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you and jack forget just how paper thin the walls are on vacation with your coworkers
MASTERLIST | RULES | INBOX
PAIRING jack abbot x fem!reader
WARNINGS 18+ MDNI explicit sexual content, p in v, secret fwb relationship, enemies w benefits more like, hate sex, angry sex, mutual antagonism, consensual rough sex, competitive/power-struggle dynamics (?), manhandling, physical restraint, rough dirty talk, insults & verbal degradation, shared vacation rental, risk of being caught, accidnental exhibitionism
WC 2.5k | REQUEST here!
Your back hits the mattress hard enough to make the old springs squeal beneath you and Jack’s first hiss isn’t one of pleasure.
“Shut. Up.”
His hand closes around your jaw before the laugh can properly make it out, fingers digging into the hinge just shy of painful. His thumb finds the soft under of your chin and presses until your mouth falls open for him.
It’s supposed to be corrective, presumably. Intimidating. To make you reconsider whatever smart thing you were about to say.
Instead, you turn your head just enough to catch the heel of his palm between your teeth. Salt. Sunscreen. Jack.
You bite down lightly and watch the quick flare in his eyes that says try me again.
It makes you want to try him again.
This is perhaps your most enduring character defect, the congenital need to worry at Jack Abbot until something gives, to poke one finger into every concealed pressure point and keep pressing until that pleasant facade finally fractures and you get the man underneath, irritated and looking at you like patience is a finite natural resource you have personally exhausted.
Conveniently, this defect has also made the two of you very easy to hide.
Wanting Jack has never looked substantially different than hating him. Same symptoms, really.
At work it manifests as narrowed eyes across the nurses’ station, remarks delivered half an octave louder than necessary, shoulders knocking in hallways wide enough to accommodate two functioning adults.
In private, the argument merely changes medium.
You end up underneath him with your thighs spread around his hips while he fucks every complaint back into you, and somehow neither of you has to concede the point.
That is, more or less, what is happening now.
Jack is attempting to fuck a confession out of you, specifically the admission that he had been right when he told you not to challenge the ocean after three frozen margaritas and one declaration that rip currents were mostly “a mindset.”
In your defense, this had sounded perfectly reasonable at the time. The ocean disagreed.
You made it maybe six yards before a wave hit your broadside, folded you clean in half, stole your sunglasses, and deposited you at Jack’s feet with enough seaweed caught in your bikini to suggest the beginnings of marine conservation.
You called him an insufferable bastard for saying he told you so.
Now he keeps insisting he “rescued” you because he hauled you upright by the waist while you sputtered saltwater.
He would like an apology. You would like him dead. Compromise remains unlikely. You would swallow your own tongue before giving him the satisfaction.
You nip him again, sharper this time, then grin around his thumb. “Go on — make me. You’ve been trying all day.”
“Fucking brat.” He drags his thumb free, replacing it with two thick fingers that press insistently at your tongue. “Keep talking and I’ll stuff you so full the only word you remember is sorry.”
He’s close to delivering on that promise, hips battering the breath from your lungs until all you can do is claw the navy sheets below you.
You almost give him the noise he’s hunting for, but feeding Jack’s ego has never been on your to-do list, so you smother the sound and glare your defiance instead.
You clamp down on his fingers, hard enough to make him grunt, and he jerks back, slick digits slipping free.
“Jesus — watch the teeth,” he growls, shaking the sting before flattening your wrist to the mattress. “You want a muzzle, sweetheart?”
You swipe your tongue over enamel, savoring the residue. “So many threats, Doctor. I’m starting to think you’re all talk.”
“Careful,” Jack murmurs with a hollow laugh. “You might hurt my feelings.”
He apparently decides conversation has exhausted its usefulness.
One second you are on you looking at him; the next he has you flipped facedown, dragged your hips into the air, and buried himself back inside you with enough force to make the entire bed complain in sympathy.
His chest covers your back, breath searing the shell of your ear. A half-moan, half-sob cracks loose out of you, palms skidding for purchase as your pelvis jerks forward as if distance could blunt the stretch, make it more manageable.
Jack only laughs again, settling both hands over your shoulder blades as he lets his weight weld you to the sheets.
“Where d’you think you’re going?” Each thrust stakes you there, sensation cresting so hot the edges of the room tremble out of focus and into watercolors.
You mash your face into the pillow, trying to hide the choked noises bleeding from you but they seep through cotton and feathers just the same.
“Listen to you,” he croons, mock-tender, thumb stroking a false comfort along your spine. He grinds you down while he pushes in again, slow enough you feel the catch of every ridge. “So fucking mouthy until I start making you feel good.”
His hand snakes beneath you, palm burning a trail down your stomach until two fingers find your clit. The first tight circle detonates in your core. Supernova heat.
“Pretty thing like you shouldn’t fight common sense,” he purrs. “Just admit it — You were right, Jack. Should’ve trust you. Smartest guy I know. That’s all I want.” Another figure-eight of his thumb, another planet collision behind your eyes. “I keep you safe, I make you feel good — why’s it so hard to give me a little credit?”
“Because — you’re such — a cocky — asshole,” you gasp, the insult dissolving into a helpless whine when his thumb presses harder.
“Dirty mouth on you,” Jack tuts. “C’mon, honey. Be sweet for ten little seconds — tell me I’m right — and I’ll let you come.”
You give him nothing but a furious side-to-side wobble, hair stuck wetly across your cheeks.
He can make your thighs shake and turn your brain into warm soup but he cannot make you surrender a point you are still technically convinced is yours.
The knot low in your belly winds tighter in retaliation, every muscle beginning that little climb towards something inevitable, and then Jack simply stops.
Fingers gone. Thrust halted. He holds himself inside you like a blade sheathed to the hilt, every inch throbbing but inert, punishment by deprivation.
Your muscles fire once more on instinct, grasping at a phantom that’s already gone, walls twitching uselessly around empty air.
The knot loosens with insulting patience — twist, release, release — until climax slips from reachable to hypothetical.
A brittle, involuntary sound hooks in your throat, proof that your body has accepted what your mind refuses to: Jack Abbot means to leave you suspended in this awful limbo until you fold.
“Please — no.” You writhe beneath him in shallow arcs, powerless under the weight pinning you. “Need you — need you to keep going.”
He slips a broad palm under your jaw, lifting your mouth off the pillow for your gasps to reach him unfiltered. “You know what I need, honey. Say the words, and I’ll give you everything you’re begging for.”
“I — I’m sorry,” you finally spit out. “You were right, Jack. Always are. Just — please — don’t stop.”
The words hit like blood in the water. He buries himself with a hoarse snarl, rhythm turning brutal, inexorable, as though the apology were a starting gun. Wood knocks hard against the plaster wall and your body jolts forward with every drive.
“Was that so hard?” His voice drips triumph while his teeth worry a shallow crescent into your shoulder. “Christ, sweetheart, what’re you always fighting me for? You know I’m gonna get my way.”
The only reply you manage is a shaky “uh-huh — ah, Jack —” strangled into the pillow, every syllable climbing higher until it breaks apart in a thin, urgent keen that tells him exactly how close you are.
“There you go, pretty girl. Give it to me — yeah, just like that.”
That’s all it takes.
Your body locks, squeezes, and he answers with a raw-throated groan, bracing you inside the bracket on his arms while your trembling tries to shake both of you off the bed.
Then everything goes incandescent. A long, rushing hush, white and depthless, flooding every corner of your mind as you come all over his length.
Somewhere inside all that brightness, Jack loses whatever rhythm he had left.
He lasts two more strokes.
“Fuck — sweetheart.” His hips snap tight against your ass, burying himself as deep as he can go, filling you in heavy surges that make your already-softened core flutter all over again.
You barely understand it at first, only feel another strange wave roll through you, your body squeezing reflexively around every throb until his arms tighten and his forehead drops heavily between your shoulder blades.
Jack stays folded over you until both your breathing begins to settle, the hard rise and fall of his chest gradually slowing against your spine.
When he finally moves, it is with considerably more care than anything he has done in the last thirty minutes.
He withdraws from you slowly, and your cunt manages one useless twitch at the emptiness he leaves behind. Pathetic, really, but apparently it's all the reaction your spent body can afford.
Sensing the weakness, the bastard takes advantage.
He rolls you onto your other side until you're nose-to-nose, the world tilting under the authority of a man rearranging furniture. Normally, you'd bark at him to ask first. Right now you just marvel that you're the furniture.
You blink at him through the pleasant cotton packed between your ears.
Jack studies the damage he's done, mouth curling like he's content with his handiwork, then lowers himself to press a kiss above your hipbone.
He works upward without hurry, lips brushing warm over skin still prickling with aftershocks, teeth occasionally catching in a light nip that makes you squirm before he kisses the same place better.
Your fingers slide into the silver-flecked hair at his temples, nails scratching lightly until you feel the growl rumble against your ribs.
“Funny how suddenly you like me again.”
“Like is generous.” You give the silver strands at his temple a tug. “Give me five minutes. I’ll remember everything I hate about you.”
“Mm. I can do a lot with five minutes.” He lifts his head just enough to give you that smug, crooked look.
“Four and a half now.”
Jack laughs, apparently delighted by the threat of your imminent return to hostility, and works his way up until there is nowhere left between you for him to kiss.
He folds down beside you and takes your mouth one final time before you can decide whether final kisses are perhaps too affectionate for people who supposedly cannot stand each other.
“Better use ’em wisely, then.”
He does, in fact, use them wisely. Spending what remains of his allotted minutes with his mouth between your thighs and apparently deciding there is some obscure world record for orgasms induced out of spite that he intends to break before sunrise.
But by breakfast, the consequences have arrived.
You sit at the island with a fork slack between your fingers, pancakes cooling untouched beneath a generous pour of syrup.
Your eyelids keep flirting with gravity; every time they drop Jack clears his throat in exaggerated warnings, as if falling face-first into breakfast would somehow be his fault.
It would be. Somehow. You'd make it so.
“Late night?” Frank asks from across the island, not bothering to look up from whatever he’s doing to his coffee.
Your head lifts approximately half an inch.
“No, I'm fine,” you say, far too quickly. You hear it the second it leaves your mouth, that bright little note of guilt you have apparently developed overnight, and clear your throat before anyone else can appreciate it. “I'm fine. Just tired. All that swimming yesterday wore me out.”
Dana, standing at the sink with her sleeves pushed up, lets out a thoughtful hum as she rinses a plate.
“Funny, everyone seems to be dragging this morning,” she remarks, flicking water off her wrist. “Can’t imagine why.”
