes up and you start throwing around accusations—you cut out a pair of paper glasses and build up all your courage.
When you step into your room, it hits you like a tidal wave. The smell of sex, sweat and cum and something deeper. Clark’s ripped off his tights, and apparently the outside boxers are the only thing he’d been using for cover.
You don’t let yourself look. Your traitorous eyes try to, but you refuse to glance past his thick thighs. You won’t violate him like that. You’re here for confirmation, and nothing else.
Carefully, you wipe the sticky hair from Clark’s brow. His whole body shudders under your light touch, and he bucks up to chase your fingers when you pull away. A deep whine escapes from his lips, and you swallow.
Dear lord.
Very, very slowly, you put the paper glasses on his nose. He wrinkles it, trying to buck them off, but you plant a hand on his chest.
You don’t mean to. You move before you can think.
Clark relaxes. His body goes slack like putty, save for a single hand flying to your wrist, holding tight.
He could break you. He’s Superman. You’ve watched—albeit from afar—him pick up whole buildings. But his touch on you is light, as if you’re glass. His jaw relaxes. A purr rumbles under your hand, and his thumb starts to trace small circles.
You stare at him, every logical thought in your head evaporating in the heat of the room. The glasses confirmed exactly what you wanted them to.
Clark is Superman,
And somehow, that’s the least important thing that’s happening right now.
His brow is unfurrowed, his mouth hanging open as he pants out your name.
“Clark?” You breathe, and he moans.
This time, he calls your name. His eyes flutter in his sleep, and his hand starts to move. Dragging yours down his chest. Over his pecs, his ribs, to his abdomen and-
You yank away with a squeak, when you realize. Clark whines, immediately seizing up the second you pull away.
He looks like he’s in pain. Your touch helped, and he’d liked it, and-
No. You can’t. You won’t. You’re stronger than that, and he’s not in his right mind. Whatever’s effecting him—whatever’s strong enough to effect Superman—can’t be letting him think clearly. It would be one thing if he asked. Another to touch him in his sleep, just because he’d moved your hand there. He probably doesn’t even know it’s you.
But he’d been calling your name. He’s calling your name right now.
The steam of the room is getting to your head. You stumble away, squeezing your eyes shut when Clark keens in pain.
If you weren’t such a masochist, you’d put in earbuds to avoid hearing him. But he keeps calling your name.
And you’re not that strong at all.
Clark wakes up at four in the morning. You haven’t even managed to close your eyes.
You’re so dazed from the everything that you don’t hear him coming. You just realize the moans have stopped, and hear a quiet mumble of your name.
When you turn, Clark’s standing in the door of the living room.
He’s naked.
Fully naked.
And this time, you’re too tired stop your eyes from wandering.
He’s glorious. It’s not just the muscle and size of him, it’s all Clark. How his flexing arms are the ones that catch up when you stumble over yourself, and his legs are the ones that bring you coffee in the morning. Those fisted hands hold your hair back when you’re sick and boop your nose. His tense knees bump against yours under almost every table, and his chest keeps you tucked safely away from the world whenever you have a meltdown.
But it’s also the muscle and size of him. He looks wound up, so tight you’re worried he may snap. The coat of sweat on his skin is begging to be licked off, and his thick arms could wrap around your neck and you wouldn’t complain.
And his cock.
You don’t know how he manages to walk around with that thing. It’s bigger than the toys you’ve seen in shops, bigger than the ones in porn that have to be fake, bigger than the lewdest drawings on the internet. Thick and veiny, hard and standing proud. His balls are heavy, and you kind of want to put them in your mouth. Every inch of him is slicked with cum, and you realize you just licked your lips far too late.
Clark clears his throat. You look up with burning cheeks and wide eyes.
“Clark, I- I’m so sorry-“
“Don’t.” He mutters, shifting on his feet. You can see his arms jerking wildly. Like he’s actively stopping them from moving. “I’m the one that should be sorry, I- I shouldn’t have come here.”
He winces at his own word choice, rubbing a stain of release on his thigh. He’d been humping the sheets all night. You’d heard the squeak of the mattress, and-
“I broke your bed.” He mumbles, not meeting your gaze. “I’ll fix it when- This passes.”
“Clark-“
“Stop saying it like that.”
You blink. Clark takes a deep breath, and looks up at you.
His eyes are shining. You can’t tell if it’s with frustration, or sadness, or that something else.
“Please don’t say my name. Like that, or- At all.” His throat bobs. “It makes everything very hard.”
Your lips twitch, and you glance back to his dick. He sighs.
“Yeah. I know. There are only so many words I can use, you know.”
You laugh softly, despite everything.
Clark grabs the doorframe with a groan. It cracks under his hands, and he won’t stop staring at you,.
“Don’t laugh either.”
“I- I’m sorry-“
“And don’t apologize, or- Or look at me-“
He cuts himself off with a long moan, and you fix your gaze very pointedly on the ceiling.
“Cla-“ You cut yourself off. “Should I call you Superman?”
“No- That- That’s weird-“
“Kal-El?”
“Worse.” He grunts, and you sigh.
“I need to be able to call you something.”
“It would be better if you didn’t talk, actually.”
That makes you glare at him. He winces, face scrunching in apology.
“No, not- Not like that-“
“Not like what-“
“It’s just, when you talk-“
“It’s hard?” You snap, and you don’t know why you’re so mad all of a sudden. Maybe it’s how you haven’t slept in almost two days.
It’s probably that. But also, something needs to break. If Clark just Supermans away after everything, you’re going to kill him.
“Please don’t sat that word.” Clark mumbles, and you shake your head.
“No. I’m going to talk, and you’re going to listen and give me answers.”
“I- I don’t think that’s a good idea-“
“You don’t get to decide what’s a good idea right now, boner-boy.”
He wrinkles his nose. “That… Doesn’t seem fair.”
“Maybe, but you know what’s also not fair?” You cross your arms over your chest, raising your chin. “Ignoring your best friend for a week, then showing up with a fever and- And magic boner then telling her to shut up!”
“I didn’t tell you to shut up-“
“You said I shouldn’t talk.”
“I said it would be better if you didn’t talk.” He mumbles, staring at the floor. “That’s not the same-“
“Shut up.”
“Sorry.”
The wall cracks further. You wrinkle your nose.
“You better fix the wall, Kent.”
“I will. ‘M sorry-“
“Stop apologizing to me, and just- Just tell me what’s wrong!”
You take a step forward. Clark shrinks back, but doesn’t move away.
“You’re not allowed to- To be mad.” He glances up under his lashes, and lets out another labored sigh. “Be more mad.”
That’s not promising, but your worry outweighs your anger. You nod, watching him expectantly. He closes his eyes, like he can’t bear to see your reaction.
“You know kryptonite?”
You blink. “Of course I know kryptonite, I don’t live under a rock.”
“Right. Well,” he coughs. “There’s, uh- This thing. Called red kryptonite. And it does… Weird things. To me. And other Kryptonians. Which is just Kara- My cousin- I think you’d like her-“
“Clark.”
“Sorry- Sorry.” He groans. You can trace a bead of sweat down his brow.
“Red kryptonite?” You prompt, softer than before.
His cock twitches. You try not think about it.
“I got exposed to some.” He mumbles. “Last weekend. And it never does the same thing twice, but usually it’s something like… Shrinking me. Flipping my personality, or giving me an extra power or curse or- Once it turned me into a fish-“
“It what-“
“I got better.” He says quickly. “But it’s usually immediate. This wasn’t. I- I even hoped I got lucky. That it wasn’t going to effect me at all. Then I got into the office on Monday, and saw you, and…”
He trails off, words hanging in the air.
Saw you.
You activated the red kryptonite in him.
There’s a very reasonable guess to what it’s doing. You still need to hear him say it, before you do something about it.
“What happened when you saw me?” You breathe, and he gives you a pleading look.
Makes a loose gesture to his erection. You bite back a smile. He’s going to need talking into this.
“Clark.” You say gently, and he groans.
“Please don’t make me say it.”
You give him a look, and he turns even redder than before. Stares down at his feet like a scolded child. It’s almost adorable, while also remaining impossibly hot.
“It’s very… Demanding.” He mumbles. “About certain things that I would like to do. And it is very particular about who I need to do it with. But- I can’t ask that of you-“
“Can’t you?”
Your question is quiet. You know he’ll hear you.
And Clark’s head snaps up, his jaw hanging open. He shakes his head.
“You- You can’t mean that-“
“Why not?”
You take a small step forward. Clark grabs the other side of the door way, tracking your every movement with that predatory focus.
“I’d like to.” You murmur. He grunts.
“You don’t have to pity me-“
“It’s not pity.”
He chuckles dryly. “Feels like it. I know you don’t- That’s not how you feel-“
“Who says it’s not how I feel?”
You fix him with a challenging glare, and Clark swallows.
“Uhh… Steve?”
You scoff. “Steve’s been trying to ask me out for three years, of course he’d tell you that.”
Clark shakes his head, his whole body trembling.
You’ve stopped a foot away. More than close enough for him to grab you. But he has to make that final step himself.
“I- I could hurt you.” He says, giving you that puppy look.
You shrug. “I like being hurt a little.”
His cock jumps. He doubles over, and you’re a little worried he’s going to break your whole apartment if he doesn’t move soon.
“Clark.” You whisper, taking a small step forward. “I trust you. And I- I want this. I want you.”
“No, you-“
“Don’t tell me what I feel.”
He shuts his mouth, still giving you that desperate look. You want to soothe him, but you just hold your ground.
“Will it hurt you?” You ask. “If you ignore it?”
He nods, tight and controlled.
You steel yourself, even as your nerves start to buzz.
Not with fear.
With excitement.
“Then use me.” You whisper, holding his darkened gaze. “Please.”
And Clark snaps.
He kisses you so hard you stumble. Knees buckle as Clark’s fevered lips overtake yours, and your startled squeal only lets him kiss you deeper. Your fingers fly out for something to hold onto, and find only the air.
Clark picks you up like you’re made of feathers, and there’s something steady about there being no ground at all.
If you were in your right mind, you’d think something about free fall and having no worry if there’s nowhere for impact. If you can only be caught.
But you’re not in your right mind. Because Clark isn’t kissing you like a kiss.
He’s inhaling you, and it’s already lighting you on fire.
There’s a thick arm wrapped around your waist, the other holding your back. A hand wrapped around your neck, angling him to kiss as deeply as he wants. His tongue presses over yours as he walks himself backwards.
You push back, and he moans. It’s the most beautiful sound you’ve ever heard.
Clark’s back hits the wall, his legs sinking slightly as you make out. Nothing in his hold on you falters. If anything, it tightens. Like even with your open mouth moving against each other, there’s no way he can get close enough.
You respond to everything he gives you. Clark squeezes the back of your neck lightly, and you hum happily, smiling into the kiss. He grunts, when you thread your fingers through his hair.
He sinks further down, kisses turning short and desperate. He sucks on your lower lip, nipping softly and hauling you further up his body. Your nails dig into his scalp, and he drops his arm on your waist to grab your ass.
“Clark-“
“So- Sorry-“ He groans, and you can feel him rolling beneath you, trying to get himself back under control. “You’re just- So pretty, and- And soft, and-“
He drops fully to the floor, and you start slightly when he rips his mouth from yours, before burying his face in your neck.
“Smell so good.” He almost whines. “So good.”
You take a deep breath, trying to collect yourself. You’re the sane one right now. The Clark beneath you is still your Clark, but he’s also a man who’s in a fugue state of lust. Not the mild, usually level headed, noble little dork you love.
Clark whines, when you run your nails gently against the back of his neck. He’s almost shaking, kissing and sucking on your neck like he can’t even help himself. You don’t think he can.
It makes sense why he was avoiding you. This would’ve been quite the HR violation in the copy room.
“It’s okay.” You coo, kissing the side of his head. “You can take what you need, Clark, I told you I want it-“
“You- You can’t-“
“Don’t tell me what I get to want-“
“No, you can’t.” He detaches himself from your neck, going completely still. His grip on your hips is bruising.
You don’t mind at all.
“I’ll hurt you.” He mutters, and you sigh.
“We talked about this-“
“I’ll hurt you.” He squeezes his eyes shut, over pouncing each word, and you stare at him for a moment.
You shift in his lap, trying to peer closer, and he hisses. His fingers dig into your sides, and his head slowly bows against your chest. Licking and kissing softly, as if he can’t physically stand to be that far from you.
And you feel it.
The literal alien cock pressing against your ass. You’d think was a stick if you didn’t know better.
Oh.
Right.
Clark must hear the way your heartbeat picks up, and put it together. He sighs, warm breath tickling over your breasts.
“I need to get you ready.”
You swallow. “I- I’m pretty-“ You can feel your heartbeat in your cunt, and there’s the familiar tingling ache that’s always a good sign. “I feel pretty ready-“
Clark grunts. “Not ready enough.”
“How do you know-“
“Nose.”
“Nose- Oh.” You flush. He can smell your arousal. “But that’s a good thing, right-“
“Not enough.”
He seems reduced to short worded grunts. You’re not faring much better, but there’s also a massive man below you that can’t stop sucking around your tits.
“Can you… Always smell me?” You manage to ask, and he hums.
That’s his agreement hum.
Your jaw drops.
“Are you serious-“
“I can’t help it.”
“You- You could wear nose plugs-“
“No. Like it too much.”
Your thighs squeeze, those deep words shooting straight to your cunt, and Clark groans.
“You- Can’t move-“
“You should move-“
“Won’t hurt you.” He grunts, like he’s making a vow. “Just- Need a second.”
You let out a slow breath, looking up to the ceiling. The idea comes faster than you want to admit, but you’re desperate.
“You were better when you woke up.” You say causally, stroking your fingers through his hair. “Lucid.”
Clark grunts. You smile at the air.
“You came in bed last night.”
He stiffens slightly. “Wet dream.”
“About who?”
You feel the ghost of a smile, against your chest. “You’re very… Mouthy. Like this.”
And you’ve been told that before. But something about the way Clark says it—like something he’s measuring, a note he’s jotting down for a piece—makes you feel all glowy and stupid inside.
“Wow. Mouthy.” You tease. “Not very polite, Clark.”
“There are other words I could’ve used for it.” He mumbles, and you giggle.
“Yeah? Like what?”
Clark draws slowly back, staring at you with those drunken, dark eyes.
“A brat.”
A lot of the fight leaves you, very fast. No ones ever looked at you like that. Like you’re something they want to chew on, carefully and deeply. To leave a mark while keeping every part of you both ruined and intact.
And his voice. Lower than you’ve ever heard, and hoarse with desire. You were already a lot woman. This just seals your fate.
“I should jerk you off.” You blurt.
Clark makes a sound like a wounded animal, and drops his brow against yours.
“You- You can’t just say that-“
“But it will help.” You give him your best, pouty and pleading expression. “You’ll feel better enough to- To get me ready.” You try to keep your voice level, as if you’re not thrilled just to say the words. “And then… More.”
Clark doesn’t answer. He just closes his eyes again, breathing heavily through his mouth. You wait, but you start to get a little worried he didn’t hear.
“Can you please look at me-“
“No.” He grinds out, and you frown. Reach up to cup his face.
“Clark-“
“Don’t ask me to move.” His words are tight. Pushed through his teeth.
You feel his cocks twitch, near your ass.
“Clark.” You make your voice soft. Traced the tensed line of his jaw, the bridge of his nose. He whimpers at the touch, and you smile. “It’s okay.”
“I- I need to get you-“
“I’m going to touch you, okay?”
His throat bobs, but he nods. Short and tight.
Enough.
You scoot back, and Clark lowers his legs at a painfully slow pace you accommodate you. Your ass drags over his dick, and he hisses, rutting up.
“Sorry-“
“It’s okay.” You say quickly, smiling slightly. “Good preview.”
He looks at you in befuddled exasperation. Opens his mouth like he’s going to snap something else out about you being a brat.
You settle against his knees, and don’t give him a chance.
The sound Clark makes when you wrap your hand around his cock is holy. Deep and guttural, like a man already wrecked. You let him sit in your loose grip for a second, watching his chest heave and eyes flutter.
He’s throbbing under your touch. You can barely hold him with the single hand.
You add a second, and squeeze at the base.
Clark makes another one of those beautiful noises, and grabs your wrist.
“Be- Be careful.”
You pause. “Does it not feel-“
“Feels good.” He grunts. “Too good. Gonna- Oh, fuck-“
Your mouth falls open. Clark swore.
You started to stroke his cock, and he swore.
And more. You need more. More of his swears, his sounds, his sweat running down his bare chest and the way he’s moaning your name. You need to see him fall apart, because once he’s back in control—once this massive dildo of a dick is inside you—you’re not going to be able to focus on such things.
You set a quick pace. Skin slapping and hot, unraveling him quickly.
Clark calls your name, his hands slamming back to grab at the walls. You watch in awe as his fingers sink into the wood, creating a slot for him to hold onto.
“Like- Like that- Shit.” He tosses his head back, moaning loud and lewd. “Yeah, baby, oh- Right there-“
He cuts himself off, rolling his hips up into your touch. You squeeze him again, switching your hands so one can thumb at the weeping slit on his head. Pre-cum leaks all over your fingers, and your lean further down.
You want to taste him.
When you slide off his legs—keeping your hands working—Clark says your name in a rough, garbled warning.
“What- What are you-“
You wrap your lips around the tip of him, flicking your tongue where your thumb had been. Clark makes a sound you’ve never heard from anyone before, his free hand flying to grab your neck.
The grip is tight, but painless. You’re in no danger of pain.
There’s something thrilling about how he’s gripping you so possessively. Like a life line.
You drop your hand to play with his balls. Clark bucks up into your mouth, bumping against the back of your throat.
“Sorry- Fucking Christ-“
You moan happily around him, drooling lips pushing down further. Your tongue swirls around him, and you suck, bobbing your head up and down. Trying to make him lose control again.
It doesn’t take long. Not when you reach up to his hand on your neck, and push it down.
“Are you-“
You moan, and Clark gives in.
He fucks your face like it’s a toy. Cock slipping in and out from between your lips, your spit staining with his pre-cum. Tears prick at your eyes, but you dig your nails into his thighs, refusing to be pulled off.
“Look- Look at you- Holy- Holy shit-“
Clark moans your name, and you let your hand drift back his balls. He slams up at the featherlight touch, and the tears start to flow.
“You’re so good at this sweetheart, so- So good-“ Clark moans, hips thrusting to meet every bob of your head. “Your mouth is so warm, and- And soft-“
You suckle lightly, the praise going right to your core. Your ass is sticking in the air, grinding up into nothing as he uses you.
And you can feel how close he is. His balls are tightening under your fingers, his cock twitching and pulsing, and-
Clark yanks you off suddenly, with one last cry of your name. Before you can protest or try to go back down, you see why.
He’s cumming.
And he’s not stopping.
Thick white ropes spurt from his dick, and you stare, transfixed. Every time you think he must be done, more comes. When the geyser finally stops, there’s not a place it hasn’t hit.
Clark lets out a shaky breath. You look up to him with wide eyes. He stares back, licking his lips.
“If you-“
“Do that inside me.”
You speak at the same time again. Clark blinks, leaning back slightly, and you flush.
“I- I mean- Clark-“
He starts to drag you forward, and your words turn into a squeak. Your being manhandled right into his lap, your ass still sticking up in the air and your hands just barely bracing you on the ground.
“I heard you.” He drawls, running a hand over the curve of your ass. “Pretty well, actually.”
His hand drags over your exposed core, and you whimper.
“Don’t- Don’t tease-“
“Trust me.” He mutters darkly. “I won’t.”
Two thick fingers toy at your clit, and you push yourself higher into the air. He knows exactly how to flick that little button, to drive you insane.
“Oh- Oh god-“
“If I had time.” Clark murmurs, almost to himself. “I’d keep you here for the rest of the day. Watch the sweetness drip down your legs,” his fingers trace over your sensitive inner thighs. “Let you make a mess in my lap. Wait ‘till you’re begging for it, then touch you,” one, broad finger rubs around your fluttering hole. “Nice and slow, until you feel what I’m dealin’ with right now.”
You moan, gaping at the floor. Clark gets a southern, Kanas drawl when he’s horny. It makes you clench around nothing, and he chuckles.
“Oh, you like that.” He presses the tip of his finger in, and you whine. “Yeah, I know. Know better than anyone, sweetheart.”
He pushes his hips slightly, forcing your ass higher into the air. There’s a rip, and cold air hits your core, making you shiver. His cock, still so hard, bumps against your tummy right as his finger slips into your cunt.
“Claaaark.” You moan, squeezing tight around him.
You’re rubbing backwards, trying to take him deeper. He splays one hand on your lower back, keeping you from getting what you want while still letting you chase the false hope.
He crooks his finger slightly, twisting it in a circle. You go limp, wrapping your arms around his thigh and pressing your cheek down for support.
“That’s it.” He mutters. “Just seeing what you need, it’s alright. Shit,” he lets out a sharp breath, cock twitching against you. “You’re so wet. I- I gotta-“
You hear it start to possess him, and you can’t be surprised when he pulls the finger out. Still, you twist to whine at him, maybe try to drag his hand back. He’s strong, but you’re horny, and that’s sure to help you somehow.
Instead, you trip on your own hands and collapse back down at the sight before you.
Clark cleaning your arousal off his fingers, eyes closed and face slack like he’s having a fine meal.
You can’t look away from it. It’s the hottest, most lewd thing you’ve ever seen. You whimper when he goes back into for more, dragging two fingers between your pussy lips before returning them to his mouth. He does it over, and over, and over again. Sometimes giving a little attention to your clit, like he’s milking you for more.
You’re a flushed, wiggling mess when he finally pulls his fingers away with a pop. His eyes are wholly black, gleaming with lust and fixed on yours.
There’s nothing left of you but putty, when Clark slowly starts to rub your pussy again. You’re a smeared, wrecked mess that can’t stop grinding back onto his hand, and he smiles down at you.
It’s predatory, but still soft. Exactly what you expect from him now. Pulling out the hair that got stuck in your mouth, all while slowly fingering your cunt.
“Wanted to do that for so long.” He coos, pushing two fingers deep inside of you. “You’d come into the office and start gettin’ wet right next me, I was slobbering like a dog. Thought I’d lose my mind, every single day.”
His fingers go deeper, bumping against your g-spot. You keen, making an almost unearthly sound from your chest. Clark notices it. Of course he does.
“There she is.” He mutters, starting to pump his fingers fast. Pushing against the gummy point over and over, until you’re drooling.
Your head has never been this empty during sex before. But you’ve also never been put over Clark’s lap like this. Fingered into oblivion while his dick pushes into your stomach. You start to push up—he needs attention—but Clark pushes you back down with a grunt.
“Need to be inside you.” He grunts. “Need you ready.”
Well. If he needs it.
It’s easy to relax into the feeling. Clark starting to thumb at your clit, rubbing it back and forth like a bop-it toy. Between that and his fingers, Clark is almost pulling pleasure out of you like a machine. It doesn’t take long for you to feel like you’re close. Your face his presses into his bare leg, your pussy fully pried open and well touched. You can feel the familiar tension inside you, about to burst.
“Clark- Clark-“ You don’t have the strength to twist, so you scratch at his leg. “I- I’m gonna-“
“I know.” He mutters, and fuck, you don’t doubt him. “Whenever you’re ready, sweetheart. Cum on my hand, let me feel it.”
It only takes a few more moments. Release hits you quickly, and lasts long. Thighs shaking and loud moans escaping your lips as Clark keeps playing with you.
You’re dazed from the orgasm. It’s the strongest you’ve ever felt, and your cunt is still pulsing when Clark’s fingers pull away.
“You’re ready.” He mutters, and you agree with a garbled sound.
He laughs, leaning down to kiss the back of your head as you quiver. He pulls you up into his lap, and you can feel his cock sliding between your folds. Both of your are so slick with everything there’s no friction. The tension in Clark tells you he’s close to going feral again, but his voice is still sweet.
“Just- Stay like that, beautiful.” He kisses the side of your head. “And if it- If anything starts to feel bad, tell me. I’ll stop.”
And you believe him. You know just how much this is affecting him, but you also know he’s Clark. And there isn’t a force on earth that could make him hurt you like that.
“Can you- Can you please say you’ll tell me-“
“I’ll tell you.” It’s barely more than an exhale.
Clark hears it.
“Good. Good girl.” He kisses your neck this time, and you whimper. “Let me- Can’t do it here. Not right.”
You’re not sure what he’s talking about until you’re airborne. Clark tosses you over his shoulder, holding you steady with one arm around your knees, and you blink at the cum and sweat stained floor. You might have to move, after this.
Maybe Clark could let you live with him.
Too fast. And not the thing to worry about right now.
Get fucked stupid, then think about your living situation and relationship status.
That’s a good plan. The best plan.
There really couldn’t be a better one, you decide. Not when Clark starts to rub your clit again, using the full pressure of his palm.
“Keeping her ready.” He rumbles, and you hum. You’re certainly not complaining.
You’re already close to another orgasm, when he lowers you down onto the bed. Your back hits the mattress, and you immediately reach between your thighs, fondling at your pussy hopelessly. Nothing feels as good as Clark’s hands. He might’ve already ruined you forever.
“Don’t do that.”
Those very hands catch your wrists. You stumble over your breath, when you look up at Clark.
He’s back into feral caveman mode. Stroking his cock with one hand, the other squeezing yours gently before setting it down at your side.
“I touch you.” He grunts, and you can’t argue with that.
You lay down, spreading your legs slowly. In offering. Clark makes that guttural sound, his dick somehow looking like it’s gotten harder. You swallow. It’s very hard not to touch yourself with a massive, hulking god standing over you and jerking himself off. For Clark, you’re going to try.
He’s been reduced back to deep noises from his chest and moans of your name, but he’s not making any attempt to move on you. He’s just… Staring.
Stroking his cock, and watching you. Looking between your wet, gaping pussy and flushed face, beating himself into his fist.
He moans, and doubles over. Pumps so fast his hand becomes a blur, and god you’d like him to do that to you later.
His face lands on your inner thigh. Soft stubble grazing the oversensitive area, cold breath pushing against your clit. You grab his hair, back arching off the bed at the taunting pleasure. Clark moans, watching you clench around nothing.
You cry, as his face fully presses into your cunt. It’s right as he finishes himself off, his cum painting the mattress and covering your ankles.
Clark rises back up, and for a second you just stare at each other.
“Didn’t mean to do that.” He rasps, and your lips twitch.
“I liked it.”
He chuckles, shaking his head. “Of course you did.”
Clark falls back over you, kissing you deep and slow. You call tell that the clear-headed affect of the orgasm is lasting for a shorter and shorter time.
And Clark choses to use it, just to kiss you.
He tests the head of his cock up and down your pussy, making sure to push it against your clit before going back down, and starting to slide slowly in. There’s almost no resistance, and he hums against your lips.
“Goin’ slow.” He mumbles. “While I can.”
You nod. It’s all you can manage.
He feels just as big—if not bigger—than he looked. Never has a cock stretched you so greatly, and so well. The fullness is incomparable, and you’d be worried you couldn’t take it if your pussy wasn’t greedily swallowing him whole.
“That’s it.” Clark groans, pushing in every inch so torturously and amazingly slow. Forcing you to feel every single inch. “There’s you go, just- Just take it- Fuuuck-“
He moans your name, and you kiss him. You want to feel everything he has, vibrating through your chest. Straight into your cunt.
Clark bottoms out, hiding his face in your neck. You blink up at the ceiling, trying to push off more tears. It’s good, unbelievably good, and your body doesn’t know what to do with it.
“Tight.” Clark mumbles against you, and you laugh breathily.
“Big.”
He looks up at you, and for a second, you only see Clark. Your best friend, looking out of you, always kinder than he needs to be.
“’m serious.” He says, low and rough. Like a secret. “When I call you pretty. When I- When I say I want you-“
You kiss him, and Clark melts into you in a second. You can’t stop your smile.
“I know.” You breathe, and he nods.
“Love you.” He pushes in almost an inch deeper, like the words spur him on. “So much.”
You blink, and his eyes widen.
“That’s- Um- I don’t think I meant to- You feel really good and my brain is soupy-“
Kissing to shut him up will only work so many times. You cover his mouth with your hand, every inch of you feeling alive. From his words, his body, every single inch of this glorious man that’s somehow, all yours.
“My brain is soupy too.” You whisper, clenching purposefully around his cock.
Clark grunts, rutting forward. You giggle, and he gives you a dangerous look.
“Very soupy. But,” You beam. “I love you too. And I’m very serious.”
Clark pauses. Smiles into your hand, eyes shining in the dark. You feel a little like your floating. You’d like to be rocketed right up to heaven.
“Make me dumb.” You breathe, and Clark’s shoulders square.
Your hand is knocked away in a second. His mouth attacks yours, and the moment he starts to move, an orgasm is ripped from your very core.
You scream, locking up and clenching around him. Clark moans against your lips, grabbing your knees and pushing them up to your chest. It’s a deep angle, and you can feel every inch of him, sliding in and out of your cunt. His balls slap near your ass, and his mouth hangs open as he stares down at him.