“I can.” Robby lifts his mug. “Some of us were awake until two in the morning. Against our will.”
There is a tiny, merciful interval where you almost misunderstand him.
Of course people were awake. There are more than twenty coworkers crammed into one beach house, sleeping on couches and air mattresses and whatever other horizontal surfaces they could claim before someone else did.
Somebody is always awake. Somebody is always opening a refrigerator or flushing a toilet or talking too loudly in the hallway.
But when you finally drag your eyes up from your pancakes and find several people already looking at you with expressions ranging from tired amusement to outright accusation, the alternate interpretation arrives all at once.
They heard you. They heard Jack. Possibly extensively.
Fuck.
You lower your eyes and shovel another piece of pancake into your mouth.
Then again, maybe they're staring for some completely unrelated reason. A syrup stain, bed hair, the fact that you still haven't blinked in ten seconds.
“So, Jack,” Trinity suddenly says from the other side of the island, casual enough that for one stupid second you don’t hear the trap opening beneath your feet, “how's it feel being right all the time?”
You keep chewing.
“I mean, so right,” she adds, her voice climbing into a suspiciously breathy imitation. “The rightest man alive, apparently.”
The pancake becomes significantly harder to swallow as a hot ribbon of mortification slides up your throat. You manage a strangled cough and focus on sawing your next bite into pieces the size of atoms so you don't have to lift your head and meet anyone's eyes.
Without missing a beat, Jack wipes a smear of syrup from his thumb and shrugs. “Feels pretty nice, if I’m honest.”
“You are such a smug little —”
“Language,” Dana cuts in from the sink without even turning around.
You clamp your lips together, cheeks still burning, then lean just enough into Jack’s line of sight and mouth, shit.
His smirk cuts sideways across his face, eyes dropping briefly to your lips before coming back up darker than they were a second ago. His nostrils flare faintly, then his thighs spread another inch beneath the island as he leans back.
A minute repositioning of his hips that would mean nothing to anybody else and means everything to you because you know exactly what Jack looks like when his body gets ahead of his better judgment.
“Ew,” Trinity says suddenly, pointing between you and Jack with her fork. “This is flirting, isn’t it? You two have just been doing foreplay in front of us for, like, years.”
Robby grimaces. “Freaks.”
“I have no idea what you mean,” you insist, despite the heat steadily colonizing your entire face.
Jack undermines you immediately as he shoots you a wink. “It’s worked pretty well for us.”
Your eyes widen ten sizes. “Shut. Up.”
His grin only gets worse, teeth showing this time, and something about that makes you want to kick his ankle under the island just to restore the natural order of things.
Frank shakes his head. “Get a room.”
“We had one. Apparently that was the problem,” Jack says.
A chorus of disgusted groans answers him.
MARIA NOTE jack abbot getting pussy as a direct consequence of being annoying… terrible precedent to set actually 🍋🫧🌀 HOPE YOU ENJOY I LOVE YOU ALLLL
⊹ jack abbot makes you ride him while you finish fighting
warnings: 18+ minors dni! unprotected piv, established relationship, multiple positions ( spooning, prone, cowgirl ) fingering, dirty talk, overstimulation, biting, jack jealousy-bating, jack provoking overandover again, angry sex!!!! lots of name-calling, hair pulling/tugging, light spanking, literally them using sex to take out frustration ⊹ notes: ANDDDDD POST BYE !!!!!! queued her
pettiness was your strong suit. it was – in fact – one of the reasons why jack had fallen for you in the first place, back when it had been aimed at anyone but him. he’d found it utterly delightful, his little menace that could hold grudges like a steel trap. it’d turned on him now.
you’d folded into the far side of the bed, facing the wall, your spine all stiff. you’d stormed in here twenty minutes ago mid-argument and claimed the bed like a fort, and you’d been lobbing grievances over your shoulder ever since, even as jack finished getting ready in the bathroom, even as the water shut off and his footsteps came and went.
“and another thing,” you announced in the direction of the wall. “if it were my work thing, you would not call that a date. you’d call that watching me work. which is what this is. so don’t act like you’re being romantic – ”
“are you done?”
you were, in fact, just getting started. if all went according to plan, you would’ve continued this after the event (you weren’t that petty) and been mad in his ear allllll night long, lullaby-ing him to sleep with a list of all his wrong choices; you would’ve named a problem for every hour in a sweet sing-song voice.
you made your first mistake by glancing over your shoulder at him; shirtless, slacks open and belt dangling, hair still slightly damp, standing in the doorway like he had all the time in the world and no fight to lose.
it was, frankly, a cheap shot to show up looking like that in the middle of an argument you were winning.
he raised a brow, then shook his head before he crossed the room in three long strides and climbed in behind you. his fingers went straight to the hem of the t-shirt you’d put on after finishing your makeup and pulled it over your head. you made a sound of protest, but lifted yourself up just slightly to let him do it. answer enough, you supposed.
he tossed it aside, and his hands were immediately on you, sliding down your ribs until one hand settled on your hip, fingers splaying, while the other dipped lower, cupping the curve of your ass and giving it a squeeze that made you inhale sharply.
“still mad?” he asked, leaning in for his mouth to brush against your shoulder blade. his hand kneaded at your hip, moving to the soft inside of your thigh.
“yes,” you said, but it came out weaker than before. “jack – ”
your words stopped as his hand moved from your hip to your breast, gathering the weight under his palms before his thumb came up to brush against your hardened peak.
“hello? cat got your tongue?” he said through a snort, pulling you flush against him, chin going into the curve of your neck. he ground his hips against you then, letting out a low breath through his mouth. he pushed a fist into the mattress by your ribs, caging you in. “what d’you wanna talk about?”
“i’m serious, jack,” you said, trying to force your voice even. “you wouldn’t call it a date.”
he hummed, fingers shamelessly sliding down as he said, “come on, baby. if you wanna keep talkin’ about this, you gotta do better than that.”
“do better – ” you let your neck turn back to face him, and he immediately tilted his head down, his tongue peeking out as he tried to bite back a grin. “ – my points are good enough.”
he ducked and caught your mouth, teeth nipping at your lip the same second his fingers slid under the lace. he smiled into the kiss, fingers running down your folds. you pulled away immediately, going to face the wall again.
“did this happen when you called me a smug asshole?” he circled the pad of his finger once over your clit, causing you to shudder slightly against him. “or when you decided i’m a liar?”
“jackass,” you muttered.
“real creative.” he shifted behind you, other hand going to shove his slacks further down his hips, freeing his cock. he pulled back slightly, and wrapped his hand around himself, stroking once – twice – before pressing the head of it to the curve of your ass. he exhaled once through his nose, intertwining his fingers through yours and moving them around him.
“i’ve been like this for the last twenty minutes,” he supplied casually, then groaned when your fingers instinctively moved around him.
“i’m still mad at you,” you said, but you were already moving your hand because you did also want him inside you. it’d been too long.
he rocked himself into your hand. “yeah – okay. let’s fix that, too, while we fix this.”
he moved to his side, lining himself up between your thighs before fitting himself in between. his fingers slid down your underwear again, fingers grazing over your folds before pressing down on your clit.
his fingers continued circling, while two others slid lower, the hard line of his cock pressing heavy against your ass each time he rocked forward.
“can’t call this a date,” you muttered, even as your breathing picked up.
“no?” he murmured. “this won’t do?” he nodded absentmindedly behind you, then his fingers came up just to slide down your underwear over the curve of your hips and down your thighs until the lace was sitting at your knees.
“two weeks – missed this,” he muttered, more to himself than you, and immediately pressed back into you, sliding his cock fully between your thighs now, the head of him dragging through your folds with every roll of his hips.
“also, it is a date – i’m takin’ you – ” he said, angling his hips so his head notched against your entrance. “ – as my date.”
“it’s not.” you pushed your hips back against him.
he tutted softly, hand holding the base of him as he pressed his tip against you, just enough to make you feel the pressure of the stretch starting, then pulled back.
“impatient,” he murmured, doing it again.
“we don’t have time,” you shot back. “just put it in – ”
“yes, ma’am,” he breathed out, amused, and angled himself to sink into you with one slow, sharp push. his entire body went rigid the second he bottomed out, a groan rumbling in his chest as the stretch hit you.
a broken sound came out of your throat before you could swallow it, after two weeks of nothing. your walls instinctively clenched around him, and his grip on your hip went bruising-tight.
“fuck, been so empty haven’t you?” his forehead dropped to your shoulder blade. “sorry, sweetheart. forgot you just needed me like this.”
you tried to glare, albeit at the wall, but your hips pushed back to take the last inch of him. “shut up.”
he just laughed softly, already pulling back to go again. “i know i’ve been thinkin’ about this every night.”
your teeth grit together to hold back the moan, your fingers twisted into the sheets as your body clenched around him on instinct, spine arching even while you fought to stay rigid.
“so mad at me – shit, huh?” his fingers came up with some tremor to your shoulders, pulling you into him even further as he slid in. “just ‘cause you missed this, baby? should’ve asked hours ago instead of arguin’ with me about tonight.”
your hips moved back to bury him to the hilt, causing his palm to tighten on your shoulder with a groan. “no, i missed you,” you said sharply. “you, asshole.”
his breath shuddered, and you felt him nod against your skin. “makin’ such sweet words sound so mean.”
he punctuated his words by moving his hand down to your spine and shoving you forward, forcing your chest flat against the mattress. he followed you down, pinning you completely – chest-to-back, hips locked tight against your ass – prone. his knee nudged yours wider, letting him sink even deeper on the next stroke.
he blew out a sharp, deliberate breath into your ear. “can’t run that mouth so easy when i’ve got you like this, can you?”
“are you trying to shut me – ” you started, words coming out into the pillow.
“huh?” he dipped his head to the side to meet your smushed face, brows rising in amusement. his forearms came up to rest at the curve of the back of your neck. “sayin’ something?”
you twisted just enough to glare at him over your shoulder, still trying to form the argument – something about obligations and dates and missing him so much – but the words stayed half-formed when he pointedly drove in particularly deep and your breath left you in a sharp, broken sound.
he watched your face with a small, smug smile, not slowing.
“yeahhh, that’s what i thought,” he muttered and kept fucking you. his mouth brushed the shell of your ear. “poor thing, can’t even finish a sentence. needed this, huh?”
“i did not – ”
“mhm, lying now, too – ” his forearm flexed, fingers coming out to absentmindedly brush your hair out of your face. “thought i was the liar.”
“don’t touch me,” you muttered, turning your face into the pillow again.
“stop squeezing me so tight then,” he said through a rough pant, thrusting up once meanly.