He’s fully gone to the red kryptonites effects. There’s no question, as he bends you in half and starts to fuck you like a doll. But he still doesn’t let his strength slip. You feel completely safe in his hands.
Safe and attended to.
You’ve never fucked a man who makes sure to hit your g-spot so much, and Clark’s barely even lucid right now. But he drills down into it, moaning your name and making those sinful, beautiful sounds.
It’s too much for your poor pussy. Two is a lot of orgasms. Three is your—usual—max, and that’s usually with time between. But Clark isn’t letting up. And you’re getting close again.
“Cla- Clark-“ You whine out, and he fucking growls. “Clark, I’m gonna-“
He makes a deep noise of understanding, and starts to fuck you harder. You cry out, grabbing uselessly at the sheets as the next release gushes from your pussy, flying up your spine like ecstasy.
Clark finds his own release there. With you clenching tight around him, writhing with overwhelmed pleasure and moaning his name like a hymn as you come. He throws his head back and starts to fuck like an animal, roaring your name.
He grabs your jaw, demanding your eyes on his. His thumb presses on your lower lip.
Cockdrunk and empty headed, you open your mouth and start to suck.
It feels even better than you’d thought. At first it’s nothing, just painting your walls and sticking so deep inside you, you think it knocks you into another, tiny orgasm. Then it’s more, spurting out of your pussy as he keeps fucking into you. An obscene fountain, staining your ass and thighs.
Then it’s too much. You’re not sure you can breathe, but the lights dancing on the edge of your vision only add to the euphoria.
Now, it’s everything. You’re full. So full. You never want to be empty again.
And you don’t think Clark would allow that anyway.
Because he’s still fully hard inside of you. And with how he’s staring at you, you don’t think there’s a space of sound mind anymore.
Clark just stares at you, still mindlessly sucking on his thumb and growls.
You giggle as he grabs your hips and flips you onto your stomach. Drags your ass back up into the air and pushes himself back in with a thick moan.
There’s a chance that his cum is transferring some of the sexual stamina onto you. It’s the only possible way you can last this long. Clark fucks into you from behind, kissing up and down your spine as his balls slap against your clit. Your fourth orgasm hits you, and you think you see he stars.
Clark cums again. You don’t know how there’s still possibly space for it, but nature finds a way.
You giggle into the sheets. Clark kisses your shoulder, rutting deeper and deeper into your abused pussy.
He might take your laughter as a challenge. Suddenly you’re being flipped over, and Clark’s impaling you on his dick once more, forcing you to slide down and feel every inch.
It’s a good thing you get giggly when you have good sex.
If he sees it as a challenge, you’re ready to lose, over and over and over again.
On Sunday, Clark fucks you through the afternoon and into the night.
There isn’t a spot in the apartment that doesn’t feel the aftermath. After making you ride him, he clambered over you and held you to his chest, fucking you with just your knees on the bed. After that you ended up on your back, then riding him again, then somehow on the floor. Against the wall. In the doorway, your face pressed against the window, Clark flying and holding you in his lap. By the time the sun was over your head, you were a wordless, dumb mess. Clark had you in a headlock and you were smiling like an idiot, taking his cock over and over again until you think you reshaped each other.
Now, standing in the shower to wash off the everything, you think if you reached down and touched yourself, you’d find Clark completely rearranged your guts to his shape. When you’d looked at him during the soft, quiet cleanup, his cock had certainly looked like you’d molded him to only fit in you.
It’s an oddly romantic thought.
There are lots of those to go around.
Clark’s waiting for you in the living room. He’s been trying to clean, but you don’t think there’s a point.
“I told you I’m going to have to move,” you joke, and he sighs.
“Well, I- I really tried, but-“ He wrinkles his nose. “I think it got in things. When I- Yeah.” He groans. “I can see it.”
“See it-“
“X-ray vision.”
“Oh.” That fun revelation had gotten lost in everything else. It’s going to take some getting used to.
Clark bows his head, almost in shame.
“Sorry I didn’t tell you,” he mutters.
You shake your head. “It fine-“
“I wanted to-“
“Clark.” You place a hand on his chest, smiling softly. “It’s okay. Really.”
He blinks at you, then relaxes.
“Really?” He asks anyway, and you nod.
“Really.” You nod to the floor. “I can even start apartment hunting right now.”
Clark laughs at that, and you beam.
It’s the same. Even after I love yous and the sex marathon, it’s still just Clark. And you’re more lucky to have that, than anything else.
“You could move in with me.” He suggests quiet and nervous, and your eyes widen.
“I-“
“If it’s too fast, you don’t have to, I- Geez, I haven’t even taken you out on a date yet, never mind-“
“Clark.” You raise your voice, forcing him to quiet down. “I was thinking the same thing earlier.”
He starts slightly. His lips twitch. “You were?”
You nod, and he grins like you handed him the sun.
“It’s not- Maybe too fast-“
“Maybe.” You shrug. “But I- I’ve loved you for years.” You look down to your fingers. “And we kind of lived together before. For work. And you’re my friend, first, so if you think it’s fine-“
Clark pulls your own trick. He grabs your face, and shuts you up with a deep, long kiss. You smile, rising up to meet him, and it’s barely been a day, but it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“I’m gonna do it right, though.” Clark says against your lips. “Take you out. Woo you.”
You laugh. “Bring it on.”
✦End note: sex pollen fics are so fun i feel like im getting a secondary high✦
✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦
☄︎ Warnings: None, fluffy fluff
☄︎ Pairing: F!Reader x Dean Di Laurentis
☄︎ Rating: PG
☄︎ Words: 1362
☄︎ AN: written for this request. this was so cute ahhhhhh. disclaimer! i have not played the game so all of my knowledge is from watching others play through tiktok and youtube shorts!! So, i’m so sorry about any inaccuracies in gameplay. i hope you enjoy, comments and feedback are always appreciated xx
☄︎ Summary: Your boyfriend’s experiencing a severe attention drought because, digitally, you’re too busy falling for another...
The hours had stretched lazily across the afternoon and bled into the evening. While Dean had come and gone and come back again, you had barely moved from your position on the sofa. Usually, neither of you would mind that too much, your relationship had gotten to the point where you were able to exist in the same space with no words needed to be spoken.
However, ever since he brought you a new game for your Nintendo Switch, a purchase he now sorely regretted, you’ve barely paid him any attention.
Outside, the world was dark and quiet. Inside, the room was dimly lit by the colourful glow of your Switch, and the harsh white glare from Dean’s phone. The soft click-clack of your thumbs pressing buttons and moving the joysticks was the only sound breaking the silence.
“Alight,” Dean sighs, “explain this game to me again.”
The cushions shifted as Dean tossed his phone aside and got up. He walked over to your side of the sofa, scooting in right behind you. Without a word, you wiggled back into the warm space between his legs, leaning back against his broad chest. You lifted the Switch up, propping your elbows on his knees just high enough so you could both see the screen.
“Tell me about this thing you’ve been running for three days straight,” he whispered, his voice tickling your neck. He wrapped his arms loosely around you, trapping you against him in the best way possible. “I’m starting to get jealous of the attention your villagers, or whatever they’re called, are getting.”
When you didn’t respond immediately, too focused on the drama happening with two of your Miis, he leant in and blew a warm puff of air directly into your ear. A shiver ran down your spine, and you laughed, turning your head to look at him.
Dean was already smiling, but his smile grew when you looked up at him. His blue eyes bright in the dark room. He smelt faintly like the cologne he always wore and the shampoo he’d used from his shower after his afternoon practice.
Before you could lean in to smell him, he leant forward and pressed a chaste kiss to your lips.
“Hey,” you smiled, your heart doing that familiar little flutter it always did when he focused all his attention on you.
“Hey,” he said back.
You turned your attention back to the glowing screen. Dean hooked his chin over your shoulder, the stubble on his jaw scratching lightly against your skin as he leant in to peer at the game you were playing.
On the screen, you were hovering over the apartment complex. Around the town, chaos was happening. Dean let out an amused huff against your neck, his chest vibrating against your back. “What the hell is going on?”
“The game is just random like that,” you laughed, tapping the joystick to pan to the other side of the island. “They have a life of their own when you’re not directly influencing it.”
You showed him a few more things on the island, a fight had now broken out between Tucker and a random Mii and you were separating them.
“I made us all,” you grinned.
Dean’s arms tightened slightly around you, his interest fully piqued. “Oh really? What are we doing? Are we fucking?”
You snorted, nearly dropping the console. “Dean! No, it’s a Nintendo game please.”
“Lameeee,” he mumbled in your ear. “Fine. Am I at least as smooth and handsome as I am in real life?”
“You can judge that for yourself,” you chuckled, scrolling until the camera was over his apartment building. “Let’s check on you first. You live on the top floor, obviously. I gave you boyband hair, do you like it?”
Dean’s Mii, with perfectly styled swoopy hair and wearing a fancy robe, was in the corner of his room, hands slamming on the piano keys. You had customised his apartment with a load of expensive looking items, it was for Dean after all.
Humming proudly, Dean pressed a sloppy kiss to your neck. “I’m GLORIOUS!”
“I knew you’d like it,” you said.
“Now show me your Mii, I want to see what my gorgeous girlfriend is up to.”
Zooming back out, you scrolled until you saw your apartment. You clicked onto yourself, your Mii was sat on the floor with a pink bubble.
“What does that mean?” Dean asked.
You giggled to yourself, knowing that Dean was about to be in for the shock of his life.
“Let’s find out together.”
You clicked on the bubble and turned your head to watch Dean’s face drop as a speech bubble appeared over your Mii:
“I can’t hold back my feelings for Garrett Graham. I need to tell him how I feel.”
Dean went completely rigid against you. You could see his eyes widening as he stared at the screen, trying to process this betrayal.
Slowly, his jaw dropped.
“Urmmm, what the FUCK.” He lifted his head off of your shoulder, leaning back so he could look you dead in the eye. “Who the fuck is Garrett Graham?”
Your body jerked as you tried to suppress your laughter. “Well, it’s this kinda hot guy, he’s the captain of the hockey team and-.”
“No,” Dean interrupted, “I know who he is but, we’ll circle back to that kinda hot comment later, who is he to you there.” He emphasised that with an accusatory point to your Switch screen.
You turned back to the screen and tapped the bottom right corner. “He’s my crush, silly.”
Mii you was in the far right, with a pink arrow pointing to Garrett’s Mii with the words ‘ready to risk it all’ written inside. Above your digital head, was the word ‘crush’ in bold. Garrett’s Mii mirrored yours, his arrow having ‘head over heels’ written inside.
“Oh, so you’re ready to risk it all, are you?”
He pinched your sides and then moved his hands to where he knew you were most ticklish. You shrieked, finally letting out the laugh you’d been swallowing. Your entire body shook against his as he launched into a full tickle assault.
The Switch fell out of your hands, tumbling somewhere between your bodies, but you were too busy twisting and squirming in an attempt to escape him to care.
“Dean! Stop it,” you gasped, face flushing warm as tears of laughter pricked at the corners of your eyes.
You twisted a bit too far and tumbled right off the edge of the sofa. Dean followed you down without breaking his hold, his body instantly hovering over yours on the floor.
“This is the price of infidelity,” he said. He leant in and bit at the sensitive skin of your neck, leaving a deliberate and possessive hickey there. “My girl.”
You swatted at his chest. “Yes, you caveman.”
“Who is your favourite?” Dean threatened, his fingers hovering over your ribs again. “Answer quickly and correctly.”
“You! It’s you, obviously!” You laughed, your hands clutching at his shoulders to hold him back.
Dean finally stopped his attack, though, he didn’t move away. He stayed hovering over you, his eyes sparkling with amusement as you took in deep, ragged breaths, your chest heaving against his.
He dropped down to his forearms, trapping you beneath him, his face just inches from yours.
“Good answer,” he murmured, slamming his lips against yours in a rough kiss. You sighed, wrapping your arms around his neck to pull him closer, but he pulled back with a smug grin. “I’m not letting you off the hook that easily.”
Right then, a chime echoed. Dean looked down at you, a single eyebrow lifting, while your eyes widened in pure horror. You were going to get in so much trouble for this.
Dean reached blindly up to the sofa, patting around until he found the Switch. He held it so you could both see what was happening.
On the screen, the game was still running, the Mii having made the decision as you took too long to choose an option.
Your Mii was officially heading out to meet Garrett’s Mii to confess her love.
c/w ᝰ.ᐟ so much teasing, using panties during sex, unprotected p in v, over-the-panties stimulation, denial, mid-sex banter, rough-ish, pet names (bunny/bun, princess, sweetheart, pretty + no y/n), did I mention teasing, more evidence dean is down bad, post-sex sweetness + hunter davenport is still catching strays
He leans in and kisses you before you can say anything else. The kiss is messy and deep, all tongue and heat, breathless laughter whispering in the spaces between as he carries you toward his bedroom, kicking the door shut behind him with his heel.
“Fuck,” he murmurs as he breaks the kiss, reaching for breath, his voice low and thick. He sets you down and backs you up against the wall, his body settling against yours with a heavy weight that makes your breath catch as your spine meets it.
His mouth drags along your jaw before finding yours again, teasing you with a kiss before drawing back slightly.
“Been thinkin’ about this all fuckin’ night.”
“I’m here,” you breathe back, the words coming out soft and breathless against his mouth. “Don’t make me wait.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He takes his turn smiling into the kiss, sending chills down your spine, cocky and desperate all at once. He dips in again, kissing you slower this time, deep enough to make your head spin and everything else fall away.
“Clean sweep,” he murmurs against your mouth.
“Show off,” you whisper and he lets out a low laugh against your lips.
“Cashin’ in on that bet.” His hand wraps around your waist, the other gripping your ass, pulling you off the floor, into his arms again.
Your head swims as you kiss your way to his bed; your body melting into him, legs wrapping around his waist.
Your hands come up, settling around the back of his neck, your fingers drifting into the hair at his nape. Dean lets out a quiet breath and closes his eyes for a second.
“Jesus Christ.”
“What?”
“You got any idea how pretty you are?” A crooked smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “I’m so serious.”
“So sweet when you want to be, Di Laurentis,” you chuckle tiredly.
“Got a little crazy back there, huh, bun?”
“Uh, yeah,” you mumble. “You did.”
“You spent two hours makin' me watch Hunter Davenport touch you,” he mumbles.
“Nobody made you watch—”
“Couldn’t help it.” His gaze drops from your face, lingering for a second before making its way back up again. “You drive me insane,” he sighs before he kisses you again, your hand coming down to reach for the hem of his shirt.
Your fingers hook into the fabric, pulling upward, and he laughs softly against your mouth when he realizes what you’re doing, lifting his arms automatically so you can drag the shirt over his head.
His hands settle right back on you the second the shirt’s gone, leaning in to deepen the kiss.
“You know what the problem is?” He asks.
“What?”
“I don’t even care if you wanna be casual or not,” he mutters half-serious, half-laughing against your mouth.
“Dean—”
“M’serious,” he hums, the zipper of your jeans gliding down slowly beneath his fingers. “Just wanna end as many nights as I can exactly like this. Don’t even care if you make me place stupid bets and I gotta dust his ass every goddamn weekend. I’m in.”
“You’re in?”
“Mhmm.”
“Funny. Took Hunter Davenport talking to me to figure that out.”
“Damn,” he mutters, letting out a weak laugh like those words actually stung. “That’s what you think, huh?”
Your lips draw to the side, eyebrow arching, challenging him to give you a response instead of a question, and he nods like he’s accepting the challenge.
“You’re right… Shoulda told you a while ago. I deserved everything I got tonight.”
“You did,” you remind him.
Dean shakes his head and laughs under his breath. “Yeah. I did.”
He peels your shirt over your head next, leaving you in nothing but soft mesh, and whatever he was about to say disappears completely. His chin drops as he blows out a heavy breath. “What did I do to deserve you—”
“Just fucking kiss me,” you giggle and he lifts you easily off the floor, tossing you back onto the bed.
Your body bounces against the mattress, and before you can settle he’s helping you the rest of the way out of your jeans, tugging them down your thighs impatiently.
By the time you try to prop yourself up on your elbows, he’s already climbing over you, bracing his weight above you while his hands catch your wrists and press them into the mattress on either side of your head.
He looks down at you with a tilted smile, hair falling into his eyes, his chest still rising a little harder than normal.
His shoulders flex every time he shifts closer, his tanned skin warm against yours, his chain dangling off his neck, landing cool against your hot skin.
“Playin’ after you agreed to come up here was impossible?”
“You were winning.”
“Yeah,” he murmurs, pressing his forehead against yours and closing his eyes for a second, your lips barely brushing. “Still would’ve rather been up here.”
You keep lifting your head off the pillow to follow him when he pulls back even slightly, leaving you chasing his mouth. Each time you do it he lets out the faintest laugh against your lips, the sound making a steady pulse beat between your thighs.
His hands slide up your arms, gathering your wrists above your head in one hand. His body grinds at the same time, the rough denim of his jeans dragging against your panties.
The chill of his belt buckle brushes against your skin, pulling a quiet breath out of you. Your back arches instinctively, fingers tightening into fists, his fingers curling a little tighter to keep you in place.
His stomach tightens, abs going hard every time his hips rock, every little movement making you react.
His free hand drops between you to work at his belt as you kiss him through it, smiling against his lips when he finally manages to shove his jeans down far enough to give himself room to kick them off.
The whole time he keeps finding you again between breaths, refusing to lose you for longer than he has to.
You moan against his mouth when his hand cups your pussy, clicking his tongue like he knew this is exactly how he’d find you—soaking wet. “Yeah?” he rasps. “Thinkin’ about this all night?”
“Maybe,” you whisper.
“Too wet for maybe’s, bunny,” he mumbles.
You giggle, bratty and breathless, before his tongue slips into your mouth, rolling slowly as his fingers do the same, rubbing tight circles on your clit.
“Laughin’ at me, huh?” He asks. “Still think this shit’s funny?”
“Mhmm,” you whimper then gasp against his lips as he pinches your clit between his fingers, his lips sucking and biting down on your bottom lip just enough to pinch.
“Brat,” he mumbles, not sounding bothered by it in the slightest. A grin pulls at his mouth when your hips betray you, bucking into his hand.
Dean slowly rises up onto his knees above you, his eyes never leaving your face as he pulls down his boxers, his cock slapping against his bare skin with a snap. His eyes drop from your face, lingering for a second before making their way back up again.
“So fucking pretty for me.”
Your hands shift instinctively and he catches the movement, snatching your wrists again to push them into the bed with a little more muscle.
“Keep your hands where they are,” he whispers against your lips.
The mesh fabric between your thighs is already clinging to your skin, practically opaque from how wet you already are. He exhales slowly through his nose and shakes his head as he takes his dick in his fist.
“Pink?” He mutters under his breath, tapping the wet fabric with his tip, the precum gathered on his hard skin mixed with your arousal on the slick material separating the two of you. “You wore my favorite color.”
“Is it?” You ask—but you did.
“You wore this for me, huh?” He breathes. “Could’ve told me before I started throwing shit, huh?”
“Unfortunately that was hot,” you whisper.
Dean’s head drops immediately.
“I knew you’d like that shit, bun,” he chuckles. “Damn, we’re a fucking problem, huh?” He laughs against your lips as he traces his dick along your slit. The fabric drags against his sensitive skin, rubbing along you with every slow pass.
He thrusts his hips forward, the tip pressing there, and warmth spreads through your body despite the thin barrier still between you.
The pressure alone is enough to pull a moan from both of you. You bite down on your lip, both of your hands clawing into the sheets beside your head, twisting the fabric between your fingers as his cock rubs over your clit again and again.
Your eyes roll back as he spits on the place where the two of you meet, his hard cock slicking through the wetness, stroking in a rough, steady rhythm.
Your tongue runs along your bottom lip and the knot in your stomach tightens. Your pleasure builds, the sight of his strong body rolling into you without penetration doing nothing but teasing just how deep his cock would go, pre cum dripping off his tip as it drags across your skin.
“Yeah?” He pants. “C’mon, bunny—”
“Shit,” you whimper, matching his movements with a swivel of your hips.
Dean keeps talking you through it, his voice low and warm as the praise slips out between sharp breaths. “Fightin’ so fuckin’ hard,” he tells you, looking up at your hands as you white-knuckle the bedsheets; looking down at your thighs to watch them quake. “You gonna cum for me? I know you want to,” He grunts and you whimper a ‘yes’.
You cum with his name on your lips and your pussy pulsing around nothing as he continues to stroke. Your eyes pinch shut and your hands reach for him quickly, grabbing him by the hair and the neck to pull him to your lips.
He swallows your moans, not letting up his movement until you're melting underneath him, your mind doing the same.
He grips you firmly and shifts your body in one smooth motion, guiding you forward and turning you until you are on your hands and knees, his big body pressing flush behind you, hard cock swinging between your thighs.
Dean’s hands settle on your hips first, sliding a little higher until his palms are full, squeezing and kneading your ass in his hands. His thumbs drag slow circles over your skin while you glance back over your shoulder at him, and the smugness painted all over his face starts to bleed out of him.
“Probably shouldn’t have told me you liked that,” he murmurs quietly, his thumbs tracing along the hem of your panties like he’s deciding whether to move them aside or make you wait, choosing the latter, snapping the fabric against your skin with a smirk. “Gave me way too much information, sweetheart.”
You laugh and roll your eyes, still trying to catch your breath. “And what information did I give you, Di Laurentis?” You mumble as his hand leaves your body and his fingers curl beneath your chin.
He guides you back toward him so your spine arches and your shoulders dip, bringing your mouth close enough that he can lean forward and kiss you over your shoulder.
“That you like me jealous. That you like me losin’ my mind over you. Were you trying to make me jealous, baby?” He murmurs against your lips.
You smile softly at that, catching his mouth for a second, sucking and tugging before you pull away. “I’d never,” you whisper and he laughs against your lips.
“I don’t share real well.” He smiles playfully, spanking your thigh, making you press your ass into him further. His eyes lock onto yours. “And then you’re gonna tell me that's what turned you on?”
“Doesn’t sound like something I’d say,” you mumble and he just smiles, still toying with you.
“Bullshit.” The words come out through a tight laugh as his hands return to your hips, sliding lower again as he shifts behind you. His palms spread over you while he adjusts his position slightly.
Every inch of his body gives him away—you can see it all over his face, feel how painfully hard he is when he slaps his dick against your ass but still he resists.
You reach down instinctively, your fingers brushing the edge of your panties as you start to shift them aside.
“Hands on the bed, bunny.”
“Dean,” you scold, but all he does is snicker, his hand cupped below your lips for spit.
“Put that mouth to good use—been causin’ enough problems with it all night,” he taunts as you spit in his hand. “Knew you were enjoyin’ yourself.”
He rubs the spit over his stiff cock, eyes unwavering on your body. His hands settle on your ass, thumbs spreading you apart as he glides his dick through the narrow space between them.
Stroke after stroke, tease after tease, his heavy balls slap against your clit with each push of his hips, making the muscles in your body jump with sensitivity.
You look over your shoulder with a pout. A quiet chuckle slips out of him. “You think poutin’ is gonna help?” He murmurs, his voice softer now. “Like I’m gonna feel bad for you?”
“Maybe,” you breathe.
A laugh slips out of him. “S’fuckin’ adorable,” he breathes and just when you think you won, he grips your panties and thrusts, his thick dick tracing between your ass, tip pushing against the rough mesh of your panties, still not giving you what you want.
“So damn wet,” he groans as his balls finally slap against your pussy, skin against skin, the wet smack filling the room along with his moans as you whimper and whine. “Shit, I could probably get off just like this—”
You scoff through a sharp breath, feeling yourself getting closer and closer from the smacking of his balls against your clit alone, but you want more.
“Where the fuck are you goin’?” He laughs, catching you as you crawl forward like you've finally had enough, yanking you back, grabbing your panties in his fist, just to wrap them around the base of his cock, binding you together before he pushes deep in your pussy.
Your moans blend together, your head falling forward and his throwing back as he bottoms out completely.
“Oh—Oh shit, baby,” he groans, stalling out for a moment as your wet warmth surrounds him, your body squeezing him tight. So wet he’s pinching his eyes shut, thinking about anything else but the moment to keep from cumming on the spot.
His hips draw back, the panties tightening around his cock the farther he pulls away. The delicate stitching strains with it, sounding like it might snap.
He presses forward slow, watching his dick dip deep. The panties wrapped around him make his cock redder, the veins mapping each inch standing higher—until his body is flush with your ass.
“Fuck, Dean,” you moan, rolling your hips a little, his blunt fingernails digging into your ass at the feeling.
The air knocks out of your chest as he pounds into you, the wet mess that he made squelching through the room, both of you sure you aren’t going to last much longer like this.
“Feels so damn good,” he grits out, one hand landing against your shoulder before dragging down your arm, searching for your hand. His fingers wrap tightly around yours, pinned against your back, your face coming down to press against the mattress as he cracks you at the perfect angle.
You whimper that you’re close, the words barely making it out of your mouth. “Fuck, I’m cumming,” Dean stammers, and his grip tightens around your hand, your pleasure enough for him to break, jaw tightening, brows furrowing, filling you up but refusing to stop until you finish.
You follow close behind him, pussy fluttering around his cock as it throbs inside you, leaving him sucking in a breath as you milk him dry.
Dean’s grip is still locked with yours when he finally shifts. The room around you is heavy with heat and sex, but the weight that had been sitting on your shoulders all night is gone.
He pulls you back against his chest, the two of you still on your knees, his skin damp and his heart thundering against your back as you both try to catch your breaths. He presses a soft kiss against your shoulder and then another against the side of your neck, adrenaline leaving his lips trembling against your hot skin.
His arms wrap around you a little tighter, nuzzling into your neck like he can’t help himself.
“Good thing you wore these for me,” he mutters. “M’sorry, pretty. I’ll buy you a new pair, yeah?” You whimper as he pulls out, the loose panties tumbling uselessly off your hips.
Dean grabs for you, rolling you on top of him. Your hands rest on his chest while his big arms wrap around your body, keeping you close.
He looks up at you and sighs, brushing your hair out of your face, amusement pulling at the corner of his mouth before he speaks.
“Fuck, that was incredible”—ding!
Your phone lights up in the pocket of your jeans half-hanging off the mattress. You blow out a shaky breath, muscles trembling, reaching over for it.
“A deal’s a deal,” he murmurs, warm against your skin, chuckling through the exhaustion. You pull your phone out and look back at it, a message telling you to come find him later, despite knowing full well where you are and who you’re with.
His palm rests solid on your hip, tracing slow circles over your skin absentmindedly.
Dean rolls his eyes and takes the phone from your hand, jaw tightening for half a second before he drops it onto the mattress.
“I don’t give a shit,” he murmurs quietly.
“You don’t care?” you whisper, and a little panic sets in. You can see it on his face. He cups your cheeks in his hands, guiding your gaze to him.
“Woah, bun. Just—no. ‘Bout you? Absolutely. About him? No. I don’t give a fuck. I mean, look at where I am, huh?” He mumbles, pulling you down into a kiss.
You let out a little sigh against his lips, relief and satisfaction mellowing you out.
You melt into him as his rough fingers trace lower, moving down your spine and back up. He smiles up at you before pulling you down into another kiss.
“I’m in,” you breathe and he hums out a satisfied groan that buzzes all the way to your toes. His grip on you tightens and you gasp when he rolls you beneath him.
“You serious?”
“Yeah,” you whisper. Dean stares at you for a second before dropping his head with a laugh, chain swinging loosely off his neck.
“Thank God.”
“What?” You ask curiously as your hands wrap around the back of his neck, fingers sliding into his messy hair.
“Would’ve been real fuckin’ awkward if I went downstairs and lost that bet to Logan.”
Your lips fall open in disgust, nose scrunching up. “You were betting on me?” And again, his eyes go wide as he scrambles to explain himself.
“Bunny—Baby, c’mon now,” he chuckles, his voice raspy and deep. “On us, alright?” He corrects himself. “And I’m just kiddin’, alright?”
You roll your eyes away and he grabs your cheeks with a single hand, turning your face back toward him.
“Besides,” he murmurs, his thumb dragging slowly across your cheek.
“Besides what?”
“Shit wasn’t exactly a fair competition.”
“Why not?”
Your hand drifts down his arm, fingers tracing over the hard curve of his bicep before settling on his skin, squeezing and feeling the muscle tighten underneath when he leans closer.
The corner of his mouth lifts as his lips brush softly against yours.
summary: you and dean both have reputations around campus for being…sexually proficient. you’re not usually the monogamous type, but after watching him through social media enjoy his summer vacation a bit too much, you’re finding that this casual arrangement between the two of you might be anything but casual.
contains: no use of y/n, sexting, dean sends a modest dick pic lol, flirting, cursing, allusions to sex
Not like I’m counting the days / But it’s been 25.
You’d gone too long without sex.