“i’m not kidding – ” you said, firmer now. “it was a – fuck – shit thing for you to do.”
“mhm.”
“i’m not being unreasonable.” you had to grit your teeth together when one of his palm came down to knead the side of your hips. “a date is you and me – your being a shit boyfriend when i haven’t – ”
your words cut off with a sharp gasp as he rolled the two of you in one irritated motion, keeping himself buried as he put you on top. his hands clamped hard on your hips, pushing you down until you were seated fully on his cock.
the sudden shift punched the air from your lungs, and before you could steady yourself, he was already driving up into you.
“jesus, you just can’t let up,” he muttered, eyes locked on where you were taking him. “wanna look at you ride me while you keep running that mouth.”
“getting tired, old man?” you raised a brow.
he shook his head softly, fingers reaching out to rub over your clit.
“old man, shit boyfriend – m’fucking you and letting you argue.” he pressed a harder circle, pausing only to come down on your ass in a sharp slap suddenly, making you gasp. “giving you everything you need at once, and i’m a shit boyfriend.”
he reached out to press his palm flat just below your navel.
“can’t take me on a date – ” you used his chest to pull yourself up, then come down, “ – though.”
his eyes flicked up to your face with a small, strained smirk as his fingers pressed down firmer on your stomach.
“it is a date,” he said, as he drove up hard to meet you on the next downward slide. his other palm flexed on your hip to keep you down as he pushed up even further. “fuckin’ – nice event. you. me. dressed up.” he took in a sharp breath through gritted teeth as your nails dug into his chest. “sounds like a damn date to me.”
“it’s work,” you shot back. “you’re just calling it a date so you don’t have to feel bad about cancelling.”
“i didn’t cancel – anything.” his hand came up to push into your hair, pulling your face closer. “i invited you. you want me to leave you home, huh?” his jaw was tight as he tugged your hair back slightly. “things happen. plans change.”
“i don’t want to watch you work, i want to spend time with you,” you managed, surprised by how even your voice came out, considering.
“christ – ” he used the grip on your hair to keep you close, foreheads nearly touching. “actin’ like i signed us up for a week in the desert. it’s dinner. you don’t wanna go?”
he leaned to press your forehead against his. “don’t. imagine alllll the women who’ll try to talk to me, huh?”
“asshole,” you breathed out, nails digging into his shoulders now as you lifted and dropped again. “asshole.”
he snorted through his nose, tugging once on your hair before letting go, leaning back down onto the pillow. “keep ‘em coming, baby. keep punishin’ me for havin’ a job while you’re sittin’ on my cock.”
his hand went to your thigh, spreading on wider so he could push up even deeper.
“you want time with me?” he muttered. “this is time. right now. i’m in you. you’re on me, and you’re still finding ways to be pissed.”
he tilted his chin to catch your lips between his teeth. “you want me to yourself at dinner? i’ll fuck you in the bathroom if you want that, too.”
“this isn’t the same and you know it.”
“isn’t it?” he sat up further, both arms going around your back so your chests were flush. “because from where i’m at, i’ve got my girl riding me, calling me names, and still taking inch like she’s been starving for it. feels pretty damn close to spending time together.”
“principle – ” you tried to say, words cutting off as your hands got distracted to tug at the short hairs at the nape of his neck harshly.
“principle’s pretty shit when i can feel you’re close,” he murmured, mouth brushing yours.
“yeahhh,” he breathed out, feeling you clench on him as your thighs started to shake. “we’ve got ten minutes and if you wanna finish this fight, you finish it on my cock.”
“won’t make it better,” you said through gritted teeth, trying to push through the building pressure – chasing it, pushing it away. “you still – jack – made this whole thing about you – ”
your sentence broke off into a sharp, helpless moan as the orgasm crashed into you. jack didn’t let up, if anything he held you down tighter, hips rutting up against you as you came.
his eyes were trained to your face, pupils thoroughly darkened. “aw, i’m sorry,” he cooed, fingers coming up to brush the hair off your face. “you were in the middle of tellin’ me off. don’t let me interrupt you.”
you opened your mouth to keep going, voice still shaky, and jack’s arms slid up your back to pull you down flush against his chest, crushing you into him so your face was buried in his chest.
“please finish what you were saying,” he muttered against your ear, one forearm caging you in. he let out a soft snort when you only whimpered, then added, “i’ll help. you were saying i was making this whole thing about myself.”
“you always – always do this. make everything about you and then act like i’m being difficult,” you – well, lied.
jack groaned low at your words, only spurred on even more.
“i do? y’really think so?” he mused, almost conversationally. his hand slipped between you, fingers finding your clit and pressing there, holding the pressure while driving up in one-timed strokes that made you gasp. “i make everything about me?”
“you do – ” you started, but the words dissolved when he pressed his palm flat against your lower belly, the pressure from both angles sudden and overwhelming, making everything tighten impossibly.
you groaned into his neck, and he tilted his face to the side to press his lips along your hairline.
“yeahhh, clearly i do.” he pressed a kiss to your ear, almost tender. “it’ll make me feel better to know you’re sittin’ all mad throughout the dinner you don’t wanna go to filled with me.”
c/w ᝰ.ᐟ unprotected p in v, teasing, pet names (sweetheart, sunshine, pretty, baby + no y/n), oral (f. receiving), fingering, mutual pining, cream pie + one very down bad handyman ⋆✴︎.ᐟ
Knock. Knock.
“Coming!”
Your voice carries through the apartment over the steady trickle of water somewhere inside. Rain boots squeak across the soaked hardwood as you hurry toward the front door, splashing through a puddle before yanking it open.
The second you see Logan standing in the hallway, relief crashes into you so hard you don’t even think before reaching for him. Your fingers wrap around his wrist, tugging him over the threshold while you kick the door shut behind him with your boot.
“Oh, thank god.” You let out a breathy laugh, already pulling him farther inside before he has the chance to say hello. “Thank you so much for coming over. I have absolutely no idea what I’m doing.”
Logan barely manages two steps before he stops. “…Jesus.”
His eyes move slowly around the apartment, taking everything in without saying anything. Every towel you own has been thrown across the floor in an obvious attempt to stop the water that has already escaped the laundry room and spread halfway through the kitchen.
Damp clothes hang from cabinet handles, dining chairs, doorknobs, and the oven handle, dripping steadily into baking sheets and mismatched bowls you’d shoved underneath them to catch the water.
A pastel floral duvet is draped across the backs of two barstools, three bras spin lazily from the ceiling fan, and a string bikini is looped around the refrigerator handle.
The whole apartment smells like fresh laundry, warm vanilla, and clean cotton lingering in the air beneath the faint scent of standing water. It’s complete chaos.
“I’ve been trying,” you blurt out before he can say anything else, throwing both hands toward the disaster surrounding the two of you. “I Googled it.”
“I can tell.”
“I watched, like…” You squint toward the ceiling, trying to remember. “…Seven videos?” He nods once. “And every single one told me to do something different.”
“I believe that.”
“So then I panicked.”
His eyes drift back toward the puddles stretching across your floor before settling on you again. “…Yeah.” The corner of his mouth twitches. “I can see that.”
“Come here.” You wave him toward the laundry room. “It’s worse over here.”
His head dips as a soft laugh escapes through his nose, though it disappears almost as quickly as it came.
Logan follows without a word, stepping carefully around a towel as his boots splash through the thin layer of water covering the floor.
You’ve somehow managed to get yourself almost as wet as the apartment. Damp strands of hair cling to your forehead while everything else has been shoved impatiently behind your ears, your fitted white tank hugging your frame.
That tiny jean skirt kisses your upper thighs, creeping higher every time you step over another puddle, bright yellow rain boots squeaking against the tile as you stop beside the open washing machine and look back at him with the most hopeful expression you can manage.
“There she is,” you whisper sheepishly.
Logan steps up beside you and looks into the drum. The washer isn’t full of clothes anymore because you already hauled every last piece out by hand. It’s still nearly full of cloudy blue water, soap suds floating across the top thick enough that he can’t even see the bottom.
“It won’t drain,” you explain, chewing lightly on your bottom lip.
“Alright.” He reaches for the cuffs of his flannel, rolling one sleeve up before doing the other, exposing his forearms. By the time he finishes, he can already feel your eyes on him.
Your lips part ever so slightly, your attention catching on his hands before drifting farther up his forearms, getting completely lost somewhere between the strength in his hands and the quiet concentration written across his face when he reaches in to check the depth. The water skims his flannel and it’s clear—the shirt has to go.
“This okay?” he asks, already shrugging off one shoulder. Your mouth goes a little dry, lips still parted, lashes fluttering when he asks you again. “Sweetheart?”
The pet name does nothing for your sanity, your cheeks blooming with warmth as you try to answer a question you never heard. “Hmm?”
“My shirt? Can I take it off?” he asks through a chuckle.
“Of course,” you smile. “Take anything off.”
A quiet snort slips out before he can stop it as he strips the plaid fabric off his body, showing off the white cutoff t-shirt underneath. He wraps the bigger shirt around his waist, cinching it with a knot before adjusting the bandana on his head.
“Let’s see what kind of mess you’ve gotten yourself into, sunshine.”
His bandana keeps most of his hair pushed back, though a few stubborn pieces still fall forward across his forehead as he squints down into the machine. The cutoff shirt stretches tightly across his shoulders every time he shifts his weight, the muscles in his arms flexing beneath sun-tanned skin as he twists the center agitator back and forth.
“…C’mon,” he grunts under his breath. You watch his jaw tighten as he gives it one more firm pull.
The agitator slides free. Logan takes a careful step backward, lifting the surprisingly heavy piece out of the washer with both hands. The movement makes the muscles in his forearms tighten beneath his skin, veins standing out as he adjusts his grip to keep it from slipping.
His worn blue jeans are tucked into work boots, and for a second you’re so distracted watching him that you almost forget he’s waiting for an answer.
“You got somewhere I can set this?”
“Oh!” You blink hard, snapping back to reality. “Hang on.”
You spin toward the hallway a little too quickly, and the rain boot hits another patch of soapy water. Both feet slide out just enough to send your arms pinwheeling through the air.
“…Oh, shit,” Logan huffs, his head snapping up instinctively as you manage to catch yourself, bent over at the waist. Nothing but ass and purple lace greeting him as you struggle to find your footing.
He tears his eyes away almost immediately, clearing his throat as heat creeps into his cheeks. His shoulders shake with a quiet laugh he can’t quite hold back, his head tipping to the side as the prettiest little thing he’d ever seen somehow managed to look like she’d stepped onto the ice with her skate guards still on.
“I meant to do that,” you smile over your shoulder, scurrying into the bathroom before returning a few seconds later with a thick striped beach towel bundled in your arms.
Logan blows out a breath as he watches you move, every inch of your apartment a hazard for a slip and fall. He smiles as you lay the towel on the floor, glancing up at him safe and sound.
“Perfect,” he hums, offering you a hand, guiding you closer.
The two of you lean over the washer together, peering into the cloudy blue water that hasn’t budged an inch. Logan studies the drum a moment before nodding once.
“I think your drain’s clogged,” he mumbles, looking to his left where you stand beside him, but you’re bent over now. The white tank top clinging to your curves is translucent—the purple lace bra underneath cups your breasts so perfectly he can’t help but sigh, the low scoop and soft swell of your breasts leaving him wondering what words left his mouth last and where he was goin’ with any of this.
His heavy eyes lift and you quirk an eyebrow teasingly, your glossed lips drawn to the side.
“Somethin’,” he huffs, and you nod. “I—I think things.” Words leave his lips, but they’re not the ones he’s reaching for. Your giggle fills the little laundry room, his laugh joining it. “Sorry—”
“Don’t be,” you smile, stepping a little closer, watching the breath catch in his chest.
“I think your drain’s clogged,” he says, getting his feet under himself again. Logan reaches both hands back into the drum, feeling carefully beneath the cloudy water.
His brow furrows a little deeper, the tip of his tongue slipping out to rest lightly against his upper lip while he concentrates, fingertips searching along the bottom where he can’t see.
“Hang on,” he mutters. “I think…” He pinches onto something beneath the water, his expression shifting with recognition. “I think I got something.”
His fingers tighten around whatever he’d managed to catch beneath the hazy water before giving it the gentlest tug.
“Shit…”
“What?” you ask, your eyes widening immediately as you peer over the edge.
“I think it’s gonna rip.”
Your nose scrunches and you laugh softly. “It’s okay.”
“You sure?” he asks, looking back at you. “I don’t wanna wreck your stuff, sweetheart.”
“If it fixes my washer, it fixes my washer,” you say simply, resting your hands on your hips, and he chuckles.
Logan smiles as he gives the fabric another gentle tug, every muscle through his forearms tightening. His biceps flex with the effort, boots squeaking faintly against the damp tile as he plants himself a little wider.
“Well…” he murmurs, glancing over at you with the smallest smile. “If I break it…” Another careful pull. “…I’m replacin’ it.”
A laugh bubbles out of you almost immediately. “Logan, you’re not replacing anything.”
“We’ll negotiate later,” Logan says, his brown eyes flicking toward yours for just a second before he braces himself for another pull.
You let out a breathy little laugh, shaking your head as you fold your hands behind your back. “There is no negotiation.”
“We’ll see,” he hums, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth as he looks back into the washer.
A strip of black lace slips through the cloudy blue water first, dripping between his fingers before hanging there in complete silence.
Water drips steadily from the towels hanging around the apartment while neither of you says a single word. His eyes drop to the lace dangling from his hand before very, very slowly lifting toward you. Yours are already on him. “…Oh.”
He pulls again, and this time pale blue satin slides free beneath the black lace, a delicate strap catching somewhere inside the drain before cherry-red mesh follows behind it, tiny bows glistening with soapy water as they break the surface.
Your lips part and Logan’s lashes flutter. “I—Umm… I don’t…” He clears his throat when his voice cracks around the words. A horrified giggle escapes you before you can stop it.
“Oh my gosh.” You press both hands over your mouth, already feeling your face warming from your neck all the way to the apples of your cheeks while Logan looks very deliberately back into the washing machine, trying to focus on literally anything except the fact that he’s somehow standing in your laundry room holding what is very obviously the prettiest collection of panties he’s ever encountered.
“I don’t think I’m done,” he admits after another second.
“You’re kidding,” you sigh.
Bubblegum pink lace slips free this time. Then delicate little white florals. Another gentle pull brings soft lavender mesh knotted through the first three, followed by a ribbon of satin that disappears beneath the growing bundle collecting in his hand.
Somewhere deep inside the drain they’ve managed to twist themselves together into one impossible knot, every tiny strap looping through another until what should’ve been one pair becomes two…then four…then six, the growing chain spilling farther and farther across the striped beach towel you spread on the floor only minutes earlier until you’re in the double digits.
He lets out a slow breath through his nose, the corners of his mouth trembling as he tries not to smile.
“I am so embarrassed—”
“I’m impressed,” he mumbles.
“Stop,” you giggle, holding out a hand to block his handsome face when he catches you peering through your fingers.
“This is quite the collection,” he teases, hissing under his breath in faux pain when you shove at his shoulder.
You cross your arms over your chest, turning away slightly, rubber boots squeaking against the tile when a little whistle breezes past his lips. The culprit of it all, the white lace t-string that barely qualifies as underwear in the first place, threads through his thick, rough fingers. The final pair of panties in the makeshift line.
He looks down at you, the dimple in his cheek deepening, waiting to catch your eye again.
“C’mon, pretty. Don’t be like that,” he chuckles as he drops the panty chain to the floor in a heap, reaching for you as he straightens, his hand settling against your hip to turn you toward him.
Your heart beats a little faster when his brown eyes rest on your lips, the tension in his shoulders unwinding when your mouth tips into a smile.
“I can’t believe there were that many,” you whisper, trying not to laugh.
“That’s what I’m sayin’,” he sighs, glancing at the pile before returning his attention to you. “How do you think I feel? I told you I was replacing them.”
“Shut up,” you chuckle, feeling your stomach flutter as he wets his lip, his thumb rubbing against the wet cotton at your hip—snap!
The sudsy water gurgles, bubbles popping from the middle of the drum, as the blue soapy water twirls down the drain like a cyclone until all that’s left is a clean slate.
Your lashes lift and your gaze rests on his. A part of you knows you should be relieved that the water is gone. A smaller, far less practical part of you has been hoping the machine might remain stubborn for an extra hour if it meant Logan had to stay.
“Well, look at that.” He smiles, looking down at the drum.
“You’re amazing.” You squeal, your arms wrapping around his neck, lips pressing against his cheek before you draw away.
For one long second, Logan forgets how to act.
His eyes stay on yours, searching your face like he’s making sure you really meant to do that, the warmth of your lips still lingering against his cheek.
His tongue drags slowly across his bottom lip before he lets out a slow breath through his nose, one hand tightening where it rests against your waist.
“Well,” he murmurs, his voice lower than it had been a second ago.
“What?” you ask, the smile playing in your voice.
“I don’t think anybody’s ever thanked me quite like that.”
Your hands smooth down his chest, his hand falling away from your hips reluctantly. He looks away under the excuse of checking the washer again, dragging one hand along the back of his neck.
He’d spent plenty of time fixing things for people—broken garbage disposals, leaky faucets, doors that wouldn’t quite shut, washing machines that refused to drain just like this one.
None of those jobs had ever left him standing in a tiny laundry room with the most beautiful woman he’d ever met smiling up at him like that. For the first time, he finds himself wishing something else around the apartment were broken—not because he wants another repair, but because he isn’t anywhere near ready to leave.
“I, uh—think we’re golden,” he says, reaching down for the agitator and resting the final piece of the puzzle back in before clicking it in place like it’s nothing.
“That’s it?” you ask, glancing between him and the washer. “You’re completely finished?”
“Unless you’ve got something else hidin’ somewhere that needs me,” he answers with a chuckle, hoping there’s something around here that will give him a little more time with you and another kiss on the cheek at the very least.
You glance around the apartment, taking in the soaked towels, the mixing bowls scattered beneath dripping clothes, and the duvet still draped across two barstools in the kitchen.
There is more than enough cleanup left to keep you busy for the rest of the day, but none of it technically requires a broad-shouldered hockey player you’ve had a crush on all semester.
Your lips press together in a slight pout before you can stop them, your boot digging lightly against the wet floor as you look back into the empty drum.
Logan notices immediately. “What’s that face for?” he asks, brushing the water off his rough hands on his jeans.
“What face?” you ask, peering at him out of the corner of your eye.
Logan catches you smiling before you realize you’re doing it. “That one.” He nods toward you, amusement pulling at his mouth. “You looked happier when your washer was broken, sunshine.”
“Did I?”
“You absolutely did.”
You bite your cheek as he lowers the lid of the washer, starting an empty load just to test it out. “So did you,” you mumble, calling his bluff, and his lips fall open like that can’t be so—like you’re reading him all wrong—but the chuckle gives him away.
“You think so?” Logan asks quietly. “…Guess I wasn’t hidin’ it very well.”
“M’happy it’s fixed,” you hum. “Obviously. I just thought it might take a little longer.”
Logan rests one hip against the washer, folding his arms loosely across his chest as he studies you. “You wanted it to take longer?”
“Maybe,” you smile.
“Huh,” he huffs, one hand lifting from his side to rest on your cheek, making your pulse jump as the other slides around your waist again.
Logan brushes his thumb across your cheek, his palm settling carefully against the side of your face when you lean into the touch.
“You know,” he murmurs, “it didn’t take shit breakin’ for you to call me over.”
“No?” you ask, and his arm tightens around your waist, guiding you closer. You smile bashfully, hands wrapping around his waist as well, chest pressing against his until your soaked breasts push into his broad chest.
“Been waitin’ for a while,” he murmurs, his thumb tracing a slow pass over your skin. “Just needed you to give me a reason.”
“Yeah?”
His eyes hold yours as the corner of his mouth lifts. “‘Course.”
The sincerity in his voice steals whatever response you were about to give him. Your fingers tighten in his shirt, feeling the warmth of his chest beneath the thin fabric as you tilt your chin up toward his.
“Are you going to kiss me, or did I flood my apartment for nothing?” you whisper, your lips so close to his that all you can feel is the breath of his chuckle.
“You didn’t flood your apartment for this,” he mumbles, the warmth of his words brushing over your lips as he teases you.
“You know…” he murmurs, pulling back just enough for you to chase his lips, “…you’ve been lookin’ at me all afternoon.”
“So’ve you.”
“…Yeah.” The admission comes so easily it makes your heart stumble. “I’ve been tryin’ real hard to be a gentleman.” He lets out a quiet exhale through his nose, like there wasn’t much point pretending anymore. “Been havin’ a hard time lookin’ anywhere else.”
Your mouth parts on a soft breath, and Logan’s body reacts to it instantly. His own lips part, catching your bottom lip in a gentle tug, humming out a deep sound before he murmurs, “I think you’re makin’ it pretty difficult.”