That was what you’d been telling yourself the last three weeks, anyway. It had to be the only reasonable explanation as to why you kept checking Dean Di Laurentis’ instagram and staring aimlessly at your last text conversation.
The only flaw in that theory however, was that you’d been offered what some might describe as a smorgasbord of veritable options for potential lovers.
There was something wrong with each and every one of them, though. One was too tall, another too short. One’s hair was too long and another too thin. One man, you insisted, had a weirdly shaped chin.
The horror.
The real issue was that these men—your friend very rudely pointed out—were not Dean Di Laurentis. And when that had begun to be a problem, you had no idea, but you blamed him for somehow getting under your skin when you weren’t paying attention.
You were nowhere near the first girl who had grown attached to him after starting a physical relationship. And you couldn’t fault those other women either; he was an attractive guy with the stamina befitting a young athlete, and the confidence only a man with a large penis could wield.
You’d merely fallen victim to his charm, yet another casualty in the beast that is Dean Di Laurentis’ sex life. And quite frankly, that fact infuriated you.
This mutually beneficial relationship the two of you had started back in the winter was supposed to be just that; mutually beneficial. And it was, for the most part. During the school year, the both of you were too busy to commit to anything besides stumbling through either of your bedroom doors, ripping each other’s clothes off, and then falling asleep the moment after the both of you came.
That was likely the only reason either of you remained somewhat monogamous during the last semester anyway; the exhaustion that had both of you in a death grip. But as the heat creeped in at Briar, so did the awkward discussion of what the plans would be over summer break. You would never expect Dean, card carrying member of the Man Whore Association, to remain celibate for a whole two months. And honestly, you wouldn’t expect that of yourself, either. But somewhere, somehow, Dean had managed what no other man had been able to do up until this point: lock you down.
You hated the terminology, but you couldn’t think of another word for it. In all your years of being sexually active, you hadn’t ever met someone you liked enough to turn you off to the idea of sleeping with other people. The thought was absolutely terrifying.
So, instead of wallowing in your bedroom in Boston while Dean and Beau spend their night at some hot nightclub in Manhattan, you decide to prove to yourself and everyone that Dean Di Laurentis has not in fact ‘dickmatized’ you.
But damn, I miss you tonight
You were determined to get your own instagram-worthy content to post for tonight. You’d put on your shortest dress and your highest heels like it was armor and went out on a warpath looking for someone to shamelessly flirt with.
Your friends had agreed without hesitation to join you in a night out on the town, but their looks were annoyingly knowing as they watched you scan the crowd of dancing bodies. You found your first potential victim not amongst the writhing forms that resembled animals in heat, but leaning against the bar. He was your favorite version of tall, dark, and handsome and his smirk that he sent you was so gloriously confident that it made you look forward to watching him falter while going toe-to-toe with you.
You enjoyed the feel of his gaze on you from across the room while you and your friends got situated on the couch, taking ample amounts of photos together, and raising your espresso martinis you had gotten for free from some other group of guys, who likely had a radar for single women that worked at about a ten-mile radius.
You and the handsome stranger exchanged looks periodically throughout the night, testing the waters by reapplying your cherry red lipstick with more sensuality than the task required, but you didn’t get a bite on your line until getting up to dance in a spot where he could still easily spot you.
When his hands slid around your waist, you thought, Bingo.
You danced with your back pressed to his front, his lips alternating their hover between your ear and your neck. Usually, the feeling of someone pressed up against you would excite you. Usually, you would have slid your hands up into his hair and bent his head down to kiss you already. None of those things happened, unfortunately. And the exchange between you and Mr. Handsome got old quick.
Luckily, you didn’t have to spend much more time pretending to be interested. Your friend snapped a picture of the two of you cozied up, and as soon as the flash went off, you took the opportunity to pull away. You watched with mild amusement as the poor stranger’s lips followed yours, his eyebrows furrowing in confusion before pulling away as well.
“Thanks for the dance,” was all you said before taking your friend’s hands and leading them further into the crowd.
And I’m out at a party, they’re playin’ our song / I cry on the dance floor, it’s so embarrassing
You spend your time in the bathroom posting the photos to your story while on the toilet. The picture with Mr. Handsome turned out perfect, your lips just a few inches from each other, your eyes hooded like you were already picturing him naked. You spent the rest of the evening trying desperately hard not to check the views on your story.
But your mind, the cruel bitch she is, didn’t let you toss Dean out of your thoughts. In fact, it seemed fate and your mind both had it out for you that night, as the song that played over the club speakers was one that always reminded you of him.
You’d met Dean in one of the most cliche ways; at a frat party.
You’d known Beau for a few years, having taken some of the same classes, and your friend group tended to run more with the football guys as opposed to hockey.
The two of you had been talking about Professor Mitchell and his sadistic tendencies when your favorite Lady Gaga song came on. You didn’t even have to say anything for Beau to turn you down, just your widened eyes and excited smile was enough to alert him of your sudden dance request.
“Oh, come on. Please?” You pouted and gave your best puppy dog eyes, but Beau was never one to fall for your antics. It was one of the reasons you had remained only friends.
“Making a lady beg, Maxwell? I thought I taught you better than that.” Dean entered the conversation like he did everything; confidently and without care.
“You dance with her then, Di Laurentis.”
You raised your eyebrows at him in challenge, Beau completely forgotten as you and Dean eyed each other like either of your bodies were a dessert case and you were merely just trying to decide which one you wanted to taste first.
It should have been more embarrassing, how quickly you folded after that dance, but when his mouth was on you and moving like you’d instructed countless other guys to, and yet never had to utter a word to him, you couldn’t find it in you to care.
The both of you blazed into each other’s lives like a comet; fast and bright, and never looked back.
Not until now. Not until you’re standing on a dance floor, surrounded by people who would go home with you if you only asked while the song you and Dean first danced to played, and all you could think of was him.
You tell yourself the tears are frustration. You don’t miss him. You do not.
Don’t send me photos, you’re makin’ it worse / ‘cause you’re so hot, it’s hurtin’ my feelings.
The notification comes in about 1AM, you’re in the back of an uber on your way home, squished in between your friends, only one arm free to hold your phone as you practically sit on your other one.
You hate yourself for how quickly you check when the text tone pings, the very person you were hoping it was appearing on the screen.
He’d texted a picture of him dramatically pouting, his bottom lip out as his sad blue eyes stare into the camera.
Beneath it, it says, ‘I miss you.’
You bite your cheek to keep yourself from smiling, determined to white-knuckle grip your pride and restraint. You lock your phone before your fingers can decide to type out a response in an embarrassing amount of time and stare forward, knowing all of your friends saw. You were practically on top of each other, it was unavoidable.
“You’re both idiots,” one of them quips.
“I know.” This time you can’t control your smile.
I get a little lonely / Get a little more close to me / You’re the only one who knows me, babe
You felt the vibration of another message coming through while you were still in the uber, but you made yourself wait until you were back in your room to look. And thank god you did, because he had sent a picture of his dick—thankfully covered—as his hand gripped it through the grey material his boxer briefs.
‘My cock misses you too.’ He adds.
You immediately call him.
“I charge by the minute,” is how he answers the phone.
You roll your eyes. “You’re lucky I waited until I was alone to look at that. My friends would have never let you live that down.”
“Hey, that was pretty tasteful. I could have sent the average dick pic with flash and then your friends would have really gotten a treat.”
“I don’t know why guys do that. Nothing looks appealing with flash. Too much detail.”
“I agree. Sort of like the picture you posted on your story. All I could focus on was that guys sloppy shave job. He was basically sporting a neck beard.”
You couldn’t help the smirk that took over. “All you could focus on, huh?”
“Well, there were other things.”
“Like what?” You wedge the phone between your shoulder and ear as you move to take off your heels, withholding a sigh once you finally step down on bare feet onto your plush carpet.
“Like…the fact that you were wearing my favorite lipstick. And my favorite dress. And the fact that some other guy was reaping the benefits.”
“Careful, Dean,” you warn jokingly. “Someone might accuse you of sounding jealous.”
“Oh, I am, baby. I’m so jealous I left Beau at the club to come straight home so I could stare at my phone without interruptions.”
You hate the flip your stomach does, or how your heartbeat echoes in your ears.
“This…doesn’t sound casual.”
“I know,” he agrees.
“We agreed on casual.”
“I know that as well. I know a lot of things, actually. However, one thing I do not know is why the fuck we are continuing to keep things casual when you’re all I think about.”
Your breath gets caught in your throat at his blatant honesty, your head and your heart telling you two different things. One is telling you to drive all night to go see him in New York. The other is screaming at you to lie and tell him you don’t want anything more than casual, that anything more will just lead to hurt.
You settle for something in between. “I can’t stop thinking about you, either.”
You hear his exhale through the phone speaker.
“Glad we’re in agreement.”
“Me too.”
You’re quiet for another minute before he speaks again.
“You wanna have phone sex?”
“Yes,” you answer immediately.
You end up falling asleep on the phone afterwards, and wake up thinking about driving to New York, but the next morning he’s already at your door holding a very non-casual bouquet of flowers.
a.n: just a little cutie thought i had about deanie baby :))))) i hope u guys enjoyed!!
short summary: where dean is stressed about an upcoming game, and you, being the wonderful girlfriend that you are, offer to help him relax. inspired by THAT scene from off campus.
pairing: boyfriend!dean di laurentis x fem!reader
word count: 666 (dean would be proud)
warnings: porn with almost no plot, explicit sexual content, oral sex (f!receiving), established relationship, dean being obsessed with reader, stress relief taken very literally, praise, excessive use of "baby", mild swearing, teasing, possessive language, body worship, dean di laurentis treating your orgasm like a personal achievement, lots of kissing, lots of touching, emotional intimacy disguised as horny behavior, let me know if i missed any!
all characters in this story are adults.
english is not my first language, so please forgive me for any errors.
a/n: i couldn't get this idea out of my head for days, dean has me so consumed. i don't make the rules. also, i firmly believe he would use the phrase "stress-eating" in this context and think he's the funniest person alive.
what's kai listening to: juno by sabrina carpenter.
18+; mdni.
You didn't think, when you walked into Hawks House an hour ago, that you'd end up in this position.
You were on Dean's desk chair, one leg hooked over the armrest, the other digging between his shoulder blades as he knelt between your legs. your panties had long since been tossed to some unknown corner—another one in the graveyard of underwear you'd lost in Dean's room.
There had been signs for days—the fact that he'd been hunched over game footage with Logan almost every night at Malone's, the way he'd been spending every free moment at the rink with Garrett. The lack of his usual Dean-ness. Your boyfriend, you knew, was stressed, and apparently, completely determined to shoulder all of it alone.
But not on your watch.
When you headed up to his room and found him hunched over his laptop, rewatching footage from the St. Anthony's game, you immediately offered to help in any way you could.
Which is how you ended up here, with Dean's fingers parting your folds once more, his mouth closing around your clit. Your back arched, thighs tightening around his head. He'd been at this for God knew how long—you'd lost track after the third time you came.
You bit your lip, whimpering. "Dean, please—"
He lifted his head, flashing his dimples as he smiled. "You're makin' me feel so much better already, baby."
"This is not—" You gasped as he groaned against your core, your hands instinctively tangling into his blonde hair. "Not exactly what I had in mind when I s-said I'd help you de-stress."
He pulled away for a second, large hands wrapping around your thighs, pulling them farther apart. "This is helping me, baby. Have you ever heard of a little thing called stress-eating?"
You let out a breathy laugh, which quickly morphed into a moan as Dean's tongue flicked against your clit again. You were sticky with sweat, sounds of absolute pleasure escaping your lips, the room filled with the scent of your arousal and Dean's cologne.
His hands snaked up your stomach, fingers toying with your nipples as he slid his tongue past your entrance, making your eyes roll to the back of your head.
A needy, almost pornographic whine escaped you. "Dean."
"One more, baby," Dean begged, his brain foggy with the heady scent of you, the way you tasted making him forget all about the stress he'd been under for the past few days. His voice was low, wrecked. "Please. I need this—need you."
You nodded, your cunt clenching around air at the sound of him begging for you. Dean Di Laurentis, drunk on your pussy, pleading for more.
You could feel another orgasm building, blooming in the pit of your stomach as you reached up to grab one of his hands where he was still rolling your nipples between his fingers. He laced his fingers through yours immediately, thumb brushing over your knuckles.
You made the mistake of glancing downwards, and God. His blonde hair fell messily onto his forehead, and when you reached down to push it back out of his face, you nearly lost your mind then and there at the sight of him, his eyes closed, long blonde lashes resting against his cheeks. "You taste so fuckin' good baby. So fucking good for me."
Your stomach tensed, hips beginning to rock against his mouth almost involuntarily. "Fuck yeah, baby, use me. Take what you need."
You tugged him closer, thighs shaking, vision blurring as your hips bucked against his tongue, your orgasm washing over you, making your toes curl. Dean's muffled voice intercepted the desperate moans of pleasure parting your lips as he murmured from between your legs, "That's it, baby. That's my girl."
Dean finally—finally—sat back, licking the remainder of your juices off his lips. He trailed slow, gentle kisses up your neck, your jaw, your forehead as you slumped back into the chair, spent and exhausted.
"Thank you," he muttered, kissing your lips. You could taste yourself on his tongue. "For always making me feel better, baby."
SUMMARY: Dean has been dying to know why you keep sneaking out at 6 a.m. every single morning. Convinced there's a story behind it, he decides to tag along, expecting just about anything, except a Pilates class. Suddenly, the hockey star finds himself way out of his comfort zone and questioning every life choice that led him there.
WARNINGS: Pure fluff! Dean is down bad for reader, cursing, dramatic hockey boys, suggestiveness but no actual smut, probably some inaccurate Pilates descriptions (sorry)!
A/N: Once again this is PURELY self indulgent! Inspiration struck by watching a Quinn interview between Mika and Stephen talking about how he “accidentally” bailed on their Pilates class! Hope y’all enjoy!! Divider by @sc3ptre <3
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Dean was naturally curious. Actually, that wasn't entirely true. Dean was nosy. There was a difference. Curiosity was casually wondering about something. Nosiness was noticing a pattern and becoming mildly obsessed with figuring it out. And for the last three weeks, he'd been trying to figure out where the hell you kept disappearing to every morning at six o'clock.
Every. Single. Morning.
Without fail, his bedroom door would creak open just enough for him to hear the soft shuffle of your footsteps. Half-asleep, he'd crack open one eye and catch a glimpse of you moving through his bedroom like some sort of fitness-obsessed ghost. Always dressed in workout clothes. Always carrying that absurdly large water bottle that was practically the size of a small child.
Where the hell were you going?