His forehead falls to yours for the briefest second, both of you smiling into the inch of space between your mouths. His thumb strokes once along your jaw before his lips press together, like he’s trying to convince himself to keep doing the gentleman thing he’d been talking about thirty seconds ago.
“Fuck it,” he murmurs.
Logan’s big arms wrap around you in one smooth motion as he lifts you clean off your feet. Your legs hook around his waist as his mouth crashes into yours, stealing your breath as you kiss him for the very first time.
He turns and presses your back to the wall, his body settling against yours with a heavy weight that makes your breath catch as your spine meets it.
He dips in again, kissing you slower this time, deep enough to make your head spin and everything else fall away. Your arms wrap around his neck, pulling him closer, nails sliding in the hair at the nape of his neck, pulling a deep groan from his lips.
You giggle breathlessly, and he buries his face in your neck, his fingers flexing against your skin as he physically holds himself back. His smile pulls along your skin, the weight of his body still holding you where he wants you, and even though he’s not kissing you for the moment, you can tell that it’s killing him.
“Sweetheart,” he mutters, warm at your neck, his teeth sliding against your skin.
“John?” you answer, the sound of his first name leaving your lips doing nothing for his restraint. He glances toward the ceiling for a second before looking back at you, his broad shoulders rising and falling with a quiet sigh.
“Baby,” he mutters against your neck, his voice rough enough to send a shiver through you. His eyes squeeze shut for a second before he tips his forehead to yours with a quiet laugh. “I’m bein’ so damn good right now.”
He sets you to your feet, your body still pinned to the wall, his rough hand cupping your cheek as the other holds you close, kissing you again.
“You don’t have to be,” you whisper, and his jaw tightens, his deep, dark eyes falling to your lips again.
“Fuck,” he mumbles, smiling when the corner of your lips curls. “You are trouble, aren’t you?”
You look back at him through your lashes, shaking your head no, but everything in your body language screams yes as he stares back at you, his lips still tingling.
“Can I ask you something?” he whispers.
“Mhmm,” you hum.
“Would you let me take you out sometime?”
You bite your lip, stifling the giggle bubbling on your tongue because the answer had been sitting on the tip of it before he’d even finished asking.
“I’d really like that,” you whisper.
“Tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow,” you answer.
“You can keep those boots on,” he teases as he steps between your legs, his body pressing against yours, and it’s clear that the last thing he wants to do is wait until then.
“I have something a little cuter I can wear,” you whisper.
Logan’s eyes drift over your face before the corner of his mouth lifts again.
“Somehow…” he murmurs, his thumb brushing absentmindedly against your hip, “…I don’t think that’s possible,” he sighs, stealing your breath when he steps back. “Pick you up around six?”
“Six sounds perfect.” You smile, fixing your skirt where it’s ridden up your thighs a little, feeling your body throb from your head to your toes.
Logan reaches for his toolbox, then the doorknob, his fingers wrapping around the brass handle before he slowly pulls it open.
He steps out before turning back toward you.
“Tomorrow.” You smile, your head resting against the doorframe—a floaty sensation coursing through your veins, the desperate need to kiss him again leaving your body trembling with adrenaline.
“Tomorrow.”
For one impossibly long second, it feels like you’re both waiting for the other person to break. Instead, Logan smiles. He gives one small nod before finally forcing himself to turn away, the old toolbox swinging lightly beside his leg as he starts down the breezeway.
You stand in the doorway long after he should’ve disappeared from sight, one hand still resting against the edge of the open door as your eyes follow him farther and farther away.
The afternoon sun catches the back of his shoulders, flannel tied around his waist shifting against his jeans. He looks over one shoulder, catching you still standing there watching him.
You lift your hand, waving with the tips of your fingers, feeling your heart race in your chest before he rounds the corner and falls out of sight.
You let out the tiniest sigh before easing the front door shut, the latch clicking softly behind you. Your back settles against the cool wood of the door, your eyes drifting shut as the biggest smile you’ve worn in weeks spreads across your face all over again.
Your shoulders slide another inch down the door until your rain boots squeak against the hardwood beneath you.
“Tomorrow,” you repeat, nodding to absolutely no one. “Not today. Tomorrow.” You press your lips together, trying very hard to look serious despite the fact that nobody is there to witness it.
“Which means…” You point one finger toward yourself in mock warning. “…You are not going to chase after him.” You nod solemnly. “You are a grown woman. You are capable of waiting…” Your eyes drift toward the front door. “…Twenty-four hours.” You pause. “…More or less.”
The washing machine sloshes cheerfully behind you as your head tips back against the door with another little groan. “Oh, he’s so handsome though,” you pout, your lips still tingling, the smell of his cologne clinging to the cotton of your tank top.
You push yourself away from the door and wander aimlessly toward the kitchen, your fingertips trailing across the backs of dining chairs draped in damp clothes.
“You’re not texting him.” You tap your cellphone as you pass it. “You’re not calling him. You’re not coming up with some household emergency because—because you can’t…”
“And besides…” Your eyes flick toward the laundry room where the machine continues humming along perfectly. “He fixed the only one you’ve got.”
A smile slips across your face before you can stop it. “He asked me on a date.” You gossip the words into the nothingness of your kitchen, your yellow puddle boots squeaking when you twirl. “He asked me.”
You stand there for a beat, the quiet hum of the washing machine filling the apartment before you let out one long sigh through your nose. “…Alright.” Reality.
The flood might be over, but your apartment still looks like a tornado spun through for fun. Towels lie scattered across the hardwood, damp clothes hang from cabinet handles and dining chairs, and somewhere beneath the floral duvet draped over your barstools is probably the mixing bowl you’d spent half an hour using to bail water out by hand.
The laundry basket waits against the wall exactly where you’d abandoned it earlier. You cross your arms over your body, peeling off the white tank top first, flicking it into the basket, shimmying the denim skirt down around your hips before lofting it into the heap as well.
You gather a handful of drip-dried clothing strewn across your place, cheeks warming all over again as flashes of the last hour replay in your mind.
The crease between his brows while he concentrated. The way he’d completely forgotten how words worked the second he’d looked over and caught sight of you. “…Poor guy.” The smile refuses to leave your face.
One by one, you begin dropping everything into the hamper, wandering back toward the scene of the crime as the water from the test-run starts to drain, the metal drum turning like a top for the final spin.
Something metallic rattles softly on the washer and your brows knit together, eyes snapping toward the appliance.
A wrench?
It sits on top of the metal lid, bouncing with the last lazy turn of the drum before settling perfectly still in the middle of the washer.
A laugh escapes before you can stop it.
“John Logan…”
He hadn’t touched a wrench all afternoon. Not once. You’d watched every second of it. He’d rolled up his sleeves, reached into the washer with those big hands of his, hauled the agitator out without so much as looking for a tool, and somehow fixed the entire thing anyway.
The wrench wasn’t forgotten… It was an excuse.
You lift it into your hand, turning it over once between your fingers as your smile grows impossibly wider.
Knock. Knock.
Your heart stumbles, a smile breaking across your face before you can stop it. You round the corner, not even glancing toward the peephole before you throw the door open.
You lean into the doorframe, smiling as the wrench hangs lazily from your fingers, giggling breathily as your heart pounds.
His eyes find yours first, his lips parting like every word he’d prepared has disappeared into thin air when he sees you in those little puddle boots and the panty set he’d spent the last few minutes fantasizing about, but it’s so, so much better.
Logan simply stares. Every coherent thought leaves him as his little plan unfolds into something more beautiful than he could have ever imagined.
The toolbox hanging from his hand suddenly feels twenty pounds heavier as his eyes fall down your body, lingering for a moment before lifting back to yours. “I—I forgot somethin’,” he manages, though it comes out rougher than he’d intended.
“Did you?”
You look down at the wrench resting in your hand before lifting it between the two of you. His eyes flick to it for all of half a second before they wander right back to your face.
He steps forward as your fingers fist in the front of his cutoff, bunching the soft cotton beneath your hand as you give him one determined tug over the threshold, and his lips find yours first.
The toolbox clatters to the floor, the front door slamming shut as every ounce of restraint he’d pretended to have around you disappears the second your lips meet.
Logan lets out one low sound against your mouth, lifting you off your feet just as effortlessly as he had before. The urgency makes your heart race, the wrench slipping harmlessly from your hand into the hamper of clothes as he presses deeper into your place, work boots pounding over the hardwood, and your fingers fist the hair at the nape of his neck.
“In there,” you mumble through a smile into your kiss, and he chuckles hungrily, his hold on you tightening.
He kicks off his boots at the threshold of your bedroom without missing a beat, setting you down just to walk you back to the mattress, his hands coming up to comb the bandana out of his hair as your fingers greedily tear at the knotted flannel around his waist.
Logan strips off his shirt as you toss his flannel aside, smiling against your lips as your fingers unfasten the hardware of his blue jeans, his voice deep and warm when he whispers, “You sure?”
“Don’t stop,” you breathe, your hands reaching behind your back to unfasten your bra as his jeans fall in a heap at his feet.
“Fuck, baby,” he mumbles, dipping down to get closer as his big, rough palms reach up, cupping your breasts in his hands, his lips sucking down on your neck. Your fingers wrap around the band of his boxers, drawing the material lower, shoving them down his thighs.
Logan kisses up your neck, lips brushing by your ear as he sighs deeply. His fingers hook around the panties on your hips—the last piece of clothing separating you from him.
“I’m still trying to be good,” he whispers against your ear, his voice honeyed and deep. You can hear the smile in his voice as he snaps the fabric against your skin, making you suck in a breath.
Your hand drifts between you, the tip of his thick cock already pressed against your thigh. He groans beside your ear when your fingernails trace softly from the base of his dick, shuddering out a breath as you work your way slowly to the tip, goosebumps spreading across his tanned skin.
“Are you?” you ask teasingly, sucking in a breath when he lifts you off your feet, taking you down to the mattress, pinning you under his weight as he steals the smile off your lips.
His tongue slides between your lips, rolling slowly with yours as your fingers thread through his hair, his hips rocking into you with a practiced sway, rutting against your clothed clit, making your thighs fall open.
“Been waitin’ for this forever,” he mutters into the kiss, his forehead dropping against yours when he breaks the kiss, looking at the space between you as his dick grinds over the purple lace between your thighs.
“Please,” you whisper, and his eyes lift to yours.
“Teasin’ me all afternoon?” he chuckles, pulling back, his body sliding lower on the mattress. “Think you don’t deserve a little teasing too?” His lips travel over your chest and stomach, pressing softly below your navel as his thumb traces over the lace panties along your slit.