Because nobody willingly woke up at six in the morning unless they were being paid, chased, or clinically insane. Yet there you were. Every day. Gone before sunrise. By the time Dean finally dragged himself out of bed at a reasonable hour, you’d already returned. Usually flushed from exertion, a light sheen of sweat still clinging to your skin as you tossed your keys onto the counter.
Your leggings and fitted tank top would be slightly damp, strands of hair escaping your ponytail and sticking to your temples. And you always, always, had that weird green drink in your hand. The thing looked radioactive, Dean swore it practically glowed. "What the hell is that?" He'd asked one morning, staring suspiciously at the cup in your hand. "Matcha." You muttered taking a sip through the straw, eyebrows raised.
"It looks like liquid grass."
"It's tea, Dean."
"It's toxic waste, babydoll."
A laugh escaped you as you shook your head, completely unbothered by his judgmental stare while taking another sip. Sometimes you'd head out alone. Other mornings, Dean would hear even more movement in the hallway before dawn. Additional doors opening. Muffled voices. The unmistakable sound of people who should absolutely still be asleep. Then later that day, Garrett would stumble into the hockey house looking personally victimized.
"Wellsy left at six this morning." Dean barely glanced up from his phone. "Tragic." He teased, lips quirking up in his well-known cocky smirk. "I woke up and she was gone, all I know is that she took Grace and Y/N with her." Now that got Dean's attention. "Where?" Garrett groaned dramatically and collapsed down onto the couch. "I don't know." Across the room, Logan snorted into his coffee cup. "Join the club, G."
"Grace ditched you too?" Garrett pointed accusingly as Logan nodded. "Six fifteen," Logan confirmed darkly dropping down onto the couch beside Dean with all the suffering of a man personally betrayed, scrubbing a hand down his face. "I woke up because she kissed my forehead like she was shipping off to war." Dean looked between them, then slowly lowered his phone.
"Wait," Both men turned toward him, brows raised in silent question. "You both don't know where they're going either?" Both hockey players exchanged a look. Then Logan shrugged as Garrett shook his head. Dean stared at them, then started laughing. Because suddenly this wasn't just his mystery anymore, it was a goddamn conspiracy. Three women. Three clueless boyfriends. Zero explanations.
And suddenly the fact that all of them were somehow managing to sneak out before dawn without providing answers made Dean's curiosity became an obsession and made him even more determined to figure out what the hell was going on. Whatever was dragging you out of bed at six in the morning had to be really fucking important. Or incredibly weird. Either way, he was going to find out.
Which is why on Friday afternoon after multiple rounds of hot, mind blowing sex, is when he finally found the courage to ask. The two of you were sprawled across his bed, tangled in rumpled sheets that had long since been kicked down to your waists. The room smelled faintly of sweat and his cologne, what was left of the evening sunlight streaming through the partially closed blinds and painting lazy golden stripes across the mattress.
“Babydoll?” He asked, his hand halting from tracing absent-minded shapes on your bare back. You hummed softly in response, lifting your head from where it rested on his naked chest. Your chin settled on top of your folded hands as you peered up at him, still looking pleasantly dazed and entirely too comfortable. Dean shifted so he was facing you more directly, propping himself up on one elbow.
"Where do you go every morning?" You blinked, expecting anything but that question. "At a ix a.m.," He stated matter-of-factly. "Every day." The fact that you looked entirely too pleased with yourself made him even more suspicious. The corners of your mouth twitched as if you'd been expecting this conversation for weeks. "See? That right there, that's the face of someone hiding something." Dean pointed a finger at you.
"I'm not hiding anything." You caught his hand before he could continue accusing you, lowering it to the mattress between you. "You absolutely are." You laughed, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear while trying to pull off an expression of complete innocence. Unfortunately, Dean knew you far too well. His gaze narrowed further, there it was again: that smug little smile.
The one that usually meant you knew something he didn't. And Dean hated not knowing things. Especially when those things involved you. "You leave before sunrise," He continued dramatically. "You come back sweaty carrying that suspicious green drink and you've even somehow convinced Wellsy and Grace to join your secret society." At that, you actually snorted. "A secret society?" Your eyebrows shot upward in amusement.
"That's currently my leading theory." You folded your arms across your chest, trying, and failing, not to laugh. The smile threatening to break free gave you away instantly. Dean took that as encouragement. "Either that or you're all secretly training for the Olympics or preparing for some kind of a heist." He delivered the line with complete seriousness, making it impossible for you to hold back any longer.
You finally lost the battle and laughed outright, the sound filling the room. Dean tried not to smile but ultimately failed miserably. Because he loved making you laugh, even when you were laughing at him. "Dean, it's not a secret." Your voice carried the familiar warning that always appeared whenever he was being ridiculous. "The tell me.”He practically whined, green eyes narrowing. You bit your lip in response, a sure sign you were debating whether or not to answer.
However, instead of speaking, you reached over and patted his cheek, thumbs sweeping over his cheekbones. "Babydoll." His eye twitched. God, how you loved riling him up. "Yes, Dean?" You smirked, batting your eyelashes flirtatiously. "You're testing my patience." Your grin turned positively wicked. Then you leaned forward and pressed a quick kiss to his lips, making sure to linger and slip in some tongue just long enough to be distracting. And the worst part? It almost worked.
Almost.
Dean caught your wrist before you could pull away completely, his fingers wrapping loosely around it as he shook his head. "Nice try." Your laughter softened, fondness replacing some of the mischief in your expression. "You're really that curious?" He groaned dramatically, dropping his head back against the pillow. "At this point? It's consuming my life." You stared at him for a second, studying his expression as if trying to determine whether he was serious.
The answer was obvious, he absolutely was. With a small shake of your head, you finally relented. "Fine." Dean immediately perked up, his head snapped back up so fast it nearly gave you whiplash. “If you’re so curious, just come with me tomorrow. Find out for yourself." For a moment, Dean just stared. Then a slow grin spread across his face. After weeks of wondering, and developing increasingly ridiculous conspiracy theories, he was finally going to get answers.
The following morning, Dean was drooling on his pillow when he felt you shift. The room was still dark, the early morning sunlight barely beginning to creep through the gap in the curtains. His brain hadn't fully booted up yet, leaving him somewhere between sleep and consciousness as he instinctively reached for the warm body beside him. Letting out a groan, he tried to pull you back into his chest, burying his face deeper into the pillow. But it was no use, you were already awake.
"Up and at 'em, Di Laurentis." He could practically hear the smirk in your voice. Dean responded with another groan, dragging the pillow over his head in protest. For a brief moment, he considered pretending to be dead. Unfortunately, you knew him too well. A second later, the pillow was yanked away. "Don't make me get the spray bottle Tucker keeps in the kitchen." His eyes cracked open. "You wouldn't." The grin on your face told him otherwise.
With a sigh worthy of an Oscar, he finally pushed himself upright, rubbing a hand down his face. That was when his eyes nearly bulged out of his head. You were bent over tying your shoes, already dressed and ready to go. The fitted workout set left very little to the imagination, the leggings hugging every curve while your matching top disappeared beneath one of his old hockey hoodies.
Your hair was already pulled back into a ponytail, looking far too awake and put together for an hour that should've been illegal. Dean stared, brain completely short-circuited. He was half tempted to drag you right back into bed and forget this entire mystery existed. Curiosity, however, was the only thing stronger than his desire to go back to sleep or have hot morning sex.
Barely.
Sluggishly rolling out of bed, Dean shuffled toward the bathroom. The floor was cold, his eyes burned, and his soul hurt. Five minutes later, after splashing water on his face enough times to resemble a functioning human being, brushing his teeth, and throwing on a pair of gym shorts and a fitted black t-shirt, he emerged from the bathroom looking considerably more awake. Not happy, but awake.
You looked up from screwing the lid onto your giant water bottle, your gaze traveling slowly. Dean immediately noticed. The tight black shirt stretched across his shoulders and defined the muscles in his chest and back, while his shorts sat low on his hips, exposing powerful thighs built from years of hockey practices, conditioning drills, and games. You blinked. Once. Twice.
"You're droolin', babydoll." The smug grin that followed was absolutely insufferable. Snapping out of your thoughts, you rolled your eyes and grabbed your freshly refilled water bottle from the counter. "Please. Your ego doesn't need any more encouragement." Dean gasped dramatically. "That was rude." You simply headed toward the door. "Come on, Dean." You coaxed, hand firmly on your hip leaving absolutely no room for discussion.
He followed behind with another exaggerated sigh, shoving his feet into a pair of sneakers as quickly as possible. "They'll charge us if we're late." That made him pause. One hand still on his shoe, Dean slowly looked up. "Hold on." You were already opening the apartment door. "What do you mean they'll charge us?" A suspicious feeling settled in his stomach. For the first time all morning, Dean wondered if maybe, just maybe, following you had been a terrible idea.
Sure enough, when you led him through the doors of The Pilates Lab, Dean knew he was fucked. The realization hit the second he stepped inside. The studio was bright, spotless, and somehow intimidating despite the soft instrumental music drifting from hidden speakers. Floor-to-ceiling mirrors lined one wall, reflecting rows of sleek reformer machines arranged with military level precision.
Natural light poured through massive front windows, illuminating polished hardwood floors and cream-colored walls that somehow made the place feel both welcoming and terrifying. Terrifying mostly because every person inside looked like they belonged there. Dean, however, did not. The scent of eucalyptus and expensive cleaning products hung in the air. A small reception desk sat near the entrance beside shelves stocked with water bottles, protein bars, grip socks, and enough workout accessories to bankrupt a small nation.
You, meanwhile, looked completely at home. "Morning!" The receptionist greeted cheerfully as you approached. "Morning, Claire." Dean glanced around while you checked in. Women. Everywhere. A few men too, but mostly women. All of them looked suspiciously fit and flexible. Very, very flexible. One woman was casually stretching with her leg resting on a barre at a height Dean was pretty sure violated several laws of physics.
His hockey injuries hurt just looking at her. Then to make matters worse, he noticed the reformers. Rows and rows of reformers. Metal frames, straps, springs, moving platforms. They looked less like exercise equipment and more like devices designed specifically for torture. Dean pointed toward one. "The hell is that?" You followed his gaze, biting back a smile. "A reformer." You replied nonchalantly. "It looks dangerous." The smile at your lips widened at his tone which oozed discomfort.
"It's really not."
"You hesitated."
"I didn't."
"You absolutely did."
You laughed, reaching for his hand and tugging him farther inside to where you usually worked out. Only the deeper you ventured into the studio, the worse his feeling became. As you set your water bottle down beside your reformer and tugged off his sweatshirt, revealing your fitted workout top underneath, Dean stood there questioning every decision that had led him to this moment.
Then his gaze landed on the instructor, the woman looked approximately five feet tall, and somehow absolutely terrifying. The kind of terrifying that came from smiling too much while planning your demise. "Good morning, everyone!" Her voice carried easily across the room as the class immediately began moving toward their reformers. Around him, people adjusted springs, grabbed resistance bands, and clipped straps into place with the confidence of seasoned veterans.
Meanwhile, he was still trying to figure out what half the equipment even did. You noticed the shift in his demeanor next to you as you offered his forearm a reassuring squeeze. His eye twitched, which nearly made you laugh again. "You're going to be fine, Dean." The confidence in your voice wasn't nearly as comforting as you intended. Dean looked around the studio one more time. At the springs. The straps. The weights. The machines. The terrifyingly cheerful instructor. Then finally back at you.
"Babydoll, I think we have very different definitions of fine." It's not like he could leave. Not now. Not when half the class had realized a six-foot-two hockey player was standing in the middle of their Pilates studio looking like he'd accidentally wandered into enemy territory. Huffing, he turned towards the rack of weights lining the mirrored wall, barely hesitating before reaching for the heaviest pair available. The movement immediately caught your attention.
"You're gonna regret that." Dean scoffed, looking personally offended by the suggestion. "Babydoll, please, I bench two-thirty. I can easily handle twenty-pound hand weights." As if to prove his point, Dean was too busy rolling his shoulders and casually curling one of the dumbbells, looking far too pleased with himself. You looked at the weights, then at him, trying, and failing, to hide a smug smile since you already knew exactly how this was going to end for him.
The first five minutes weren't terrible. At least, that's what Dean told himself. The instructor began with slow, controlled movements that looked deceptively simple. Around the room, springs clicked softly against metal frames while reformers glided back and forth with smooth precision. Dean found himself settling into the rhythm quickly enough, or so he thought. Then, the shaking started. It began in his thighs. A subtle tremble at first, barely noticeable.
Then came the burn. The kind of deep, relentless burn that didn't make any sense. He was a Division I hockey player. He spent hours in the gym. He could squat absurd amounts of weight. Yet somehow a tiny movement performed on a sliding carriage had his legs vibrating like he'd just skated three periods back-to-back. Across the room, you looked annoyingly graceful. Dean, meanwhile, was fighting for his life.
Thirty minutes in, the black t-shirt clinging to his back was soaked through. His hair stuck to his forehead. Every muscle seemed to have discovered entirely new ways to suffer. The instructor floated around the room like an executioner disguised as a yoga mom, offering gentle corrections that somehow made every exercise twice as difficult. Whenever Dean thought a set was ending, another variation appeared.
Another hold. Another pulse. Another ten seconds.
Those ten seconds felt like years. At one point he became convinced time itself had stopped moving. The mirrors surrounding the studio only made things worse. Everywhere he looked he could see himself struggling. See the tremor in his arms. The shake in his legs. The tightening of his jaw. And every time he considered lowering a weight or taking a break, his gaze inevitably landed on you. You looked focused. Determined. Completely in your element.
There was a concentration on your face he rarely got to see outside of moments that truly mattered to you. That alone kept him going. That and his pride. Mostly his pride. Because there was absolutely no chance he was quitting before any of the women around him. By the forty-five minute mark, however, Dean was beginning to reconsider several core beliefs. Including his understanding of physical fitness. And maybe even reality itself.
The studio had grown warmer as class progressed, bodies moving continuously beneath the bright overhead lights. Sweat rolled down the back of his neck, his shirt felt suffocating. Eventually he gave up. During a brief transition between exercises, he grabbed the hem of his t-shirt and pulled it over his head before tossing it toward the cubbies lining the wall. A few heads turned. Not many. Most people were too busy suffering.
However, your attention certainly did, so much so that for the briefest moment, your focus slipped. Your eyes tracked across his broad tanned shoulders, defined abs, and muscles earned through years of hockey training. The sight was familiar, yet somehow still distracting. Heat immediately crawled up your neck, luckily Dean didn't notice seeing as he was far too busy trying not to collapse. The distraction lasted only seconds before the instructor was directing everyone into another movement.