He works lower, lips teasing the insides of your thighs as he kisses down your legs, stripping off your boots before he lets them fall to your bedroom floor. His biceps and shoulder muscles swell as he dips down again, the stubble on his jaw grazing your soft skin.
“Logan,” you pout, and he chuckles between your thighs, the warmth of his laugh making your legs draw in, but he spreads them apart again, those rough hands you couldn’t keep your eyes off earlier pressing your thighs into the mattress.
“Tell me you didn’t wear that little skirt just to torment me?” he hums, his mouth dipping down so his teeth can catch along the lace, dragging it down your thighs. “A wet, white tank top… How?” he asks as he tugs the lace the rest of the way down your legs before he bunches it up in his fist, tossing it to the side. “How was I not supposed to end up right… fucking… here…?” he asks, his breath blowing warm against your clit.
“I’m gonna take good care of you,” he murmurs, the words making your thighs tremble. Your hips lift off the mattress when his tongue drags up your center, a moan falling from your lips and filling your bedroom as his groan vibrates between your thighs at the taste.
Logan smiles, pressing your legs wider into the mattress, kissing your clit and making your back arch off the mattress as your hands fly to his hair, holding him close.
His rough fingers trace up your legs as his tongue circles your puffy clit, sucking against it as two thick fingers shove through your entrance.
Your eyes roll back in your head as he works his fingers in and out, curving them to hit that spot that has your thighs shaking with every push of his hand and flick of his tongue.
“C’mon, baby,” he mumbles into your pussy, adding a third finger, stretching you out as he feels you tightening around his digits, humming against your clit as he tastes your sweetness on his tongue and you break, fluttering around his fingers as his name leaves your lips in a breathy cry.
He watches you from between your thighs, working you through each wave of your orgasm until you’re gasping and whimpering in overstimulation, your hands tangling in his hair to drag him up to your lips.
“Proud of you,” he mumbles between kisses as you try desperately to catch your breath, the two of you smiling into your kiss when he rubs the thick head of his cock between your thighs, catching the wet mess he’d left pooling between your legs.
“Fuck, you drive me insane,” you whisper, feeling him rub his tip against your entrance.
“Yeah?” he asks, pressing just enough for your lips to fall open. His mouth curls against yours, feeling how desperate you are. “How was it?”
“So fucking good,” you whisper as your hands wrap around his body, nails sliding down his strong back.
“What about this?” he asks, feeling your hips lift off the mattress, making him sink deeper into your pussy as you grind up to fuck yourself on the first few inches.
“Keep teasing me, Logan. See what happens,” you smile, and he laughs.
“Still picking you up at six tomorrow,” he manages to push out, the muscle in his stomach tightening with how good you feel around him.
“Can’t wait,” you breathe, your eyes flicking up to him.
“I’ll drop you off and you can drag me back inside and we can do this shit again, huh?” he asks as you reach up, cupping his face in your hands, pulling him down to your lips. You catch Logan’s deep moan as he presses your hips down into the mattress, pushing in, stretching you wide.
“Yes, s-shit,” the words whimper past your lips as you cradle his sharp jaw in your hand, peering down to watch his hips draw back, the length of his cock pulling back slowly just to drive back in.
“Feels so good,” he groans against your mouth, pushing in and out. “Taking me so good,” he breathes, his forehead resting against yours to watch as his toned hips strike your skin again and again.
“Fuck, baby. That’s it,” he praises as you lift your legs, hands squeezing the back of your thighs, a loud moan falling from your mouth as his pace quickens, thrusting harder, in and out.
He leans into you a little, the position letting him fuck into you impossibly deep, his eyes rolling back into his head as your bottom lip slips between your teeth, your hands twisting the sheets below.
“I’m gonna cum,” you whimper, and he nods like he knows what you need, changing the angle just enough to fuck into you as his fingers rub and circle your clit.
“Fuck, John,” you whine, your back arching off the mattress as he rocks into you further, swirling his fingers over your clit when his lips find yours.
“Cum for me, baby,” he breathes. “Cum on my cock—”
Your arms wrap around his shoulders, pulling him into you as your body falls apart around him, your pussy squeezing him so tight he buries himself in your neck, grinding his teeth with the effort, moaning against your skin as he fills you with his climax too, his hips stuttering as your body softens around him.
“Fuck, baby,” he sighs into the crook of your neck as you giggle blissfully, your fingers slipping and threading into his hair. He stays like that for a moment, breathing and nuzzling into your neck, taking in the scent of your sweet perfume as he presses gentle kisses up to your ear. “I don’t think anybody’s ever thanked me quite like that.”
c/w ᝰ.ᐟ jealousy + possessiveness, established relationship, pet names (baby, pretty, princess, bunny + no y/n), oral (m. receiving), hair pulling, gagging/deepthroating, fingering, praise, unprotected p in v (fantasy) + dean loves it here ⋆✴︎˚｡⋆
You didn’t mean to get jealous, you really didn’t, but you couldn’t help it when some pretty brunette at the bar kept finding excuses to touch him.
A hand on his arm when she laughed. Her fingers brushing his back whenever she squeezed past him. Nothing outrageous, nothing Dean encouraged, and definitely nothing worth starting a fight over. You knew that. You also knew she’d looked at you twice before leaning into him a third time, and that was enough to leave that possessive streak simmering beneath your skin for the rest of the night.
He’d caught the little looks you gave her from across the bar, felt the way your hand settled a little more firmly against his chest when she wandered too close again, noticed that little crease between your brows and the bitter little scrunch of your nose that only he seemed to catch.
He nearly lost his mind when your fingers slipped in the front loop of his jeans, walking him like a dog out of Malone’s and toward the cab when you finally had enough.
And Dean, for all his usual swagger, followed without an ounce of resistance, that metaphorical golden retriever boyfriend tail wagging a mile a minute behind him.
Because fuck, you were jealous. You usually rolled your eyes at half the shit that came out of his mouth, but apparently you’d decided you’d had enough of someone else touching your boyfriend and were taking him home, and the six-foot-two hockey player being dragged obediently behind you had never been happier to go.
He never fed into it—never flirted back just to get a reaction or made you wonder where his attention was. If anything, he’d pulled you closer, kissed you sweeter, and carried on with the conversation like there was never any question about who he was leaving with.
But fuck if he didn’t love you like this. Not the part where you thought another woman had a chance with him—that shit he’d happily spend the rest of the night correcting. It was the way you wanted him enough to get greedy about it, like Dean Di Laurentis belonged to you and everybody else should already know better.
Dean Di Laurentis is exactly where he wants to be.
He spends the entire ride home pretending he doesn’t notice the way you keep looking at him, knowing damn well what’s waiting underneath that pretty little attitude.
Because the woman at the bar could look at him all she wanted. You were sleeping in his bed tonight, and you sure as hell were going to wear sixty-six while doing it.
And judging by the trail of clothes leading straight to his bed, you weren’t interested in pretending anymore either.
He walks toward his bedroom, following the trail of discarded clothes—your jacket, your jeans, and that top he wanted to tear off you all night, gathering each one as he goes, your perfume still clinging to the fabric.
He presses the clothes to his nose, biting back the smile pulling at his lips because somewhere between the bottom of the stairs and his bedroom door, he has to pretend like he isn’t completely delighted by this—there are levels to it, after all.
Because how could the woman he couldn’t live without possibly think she has competition?
He chuckles sleazily when he sees your pretty red bra on his floor, Dean’s blue eyes lifting to his bed to find you sitting pretty on the edge, waiting for him.
And of course you’re swimming in his Briar jersey. And of course you look like every late-night fantasy he has when he comes back to a dark hotel room after an away game, having to settle for his fist around his dick and your voice coming through his phone instead of pressed against his ear.
Before he can even ask, you’re on your knees, crawling slowly toward him. His eyes roll back at the sight of you like this…
He tugs the buttons of his shirt away, tearing it off his shoulders as you kneel before him, pawing for his belt, tugging his pants around his ankles.
He wraps his big fist around your hair, pulling your gaze away from his thick cock to his soft blue eyes. “C’mon, pretty... Been thinkin’ about this shit all night,” he mumbles as his thumb brushes along your bottom lip.
He hums out a satisfied breath when your lips wrap around his digit, sucking and humming, and you look up at him through your lashes.
“Tongue, baby,” he mumbles, and you lay it out, the fat tip of his dick slapping shamelessly against it as he moans at the contact.
You wrap your lips around him, eyes fluttering shut like it’s all you need. The vibrations of your moan around his cock leave his thick, rough fingers tightening in your hair.
He uses his hold on your head to pull you into him, watching tears spring in the corners of your eyes as his tip kisses the back of your throat.
“Atta girl,” Dean hums, his praise only fueling your desire. You bob up and down on his long cock as he guides your strokes, spit seeping out of the corner of your lips.
“You like that shit?” he asks, breathing out a sigh of relief as he watches you work his dick in your warm, wet mouth. His head falls back because you’re sloppy with it, just like he loves, gagging on him like only you can.
“Suckin’ my dick with my name on your shoulders, princess? Fuckin’ dream girl,” he groans hazily between thrusts when he starts to use your mouth.
Dean blows out a breath as you release his cock with a pop, causing him to let out a grunt for more, almost instantly eased by your fist, jerking him off. His own possessiveness flares, his jersey big enough that he catches a tease of your tits through the little gap beneath the collar, the white gold necklace he bought you glistening against your soft skin.
You can feel your arousal pool in your panties, a rapid throb between your thighs matching your pulse. “I can’t wait to fuck you,” he presses the words out between his teeth when he feels your lips on him again.
You moan, feeling the weight of him on your tongue, Dean’s precum swirling with your saliva, making your eyes roll back in your head. You arch your back, nails running down the back of his muscular thighs, your jersey lifting slightly, giving him a glimpse of your round ass, a tiny number 66 embroidered on the back of your thong.
“Fuuuck,” he groans at the sight, tossing his head back—the salty taste of his precum intensifies as he cums in thick ropes, painting your throat. You wrap your hands around his body, nails sinking into his skin, making his muscles clench.
Dean’s cock throbs on your tongue, blood pumping in his shaft as you cup his balls in your hands, rolling slowly, not wanting him out of your mouth just yet.
“C’mere,” he breathes as he helps you to your feet, pulling you to his lips. He kisses you deeply, walking you backward toward his bed, pushing you down before mounting you fast.
“These panties… You fuckin’ kidding me?” he mutters against your lips as his thick fingers shove the satin aside, running up your soaked slit.
“Don’t,” you mumble, but the warning loses some of its bite when your hips lift instinctively into his hand.