The class continued and somehow got harder. The final thirty minutes became a blur of shaking muscles, controlled breathing, and pure stubbornness. At that point, Dean's arms trembled. His core burned. His legs felt like overcooked noodles. Several times he caught you sneaking amused glances his way. Several times he returned them with a look that promised revenge. By the final series, every movement required concentration. The studio had fallen quieter now seeing as no one had energy left for anything else.
When the instructor finally announced the last stretch, a collective sigh swept throughout the entire room. Dean nearly collapsed onto the machine. His entire body felt spent. Not the satisfying exhaustion of hockey. Not the familiar ache of lifting. Something entirely different. Every muscle felt worked. Even muscles he hadn't known existed. As everyone began cleaning equipment and gathering their belongings, Dean remained exactly where he was for a few extra seconds, staring at the ceiling.
Humbled. He was completely, utterly, humbled.
Humiliated by a workout he'd walked into thinking would be easy. Yet despite himself, despite the suffering, despite the shaking, despite the fact that he probably wouldn't be able to sit down tomorrow, a reluctant smile tugged at his mouth. Because somewhere between the torture, the challenge, and stealing glances at you throughout the last ninety minutes, he'd actually had fun. Only he would never admit that part to you out loud.
As a chorus of applause rang out throughout the studio, Dean stayed flat on his back atop the reformer, bare chest glistening with sweat as he fought to catch his breath. The bright overhead lights blurred slightly above him while every muscle in his body protested the simple act of existing. Around the room, people began climbing off their machines, gathering water bottles and towels while chatting casually as if they hadn't just endured ninety minutes of pure torture.
Dean genuinely didn't understand how they were all standing. "You did it!" Your smile was warm and impossibly proud as you leaned down, pressing an encouraging kiss to his sweaty forehead. The simple gesture somehow felt more rewarding than surviving the class itself. You handed him your water bottle and for once, Dean didn't make a single joke about it. He simply took it immediately, drinking like a man who'd just crossed a desert. Cold water hit his throat as he gulped down several desperate mouthfuls.
"I'm so proud of you, baby, you completed your first Pilates class like a pro." He was almost certain you were fucking with him. There was absolutely no way he'd looked professional while shaking like a newborn deer for an hour and a half. Yet despite knowing that, he still preened under the praise. Because it was coming from you. And Dean was embarrassingly weak when it came to anything involving you. A grin tugged at the corners of his mouth as he finally accepted your outstretched hand, fingers wrapping around yours while you helped haul him upright.
"So," You grinned, raking your nails through his sweaty blonde curls, pushing them away from his forehead. "Have I officially turned you into a Pilates princess?" Dean scoffed, yet his hands on your waist tightened as he pulled you closer, refusing to surrender what little dignity he had left. "Not a fucking chance, babydoll." He shook his head firmly, yet the look on his face made it clear he wasn't finished. "But, I wouldn't be opposed to seeing you in tight workout clothes more often." You instantly swatted his shoulder, which made his sore muscles jump.
The motion lacked any real force, mostly because you were trying not to laugh. Dean's grin immediately grew knowingly. The post-workout flush coloring your cheeks wasn't helping his concentration either. Not that he'd been concentrating much to begin with seeing as he made absolutely no effort to hide the way his gaze lingered. Not when you looked this good. Not when you were smiling at him like that. Not when you were still standing close enough for him to loop an arm around your waist and pull you closer.
You made no effort to move away as he dipped his head, pressing a playful kiss against your neck before blowing a raspberry against your damp skin. The sound echoed loudly enough that your laughter filled the studio as you swatted him again, the bright sound instantly pulling his attention back to you. And just like that, he realized something. He'd willingly gotten out of bed before sunrise. He'd survived ninety minutes of what could only be described as organized suffering. His entire body hurt. Tomorrow would probably be far worse.
The boys were absolutely going to roast him alive when they found out he willingly attended a Pilates class. Yet somehow? He didn't care, not even a little. Because throughout the entire class, every time he'd wanted to quit, he'd looked over and seen you. Smiling. Laughing. Thriving. Happy. And apparently that was enough to make him push through burning muscles, wounded pride, and an instructor who was definitely some kind of sadist in brightly colored workout clothes.
As you gathered your things and reached for his hand, Dean intertwined your fingers without hesitation, thumb brushing across your knuckles as you walked toward the exit together. Maybe he'd never admit that he'd actually enjoyed Pilates. But if it meant spending mornings with you? Dean would survive the teasing, the early alarms, hell, he'd even drink your radioactive green juice. Because when it came to you, Dean was hopelessly, irrevocably gone. And honestly, he wouldn't have it any other way.
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pairing – garrett graham x best friend!reader
summary – best friends with no boundaries should probably think harder about thin white tank tops and unrestricted dorm access.
warnings – sexual tension, nipple piercing mention, strong language, suggestive references
notes from me – two glasses of wine in and finished this 🥴🥴 based on this ask!! this was so fun to write lmao. nothing i love more than garrett being whipped!
word count – 1.7k
navigation – masterlist |
It’s an objectively terrible idea to be braless in a white tank top when Garrett Graham has unrestricted access to your dorm room.
This isn’t information she’s had occasion to seriously consider before, mostly because Garrett having unrestricted access to her dorm room has been a fact of life for so long now that it no longer registers as a boundary issue and more as an annoying environmental condition. Like humidity. Or campus squirrels.
Garrett comes and goes because he’s Garrett. Because they’ve known each other since freshman year orientation, when he spilled iced coffee down the front of his own shirt and still somehow managed to flirt with the girl handing out student ID lanyards.
Because he’s carried her laundry basket up three flights of stairs without being asked, eaten half her cereal with his hand in the box, fallen asleep facedown on her rug during finals week, and once let himself in at one in the morning because she texted him that she thought there was a weird sound in the hallway and he arrived in grey sweats and slides with his hockey stick in hand, and the kind of serious expression that made her forget to be embarrassed for a full eleven seconds.
So, no. She doesn’t think about the tank top.
She thinks about philosophy notes and the fact that her car’s being held hostage in the hockey house driveway while Logan fixes it, which so far seems to involve standing over the open hood with Tucker, a YouTube video, and the blind male confidence of men who have never met an engine problem they couldn’t make worse.
She thinks about the rink, because Garrett’s supposed to take her there before his late skate and she’s supposed to sit in the stands with her laptop and pretend she doesn’t secretly like the smell of cold air and rubber mats and hockey boys yelling obscenities at each other.
She’s hunched over her desk in jeans and the white tank, hair clipped messily up off her neck, one bare foot tucked under her thigh, when the door opens behind her with exactly zero hesitation.
“Okay, so Logan says your car’s making this noise,” Garrett says, already halfway inside, “and I told him that’s not a fucking diagnosis because cars make a lot of noises, and then he got offended like I was disrespecting his craft, which is rich because his craft is apparently–”
He stops. He stops like someone’s walked into the room and slapped the sentence directly out of his mouth.
She looks over her shoulder, pen still between her fingers. “What?”
Garrett’s standing just inside her doorway in his Briar hoodie and track pants, duffel bag hanging off one shoulder, curls still damp from a shower or the snow outside or whatever irritatingly athletic thing he was doing before this. His mouth is slightly open. His eyes are very much not on her face.
They flick down again, fast and guilty and not guilty enough. “Dude,” he says.
Her eyebrows pull together. “What?”
“When the fuck did you get your nipples pierced?”
For a second, the room goes very still around the heater rattling under the window. Then she looks down at herself. And, okay. Fine. The tank top is thinner than she remembers.
The little metal bars are pressing faintly against the cotton, visible enough now that he’s said it, and her whole body does this annoying internal jump, not embarrassment, because Garrett has seen her in bikinis and sick and wearing a face mask that made her look like a swamp creature.
But it’s something. A hot little awareness under her skin, as if the room has suddenly learned a new angle. She turns back around too quickly and scoffs, because dignity is mostly just committing to a tone before your pulse can betray you. “Months ago.”
Garrett nods once. Slowly. Like he’s received devastating news from a doctor with poor bedside manner. “Months ago.”
“Yes?”
“So for months you’ve just…” He looks at the ceiling, then the wall, then her face, where he very clearly intends to remain through force of character alone. “Right. Right. Cool.”
She narrows her eyes. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“That wasn’t nothing.”
“What?” he says, and the innocence would be more convincing if his ears weren’t faintly pink. Garrett Graham, Briar hockey captain, man who has smiled his way out of consequences that would have ended lesser men, is standing in her dorm room looking like his entire operating system has crashed over a white tank top.. “I’m just processing information.”
“You’re being weird.”
He presses his lips together and shakes his head. “I am being so normal right now.”
“You walked in here, stared at my chest, and short-circuited.”
His gaze drops for half a second again, involuntary and hopeless, before snapping back up. “Because you weaponised casual nudity.”
“I’m wearing a shirt.”
“That’s a suggestion of a shirt.”
She barks a laugh before she can stop herself, sharp and disbelieving.
He points at her like that proves something. “See? You know.”
“I know you’re an idiot.”
“I know a lot of things,” he says, still looking pained. “Unfortunately, I now know one more.”
There’s no reason for that to make heat crawl up the back of her neck, except that Garrett has shifted against the door without seeming to realise it, shoulders broad enough to make the frame look underprepared, one hand gripping the strap of his duffel.
He’s trying very hard to turn this into a bit. She can see the effort in the slant of his mouth, in the way his eyes keep dragging back to hers like he’s hauling them up with a rope.
She stands from the chair, mostly because sitting there suddenly feels weirdly vulnerable and also because she genuinely does need to change before they leave. “I’m not going like this. Relax.”
He exhales through his mouth, cheeks puffing slightly. “Thank God.”
Her eyes narrow again. “Excuse me?”
“Nothing.”
She crosses her arms across her chest, which does nothing for his cause. “No, go on. Thank God why?”
He lifts both hands, palms out, the duffel sliding down his arm. “Because I wasn’t in the mood to fight someone tonight.”
She stares at him. He stares back, dead serious for about two seconds before his grin starts sneaking in around the edges, all stupid golden-boy charm and teeth and the unbearable confidence of a man who knows exactly how often he gets away with saying things like that.
“Oh my God,” she says flatly. “You are so annoying.”
“I’m protective.”
“You’re annoying.”
“Those overlap.”
“They don’t.”
“With me they do.”
She rolls her eyes so hard it almost hurts and walks past him toward her bedroom, close enough that her shoulder brushes his arm. It’s nothing. It’s normal. They’re always touching in ways that don’t count, or didn’t count, maybe, before Garrett noticed her piercings and temporarily lost access to the English language.
But now the brush of him feels too present, the warmth of his hoodie against her bare upper arm registering with an irritating amount of detail. She pulls a jersey over the tank first because it’s closest, the fabric falling big over her hips and smelling faintly like laundry detergent and that cold rink smell Garrett always carries around like a second cologne. Then she grabs a jacket from the chair, shoves her arms through it, and gives herself exactly half a second in the mirror to look normal.
She looks normal. Mostly. Her face is a little too warm, but Garrett doesn’t get to know that.
When she comes back out, he’s leaning against the wall near her door, scrolling on his phone with an expression of intense concentration that’s almost definitely fake. He looks up when she enters.
And then just looks. His eyes move over the jersey, the jacket, her face, the way she’s tucked her hair back from her cheek with the annoyed efficiency of someone pretending she’s not just changed clothes with a man in the next room thinking about her nipples. His mouth does something small and private before he catches it.
“What?” she says.
He shakes his head once. “Nothing.”
“You keep saying nothing in a way that feels suspicious.”
“That’s because you’re paranoid.”
“That’s because you’re being weird.”
He pushes off the wall and opens the door for her. “I’m never weird.”
“You’re being weird right now.”
“I’m being gentlemanly.”
“You let yourself into my dorm.”
“Gentlemanly after the felony.”
She snorts and walks past him into the hall. His hand lands at the small of her back as she goes. Warm through the jacket. Familiar enough that she shouldn’t notice it. She does anyway.
Garrett closes the door behind them and, as they head down the hall, slings his arm around her shoulders like he’s done a thousand times before. Heavy and easy and a little too smug.
She groans immediately, mostly for self-preservation. “You’re very touchy tonight.”
He hums, pleased with himself in a way she can feel through his ribs against her side. “Mhm.”
“That wasn’t an answer.”
“Wasn’t trying to be.”
She tips her head back enough to glare at him. He’s already looking down at her, grin lazy now, but his eyes are still doing that thing. Brighter, sharper, like something ordinary has been tilted a few degrees and he’s pretending he hasn’t noticed the whole room slide.
“You’re unbearable,” she says.
“I’m driving you to the rink out of the goodness of my heart.”
“Because Logan broke my car worse.”
“Allegedly.”
She shoots him a look. “Garrett.”
“Fine. Probably.”
She huffs, but she lets herself lean into him by half an inch because the hallway is cold and because his arm is warm and because, irritatingly, he smells good. He squeezes her shoulder once, casual enough to be deniable, except his thumb brushes the side of her neck afterward, small and absent and not absent at all.
They make it to the stairwell before he says, “So. Months, huh?”
She stops on the top step and slowly turns her head. He’s staring straight ahead now, mouth twitching.
She points at him. “Do not.”
“I’m not doing anything!”
“You’re thinking loudly.”
“I’ve suffered a shock.”
“You saw the outline of jewellery through a shirt.”
“Exactly. I’m suffering here.”
“You’re such a loser.”
“Maybe,” he says, then glances down at her, all grin and trouble and something warmer under it that makes her stomach dip in a way she fully intends to ignore until death. “But I’m your ride, so be nice to me.”
She starts down the stairs before he can see her smile. “I liked you better when you couldn’t speak.”
when garrett dares you to sneak into the locker room after practice, you’re eager to show him that you can rise to the challenge
cw: 18+ mdni, smut, voyeurism, sexual bets + dares, blowjob, deep throating, ball worship, cum play + eating, taunting/teasing, mention of oral f!receiving, mixed pov, reader has breasts that jiggle, kind of fluffy ending (words: +2.7k) based on this ask requesting some locker room action ⊹ ࣪ ˖
While the rest of his teammates headed off the ice to hit the showers after a grueling evening practice, Garrett informed them he was going to stick around late to run drills and talk strategy with Coach Jensen in preparation for their upcoming game.
It was a decision that didn’t strike any of the other players as unusual or even remotely suspicious—in his position as captain, Garrett always went above and beyond in his efforts for the team.
By the time the remaining stragglers had gathered their things and headed outside to their cars, it was already getting late, and the near-empty arena had descended into an almost eerie silence.