Dean’s mouth curls against yours. “Don’t what, princess?” he asks, dragging the question out as his fingers continue their slow path between your thighs. He knows exactly what you mean. You can see it in the smug little smile he’s trying and failing to hide.
“You know what.” Your hands slide around his shoulders, nails trailing down his skin as you pull him closer, rough enough that you know it’ll leave a mark, and he knows it too.
The teasing in Dean’s expression softens as he studies you. His big hand grips your thigh, spreading you wider against his mattress. “That what tonight was about?” he asks, pinning you down.
You hesitate, your eyes dropping briefly to his mouth. “I didn’t like her touching you,” you whisper, and his tongue skims his bottom lip.
“Yeah?” The word comes out low as he dips down until his forehead presses against yours, your arms wrapping tighter around his neck, needing him close. “Don’t want her touching me either. She isn’t you.”
“Still didn’t like it,” you mumble.
That nearly gets his smile back. Fuck, he loves you. Dean catches your jaw in his hand, tipping your face toward his until there’s nowhere else for you to look. “You know who I went home with. Who’s my girl, huh?”
Your fingers slide into the hair at the back of his neck, holding him there. “Me.”
“Yeah, you.” His answer comes without a second of hesitation as his body settles heavier against yours. “Always gonna be you.”
The words barely have time to settle before you’re pulling him back into another kiss, your hips lifting into his hand as his fingers slip beneath the satin and push inside you. Dean swallows your moan, smiling against your mouth because apparently reassurance only makes you wetter.
His fingers curl inside you, the heel of his palm hitting your clit at the perfect tempo—two fingers turning into three until his name is screaming past your lips and your back is arching off the mattress into his chest.
He works you through it, kissing you softly and breathlessly as you beg for his dick. He has to bite back another smile because he was already dreaming about ruining you from the moment your fingers laced possessively through his at the bar.
He’d pictured that same hand pinned to your lower back, each rut of his hips sending the jersey he just knew you couldn’t wait to slip on higher and higher as your perfect pussy swallowed his dick whole, tears of pleasure wetting his mattress with your face pressed against the sheets.
He lifts his hand, slipping his fingers between his lips, sucking your wetness from them as that filthy, satisfied smile slowly returns. “That’s my fucking bunny.”
Bro ok, when my clit is rubbed I cum sooo fast, and i just think that Jason Todd would find that hot asf, although would also probably tease me about it 💔
(not a request btw, just a thought)
what happened to hi hello, hru… (used this as request anyway)
i’m sure jason would find it amusing though and not in a condescending way. no he’s genuinely fascinated about what makes you tick. he’d purposefully overstimulate you and run his other hand over your thigh to keep it open while he teases. fingers circling over and over as you’re just helpless to it. a couple tears might slip down your cheek too, while you writhe beneath him after he’s pulled another orgasm out of you for the nth time.
you’re left panting and gasping, clawing at his forearm while he shushes you with his forehead pressed to yours.
“no, come on,” he coos. “you could give me one more.”
he gapes as you do, mouth parting in just the way yours does. moaning out in a mimicking way but really it’s in awe. movements going rapid as you try to clench your thighs and he only digs his fingers into your flesh a little harder.
“jay,” whining as you beg for god knows what.
“i know ma,” voice soft as he presses his lips to yours though his movements do not falter as he rubs your clit just a little harder.
just enough for you to notice.
“you’re doing so good pretty girl.”
it’s like the dam overflows at just his words now. like it was enough to push you over the edge and he knows it. he’s always known your body so well as though he’s studied you.
just like that, you’re falling apart again. head falling back into the pillow as your jaw slacks open. jason follows you down, one hand hitching your leg around his hip now as the other slows only barely. a whimpering sound escapes you as he continues his tantalizing circles, making you ache though the peak and over into another. thighs shaking around him as he drops his mouth to yours though breast, sucking around the peaked edge as you moan out his name.
you can feel his thick length pressing against your thigh but jason wasn’t done with you yet. at least not with teasing you.
jason’s insatiable and you knew that the night was hardly over.
.☘︎ ݁˖. in which Dick Grayson tries to guess the flavour of your lip gloss, and keeps getting it wrong!
.☘︎ ݁˖. warnings: none, just light fluff and kissing!
It started as a harmless, slightly silly game during a rare quiet evening in the Manor. You had bought a set of fruit-flavored lip glosses on a whim, and after applying a generous swipe of a sweet, shimmering formula, you challenged Dick to a blind taste test.
He had taken to the "rules" with suspicious enthusiasm.
"Okay, close your eyes," you instructed, sitting cross-legged opposite him on the couch.
Dick leaned in obediently, eyes shut, a handsome, lopsided grin pulling at his lips. He cupped your cheek, thumb brushing gently against your jaw, and leaned in to press his lips against yours. The kiss was soft, deliberate, and just a fraction longer than a simple taste test strictly required.
He pulled back, lingering close enough that you could feel his warm breath. He tapped his chin, putting on a show of deep, intense concentration.
"Strawberry?" he guessed.
"Not even close," you laughed, shaking your head. "It’s watermelon. Try again."
He leaned right back in, capturing your lips once more. This time, the kiss had a bit more weight to it, his touch sliding from your cheek down to the back of your neck, fingers tangling gently in your hair. He parted his lips slightly, tasting you properly, pulling you in until your chest was pressed against his.
When he finally broke the kiss, he looked down at you with heavy-lidded, innocent eyes. "Hmm. Still hard to tell. Raspberry?"
"Dick," you said, brow furrowing as you studied his face. "It tastes explicitly like artificial melon. How are you getting raspberry?"
"Hey, my palate is refined for Gotham takeout, not cosmetic fruit," he defended, though the corner of his mouth twitched upward. "Give me another try. I’ll get it this time, promise."
You reapplied a fresh layer of a different flavor—this one distinctly vanilla—and sat back. "Alright. New one. Go."
He didn’t hesitate. Dick pulled you into his lap this time, his hands settling firmly on your hips. He leaned down and kissed you deeply, taking his time, making a slow, thorough work of tasting every drop of gloss on your lips. By the time he pulled away, your heart was hammering against your ribs, and your lips felt warm and thoroughly kissed.
He rested his forehead against yours, breathing softly. "Cherry?" he asked, sounding entirely sincere.
You blinked, staring at him. Vanilla was practically screamingly obvious. There was no way a trained acrobat, detective, and sharp-eyed hero couldn't distinguish vanilla from cherry.
You narrowed your eyes, watching the subtle glimmer of mischief in his blue eyes and the slow, satisfied smirk spreading across his face.
"You're doing this on purpose," you accused, poking his chest.
Dick’s smirk widened into a full, unabashed grin, his arms tightening around your waist to pull you closer. "I don't know what you're talking about. It's a very difficult test."
"You knew it was vanilla the second you kissed me, didn't you?"
"Maybe," he admitted, unrepentant, trailing a kiss down to the corner of your jaw. "But if I got it right on the first try, the game would be over. And why would I stop a game where the punishment for losing is getting to kiss you again?"
You tried to hold a stern expression, but the warmth in his eyes made it impossible. "You're terrible."
"Terrible, but effective," Dick hummed, his lips brushing against yours once more. "Now... what's the next flavor?"
bruce wayne with a girlfriend who wants to film a grwm for social media but he walks past the camera shirtless (and hot) and it turns into a playboy, billionaire bruce wayne thirst trap used in 1838373 edits because his fans are unhinged
dick grayson with a girlfriend who tosses off her high heels mid walk because it hurts to walk in them, making him speed up his pace to fetch her heels before it gets into her way
barbara gordon with a girlfriend who melts in barbara’s arms while getting back scratches and then she proceeds to brag to her followers that no one will have such an intelligent and amazing and hot and kind and sexy and loving and ethereal girlfriend like she does
jason todd with a girlfriend who snaps a quick ootd and says “twirl” and he actually listens to show his outfit
cassandra cain with a girlfriend who always shows her newest haul, in real life or per video chat doesn’t really matter, and wants cass to clap or compliment her
stephanie brown with a girlfriend who demands to get carried yet steph proceeds to throw her over her shoulder instead
tim drake with a girlfriend who calls him good boy whenever he does a quick favour for her and they both cringe but tim secretly doesn’t mind
duke thomas with a girlfriend who bakes with him and she intentionally smears whipped cream or flour or any sort of shit she can get into her hands onto his face (it doesn’t end well)
damian wayne with a girlfriend who forces him to participate in tiktok trends. he appears maybe once or twice per month (if you’re lucky)
pairing: garrett graham x reader, dean di laurentis x reader
description: your boyfriend finds out you were horny the night before but didn't wake him up
warnings: suggestive themes but no smut
word count: 538 for garrett, 749 for dean
a/n: based off a tiktok video i saw a couple days ago, dividers from @designlikenonsense
←garrett graham→
Being the captain of the Briar U hockey team meant that Garrett had a very busy schedule most days, which meant that he would sometimes get into his room and just crash. Like last night, when he belly flopped onto the bed and was out like a light in a matter of seconds—a new record for him, actually.
By the time he wakes up the next morning, all the other boys have already left to whatever plans they have for the day, leaving you to sit in the kitchen enjoying a nice cup of tea. "Morning, baby." He murmurs, pressing a kiss to your temple as he opens up the fridge.
"Good morning. Did you have a nice night of sleep?" You ask, hiding your grin behind your mug as you watch him fumble around for a bottle of water.
"Yeah, it was great. Especially after last night's practice; Coach really had us working hard last night." He explains as he takes a sip of his water, coming up behind you to rest his chin on your shoulder. "What about you? You seemed wide awake when I got back last night."
You giggle softly, melting into Garrett's touch as his arms wrap around you. "You know that I always sleep better when I'm next to you. Even if I was feeling a bit horny." You say casually as you run your finger along the rim of your mug. You can feel Garrett tense up behind you as he takes in the words you just said.
"Why didn't you wake me up?" Garrett asks as he stands up straight, turning you around to face him. He almost looks like he's pouting, like he finds what you've said offensive in some way, but you know that he'd never admit to it if you called him out on it.
"You looked like you were dead on your feet, baby. I didn't want to keep you up any longer than you already had been, so I just lived with it. It's not like not having sex for one night is gonna kill me, Garrett." You say with a shrug, leaning back against the counter as you look up at your boyfriend.
"Honey, let me make something clear to you, okay?" Garrett starts off as he rests his hands on your hips, rubbing small circles through the fabric of your—his—shirt. "I don't care how tired you might think I am, or how much sleep you think I need; if you're in the mood, wake me up immediately. Doesn't matter if it's 3 in the morning and I spent 5 hours on the ice, please wake me up as soon as you know you need me."