Once the coast was clear, you slipped out of your hiding place in the green room then quickly made your way through the building by memory, footsteps echoing in the empty hallways as you headed to your destination.
The air in the men’s dressing room hung heavy with steam and the faint scent of lingering cologne as you shrugged off your shirt and stepped out of your jeans, safely stowing them away in one of the nearby empty lockers.
Ignoring the anxious butterflies that fluttered in your stomach, you tiptoed past the benches and player’s lockers, following the muted sound of running water in the distance. As you rounded the corner to enter the showers, you held your breath, unsure of what might await you on the other side. But all of your nervousness melted away in an instant when you beheld the glorious sight of the naked man before you.
Garrett’s back was turned—body wet, slick and shining. Each toned facet of his muscular form flexing in unison and accentuated by the stark overhead light.
Unaware of your presence, he hummed a quiet tune to himself as he lathered his body with soap—the sudsy rivulets trailing down over the well-defined pecs and abs that tapered to a chiseled v-line, perfect for tracing with your tongue.
When he turned to the side, his thick cock bobbed with the motion, impressive even in its semi-erect state. Mouth parted in wonder, you couldn’t tear your eyes from how it swayed above the heavy balls that were framed by neatly trimmed thatch of dark hair.
It was as if his body was a feast on display and you were starving, your insatiable eyes unsure of where to look first.
Eventually he turned around to face you, head tilted back to use both hands to rinse his hair, the action drawing your gaze to biceps that looked like they’d been sculpted by the hands of the gods themselves.
Suddenly you were overwhelmed with visions of falling to your knees under the streamy spray and worshipping him the way a true work of art deserved.
As if reading your mind, a cocky smile graced his lips when he opened his eyes and caught you staring. “Well, well. Look who’s here.”
He didn’t seem fazed at all by your presence, standing proudly before you without an ounce of shame. In contrast, your cheeks started to burn when you caught his eagle eyes darting down to where you’d clenched your thighs together in an effort to lessen the growing ache between them.
Regaining some of your composure, you raised an eyebrow and shrugged. “Guess this means I win.”
When you’d been texting each other the night before, he’d bet that you wouldn’t have the guts to sneak into the locker room showers to hook up after practice—a risky proposal that you’d taken some time to consider. Of course, all of the prodding and teasing that followed had only made you more determined to prove him wrong—something that was par for the course in your relationship with Garrett.
Since meeting each other a few months prior in one of your shared classes, sparks had flown between you and the flirty star athlete who was known on campus as an unapologetic Casanova. You’d started out comparing your scores on tests and assignments, trying to outdo each other’s grades. But it hadn’t taken long before you, and your competitiveness, had made its way to the bedroom.
Even though your feelings for Garrett grew stronger every day, you knew that to him it was all just a game—which you told yourself was fine as long you were having fun.
And oh, what fun you had.
As lovers, the two of you were perfectly matched in every way, but as competitors, you were even better. And there was no way in hell you were going to back down from one of his challenges—especially not one with such a tantalizing prize.
As you took a step closer, he drank in the sight of the black sheer lace bra and panties you’d recently purchased in his favorite color. A racy set that fit your body like a glove.
“Didn’t see you in the stands. Figured maybe you chickened out,” he teased, eyes flashing with mischievous fire. He loved nothing more than to rile you up and get you going.
You scoffed at him, “Not a chance. What kind of pussy do you take me for, Graham?”
Chuckling at your crude response, he let a hand run down his glistening chest, a smug grin overtaking his face as he watched your eyes follow its path.
He took another step closer, face mere inches from yours. Full lips so close you could almost taste them. “You kiss your dates with that mouth?”
Biting down on your lower lip, you shook your head. “Not exactly.”
Then taking that as your cue, you sank down onto your knees on the wet floor before his feet. Grinning up at him, you bounced back on the balls of your heels to make your breasts jiggle in the delicate lace cups.
“You like my new bra, Garrett? I wore it just for you.”
Wet curls fell into his face as he watched the soft motion of your tits beneath the sheer material. “Yeah, you gonna take it off for me too?”
Smiling, you reached behind your back to undo the clasp then let the straps slowly drape down your shoulders. He wet his lips with the tip of his tongue as he watched your breasts bounce free of the cups, nipples stiffening to firm peaks despite the humid air of the shower.
“You’re so fucking hot,” he murmured in approval as you shuffled a bit closer on your knees. From your position on the floor, he looked like a giant towering over you with his broad shoulders and thick muscular thighs covered in a soft dusting of dark hair.
Running your hands from his calves up to his thighs, you let the sharp tips of your nails sink into the flesh just a little. Just enough to make him groan out loud.
“Can I have my prize, now?” you implored in a cloyingly sweet voice while batting your lashes in the way that always got you what you wanted. “I won the bet, so it’s only fair.”
With his dark gaze locked on yours, he reached down to give himself a few lazy strokes. “Yeah? You think you can take it?”
In response, you opened your mouth and stuck out your tongue so that he could tap the head of his cock against the warm muscle. He was already hard and oh so pretty—longer than average with a thick and veiny girth that landed heavy on your tongue with a satisfying weight.
With a whimper of impatience, you reached up to replace his hand with yours. His cock was still slick and wet from the shower so your palm glided with ease as you stroked him a few times with a practiced flick of your wrist. You grinned to yourself when his hips jerked slightly to chase the slow thrust of your hand.
“Look at me,” he commanded in a soft voice and you obeyed, tilting your head back to gaze up at him with wide eyes already blown out and glassy with desire.
Leaning forward, you pressed a few soft kisses to his leaking tip as you stroked him, licking your lips and humming in satisfaction at the salty tang of his precum. Then he inhaled a sharp intake of breath as you flattened your tongue and proceeded to lick him slowly from base to tip, tracing a path along the thick vein on the underside of his shaft.
“Oh fuck—” he groaned, spreading his feet slightly wider apart to broaden his stance and keep his balance.
Spurred on by his reaction, you leaned in to wrap your glossy lips around him, hollowing out your cheeks to take him as deep as you could into your eager mouth. Soon you found a steady rhythm, slowly swirling your tongue around the ridges of his head then bobbing up and down his length, using your hand to stroke whatever you couldn’t swallow.
Garrett stared down at you, breath ragged and uneven, mesmerized by the sight of your pretty lips stretched so tight around his cock. The powerful muscles of his buttocks clenched and flexed as he fought to hold himself back from spilling into your mouth right away and ending things too soon.
He reached down to rest a hand on the top of your head, the gentle weight guiding you further onto his length. At one point his hips jerked slightly and when his tip hit the back of your throat, you gagged and pulled off, leaving you panting and out of breath.
Garrett looked down, tutting his tongue at the tears streaming down your cheeks.
“What’s the matter, can’t take it all?” he taunted from above as you narrowed your eyes at him and huffed with frustration, once again determined to prove him wrong.
In an effort to take him deeper than before, you gripped onto his thighs as you slowly worked him into your mouth and throat, inch by inch, until your nose was nestled in the soft hair at his base.
The soft masculine scent of his natural musk and soap filled your senses as he let out a low grunt of approval, watching himself slowly disappear in your warm, wet mouth. When he spotted the buildup of tears threatening your lash line, he reached down and swiped a tender thumb along your cheek. “Yeah, that’s it, baby. Doing so good.”
Even though he’d had his share of girls down on their knees for him in the past, no one had ever made him feel as good as you in that moment. In fact, if he was being honest with himself, no one else could ever compare to you—which was probably why he hadn’t fooled around with anyone else in months.
The dares and bets between the two of you were fun and kept things exciting, but after spending so much time together, the challenge of winning your heart had become his most coveted prize.
What had started out as just a game with the cute girl from his class had soon become an all-consuming obsession. Every time you left his bed, it was getting harder for him to wait until the next time he could get you alone. He’d never done the relationship thing before, but he wanted to try it with you—if you were interested. Most girls who pursued him weren’t looking for anything more than a one-time fling.
He’d been waiting for the right occasion to tell you how he felt, nervous about exposing his heart to someone for the very first time. Of course, having you down on your knees worshipping his cock in the meantime was more than fine by him.
Using your free hand, you reached up to gently caress his balls, rolling the soft globes in your palm as he choked out a moan, throwing his head back and raking a hand through his wet curls.
“Oh god—keep doing that,” he breathed.
You pulled off his length with a slick pop, still stroking him with your hand while you let your tongue tease and lick his sensitive balls. Sucking them into your mouth, you felt his cock throb in your palm as the combined sensations rapidly pushed him to the edge.
“I’m gonna cum,” he warned. “Where do you want me?”
You debated for a moment before releasing him from your grasp and sitting back on your heels with a coy smile.
“Want you to cum on my tits,” you purred, bringing your hands up to pinch and squeeze your nipples. “Think you can do that for me, Graham?”
He grinned, face flushed and eyes dark as he reached down to grasp himself.
“Fuck yeah,” he grunted. His cock was still slick and shiny with your saliva and his strokes became faster and more uneven with each thrust of his fist, increasing in desperation as he stared down at you.
“Oh shit—” he groaned just before he came undone, painting your chin, neck and chest with hot ropes of his pearly cum. Extending your tongue, you tried to catch whatever stray drops you could and then licked your lips clean, reveling in his taste.
Once he was finished, he stood back and sighed with satisfaction as he gazed down at the sight of you kneeling before him covered in his cum.
“Holy shit,” he murmured in a hoarse, almost-whisper. “You look so hot like that.”
You giggled, swiping a finger down between your breasts to gather some of his cum to bring it up to your lips. “Do you always make such a big mess of all your bunnies, Garrett? Or am I special?”
Your comment gave him pause as he attempted to catch his breath. “Wait—what?”
He could hardly believe what he’d just heard. Did you really think that was all he thought of you? That you were just some random puck bunny who meant nothing him?
Even though you had clearly been teasing him with your comment, he could sense the vulnerability behind your smile as it faltered for a second. His thoughts started to spin out of control, aware that he needed let you know how he really felt.
As you stood up to rinse yourself off in the shower, he followed to join you under the hot water, using the opportunity to work your panties down over your hips, leaving them in a pile of black lace on the floor.
“Need you,” he breathed against your lips, pushing you back against the wall with an urgency that surprised you. One of his large hands tilted your chin so he could capture your lips, while the other traced down your side, pulling you closer. “Need you so bad.”
His still firm cock pressed hot against your skin as he held onto you so tight that it almost felt as if he was worried you might float away.
“Garrett!” You giggled. “You just…um, is that even possible?”
“Just give me like ten minutes and I can go again,” he panted against your lips with a cocky smile.
“Ten minutes, hmm?” You smiled wrapping your arms around his slippery waist as warm water rained down on your entangled bodies. “And what are going to do until then?”
In response, he stepped back and gave you a devilish smirk before dropping to his knees. Then reaching for one of your legs, he helped you lift it over his shoulder while his other hand helped keep you balanced against the wall.
He pressed a soft kiss to the inside of your knee before looking up at you.
“Hmm…what to do,” he pondered, pretending to be deep in thought as he started to kiss a slow path along your inner thigh. “I guess I’ll eat my girlfriend’s pussy, if that’s ok with her?”
Your eyes widened in disbelief as the soft smacking of his lips left delicious tingles on your skin, the pleasant sensation still not enough to distract you from what he’d just said.
“Your girlfriend?” Your heart skipped a beat as you looked down at him with your eyebrows drawn together in surprise.
His smile was almost bashful as he gazed up at you, warm eyes filled with naked adoration. “Yeah, but only if you think you’re up to the challenge.”
⟢ ┆ stray kids x reader. ot8. new relationship. nsfw.
⟢ author’s note: hello, hello!! i’ve been a bit mia this past month and i got quite a few requests for some reason, so today i felt like writing this one about either y/n or skz!member waking up alone after their first time together. it was fun to write it and i hope it’s fun to read<3
⟢ ┆ stray kids x reader. ot8. established relationship.
⟢ author’s note: helloo! this was requested twice lol so i guess it’s a popular trend going around and i finally brought myself to write it after the odyssey my life went through last month. i had lots of fun with it and i hope you all enjoy it<3
• ☆ . ° .• ° . ☆ John Tucker looks cute in his bee costume. You get cuteness aggression.
Entering the hockey house and seeing your boyfriend in a bee costume became the highlight of your night.
“Tuck.” You gasp the moment you spotted him, and you have to physically stop the urge from making the most embarrassing squeal. It was muffled against your hand as you weave through the crowd. The moment you stop in front of him, you have to fight back the painfully obvious smile threatening to grow on your face, and he only lifted a hand to you.
“No. Baby no.”
“But Tuck—”
The costume was just the barebones of a bee costume. A black and yellow tank and wings, but it was enough for you to find the idea of a bee costume on your boyfriend adorable.
“No.” His lips curl into what could be a pout, and it definitely did not help the fact that you found him absolutely adorable. You bite the inside of your cheek, and his eyes narrow at you.
“Oh my god you’re so cute.”
“Baby.”
“I want to bite you.”
“Oh god.” Tucker laughs, but he keeps his hand raised it like the distance would keep you away from him. It doesn’t, and you immediately corner him, hands on his cheeks while you squeal.
“Look at you!”
“[Name]—”
“You have little wings!” You squish his cheeks.
“It is a bee costume.”
“You look so cute!”
“Yes, babe-“
“And your stupid face!”
“Stupid??” He sputters, but you interrupt him, pressing a kiss to his lips. Then his cheeks, forehead, and anywhere that you can kiss.
Tucker would only laugh, half-leaning into your touch, half trying to fight back by gently trying to pry you away, but its obvious that he isn’t against the kisses. “Guys.” He manages to call out to Dean and the rest in the kitchen. “Help she’s attacking me.”
“You look happy about it.” Dean snorts.
Logan lets out a laugh, patting Dean’s back. “Don’t help him, he’s exactly where he wants to be.”
Tucker finds himself in the corner of the kitchen, your hands on his cheeks while you aggressively shower him kisses, giggling about how cute he looks.
His cheeks are flushed, and he keeps getting knowing smiles and winks from the others when they walk by, none of them really helping him out, instead laughing at the sight of him being completely smothered in kisses by his girlfriend because she’s currently going through what you call cuteness aggression.
“Baby.” He huffs, but it’s quickly replaced by a smitten grin when you only peck his lips as you beam.” Oh, hush, Tuck.” You squeeze his cheeks, grinning widely as your chest tightens at the sight of him. “You’re just adorable in the costume, let me love you.”
“I know, but I’m pretty sure your lipstick is all over me.”
You beam. “It definitely is, but I’m not budging”
His retort is drowned out by the kiss you pull him into, complaints dying in his throat as his lipstick covered mouth only curls into a smile.