"So you're saying that you would rather have sex with me than get some much needed rest?" You ask with a raised eyebrow. "You do realize how insane that sounds, don't you?"
"Don't care. If my girl needs me, I'd do anything she asked of me, no matter what." He says as he pulls you in closer, his head dipping in between the crook of your neck to place soft kisses. "Now, what do you say we make up for lost time from last night?"
←dean di laurentis→
Considering Dean Di Laurentis' reputation, you would have thought that the two of you would be having non stop sex since you two started dating, but that's not exactly how things played out. The two of you absolutely had an amazing sex life—the best sex you've ever had, really, not that you would be telling Dean that—but when he was deep in the middle of a season? You went from having sex multiple times a day to just having sex every few days. Which was still a lot for your average couple, but Dean was great at making you crave things you never knew you needed.
So the two of you decided to take an extended trip up to New York for a bit, but it couldn't start until his final practice for the week. And then he insisted that he be the one to make the drive into the city for the two of you, so by the time you made it to his apartment he was struggling to carry himself up the stairs and into his room.
And he looked so cute when he was cuddling up to you in his sleep, blowing soft breaths out through his mouth. It would have been selfish of you to wake him up for something as trivial as sex, so you decided against it and just went to bed for the night.
You wake the next morning to an empty bed, the sound of Dean's music and the sizzling of a pan competing for space throughout the apartment. When you walk down the stairs and into the kitchen, you're met with the sight of Dean's back and his sweatpants hanging low on his hips.
"You seem to have a lot more energy this morning. I take it that you slept really well last night?" You ask as you take a seat at the kitchen island. Dean turns around at the sound of your voice, smiling wide when he sees you there in just his shirt.
"Yeah, that might just have been the best sleep I've ever had, made even better by the beautiful girl sleeping next to me." He says, pausing his cooking to press a couple kisses around your face.
"It probably would've been even better if we'd gotten to have sex last night." You say with a wistful sigh as you tap your fingers on the countertop.
"Well yeah, but you were already tired, baby. I know you're not really in the mood when you haven't slept." Dean says as he turns back to the stove, pouring some pancake batter into the pan.
"Actually, I kind of was in the mood last night, but you seemed pretty tired so I just let you sleep." Silence fills the room for a few seconds as Dean slowly turns towards you once more, pancakes forgotten as he shoots you an appalled look. "Why are you looking at me like I just shot your cat or something?" You snort.
"You're telling me that I could've had sex with my favorite person in the world last night, but you didn't wake me up because you thought I was too 'tired'?" Dean's mouth is agape and he has a hand pressed to his chest, as if he's hearing the most world ending news of his life. "Baby, I don't care if the god damn world is ending and falling to a million pieces around us, if you want me, wake me up! In fact, just climb on top of me and have your way with me, I'll wake up and catch up eventually."
"I can't do that, that'd be taking advantage of you!" You say, failing to hold in your laughter at how dramatic Dean can be when it comes to you.
"Not if I'm standing here giving you permission right now, it's not." Dean counters, standing with his arms wide. "You can have me right now, actually, just give me a second."
You watch in amusement as Dean scrambles to turn the stove off, throwing all the dishes he'd dirtied in the sink before grabbing you by the waist and throwing you over his shoulder. "Dean!" You squeal, your legs flailing slightly as you try to keep your balance.
"Sorry, can't talk right now baby. Have to make it up to my girl." He says, taking the stairs to his room two at a time, making sure that his grip on you is secure. "Can't leave you unsatisfied, now can I?"
c/w ᝰ.ᐟ angst!! + hurt/comfort, post-breakup, hospital, surgery, concussion, pet names (wife, baby, princess + no y/n), kissing, name-calling (reader is called a bitch, JJ gets called a whore) + one very, very medicated hockey captain ᢉ𐭩✴︎˚
The fluorescent lights overhead buzz quietly as your shoes squeak against the polished hospital floor. You tuck your hands deeper into the pockets of your sweatshirt as you try to steady the strange feeling twisting in your stomach.
You hadn’t expected your Friday night to end inside a hospital, certainly not because of Rafe Cameron. Truthfully, you hadn’t expected to hear his name at all. Not after the last few weeks. Not after everything that had happened.
Yet somehow, despite all of that, despite the silence between the two of you and the fact that you’d done everything in your power to stop wondering what he was doing or who he was with, he’d still listed you as his emergency contact.
“He took a pretty hard hit into the boards during tonight’s game,” the nurse explains gently, glancing back over her shoulder with an easy smile before slowing her pace so you’re walking beside her.
“Dislocated shoulder, broken clavicle, and a mild concussion. Surgery went well, though. The orthopedic surgeon’s happy with everything, so now it’s mostly just recovery.”
She flips through the chart tucked beneath her arm before adding almost as an afterthought, “He came out of surgery a little while ago, so he’s still pretty groggy. Between the anesthesia, the pain medication, and the concussion, he may not make a whole lot of sense for a little while.”
You nod absentmindedly, though you’re hardly listening anymore. Your thoughts are somewhere else entirely, drifting back over the last couple of weeks whether you want them to or not.
There hadn’t been one big betrayal. Just enough little ones that, eventually, they all started to feel like one.
A semester-long group project with a girl who never seemed to leave his side. A few too many study sessions that stretched late into the evening. A ride home after class. Friends mentioning they’d seen them grabbing coffee together.
Then there was the homecoming costume party, where she’d shown up in bunny ears and a U Mich hockey jersey Rafe had lent her.
When you cocked an eyebrow at him as she walked into the party, he’d brushed it off, saying she’d needed something for the costume, but everyone knew what it looked like when a girl walked into a party wearing a hockey player’s jersey.
It wasn’t just something she’d borrowed. It looked like a claim, and judging by the way she kept angling herself to show off the number on her back and the last name on her shoulders, you knew she knew that too.
The second you left Rafe’s side to run to the bathroom, she pulled the rest of their marketing group together and suggested a picture, leaning into Rafe with one hand against his chest while Rafe hooked an arm around her waist.
By the time you came back, the picture had already been taken, posted, and buried inside a photo dump beneath a caption about everyone’s favorite bunny. You didn’t even know it existed until your best friend sent you a screenshot twenty minutes later with one message underneath it.
Wtf? Did you and Rafe break up?
The nurse studies you for a second before offering another small smile, one that almost looks like she’s debating whether she should warn you about something. “I should probably mention…” She lets out the tiniest laugh, shaking her head. “His teammates have been here almost the entire night. They’re a lively group.” She lowers her voice conspiratorially. “And there’s another young woman in the room who’s been…very determined to stay by his side.”
Your chest tightens before you can stop it, though you keep your expression carefully neutral. The nurse catches it anyway. “For what it’s worth,” she says quietly as the two of you stop outside a closed hospital room door, “she wasn’t the person listed when we asked who to call.”
She eases the door open before stepping aside. The room is larger than you’d expected, though it somehow still feels crowded.
And just as the nurse mentioned, the boys are there. Topper is sitting in a chair, one ankle crossed over his knee as he works his way through a family-sized bag of Doritos.
Beside him, Kelce is completely folded over an iPad, tapping the screen with the concentration of a twelve-year-old who’d been told he had five more minutes before bedtime. He jabs JJ in the side, trying to show whatever's happening on his screen.
JJ waves him off without tearing his attention away from the stunning nurse standing beside Rafe’s bed. “So…” JJ says smoothly, tilting closer. “Hypothetically speaking, if someone wanted to thank the nurse who saved his best friend’s life—or longtime mortal enemy, depending on the day.” His grin grows when she doesn’t immediately tell him to get lost. “You free for dinner next week?”
She laughs without looking up from Rafe’s hospital bracelet, giving him a fresh round of fluids and pain meds.
Your attention drifts past them before settling on the bed. Rafe Cameron. His left arm is tucked securely into an immobilizer across his chest, thick white bandages disappearing beneath the collar of the pale blue hospital gown hanging loosely from his broad shoulders.
A dark bruise has already started spreading along the sharp line of his jaw, another peeking out beneath the hair flattened awkwardly against one side of his head from hours spent unconscious. His lips are dry, cheeks faintly flushed, and even from the doorway you can tell he’s struggling to stay awake.
Then your eyes slide to the other side of the bed and there she is, the girl from Rafe’s marketing class, perched on the edge of the mattress like she belongs there. Rafe, meanwhile, has somehow managed to scoot himself nearly to the opposite edge.
His body is angled as far away from her as physically possible without rolling straight onto the floor, shoulder pressed awkwardly against the raised guardrail.
His heavy eyelids lift, and when he spots you across the room, the corners of his mouth pull into the softest, dopiest smile you’ve ever seen. It isn’t forced or uncertain. If anything, it’s relief, like he’s been waiting for you to get there all night.
His shoulders loosen against the raised hospital bed, his head tipping lazily into the pillow as though the simple act of seeing you has convinced his body it can finally relax. “…There’s my wife.”
The boys start to lose it while the nurse presses her lips tightly together, lowering her clipboard as she bites the inside of her cheek, her shoulders betraying her anyway when they begin to shake with a laugh she’s very obviously trying not to let out.
“…Your wife?” JJ asks, already knowing exactly what he’s about to do.
Rafe blinks at him slowly, his eyebrows furrowing just enough to wrinkle the bandage stretched across his temple before his sleepy gaze drifts back to you again. “…Yeah?”
Rafe’s eyebrows pull together almost immediately, his sleepy smile slipping into a confused frown as he watches JJ laugh himself breathless. “No…” Rafe mumbles, shaking his head against the pillow. “Not my wife.”
“There you go, buddy,” Topper soothes, tapping his hand against the white blanket covering Rafe, leaving orange fingerprints in his wake.
Rafe nods once, satisfied again. “My girlfriend.”
Topper drops his forehead into his hand while another laugh escapes him, Kelce simply closing his eyes like he’d reached the point in the night where nothing could surprise him anymore. Even the nurse gives up trying to look professional, turning toward Rafe’s chart so she can hide the smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.
“What?” Rafe asks, his words still thick with anesthesia. “She is.”
JJ winces dramatically. “Ooh, buddy…” He rubs the back of his neck before looking back at him. “I hate to be the one to tell you this…”
“Huh?” Rafe’s attention snaps right back to him.
“…She ain’t that either.”
The color drains from Rafe’s face and his mouth falls open.
“…What?”
Topper pushes himself out of the plastic chair beside the window without saying a word. “C’mere, sweetheart,” he says softly, giving your shoulder a gentle squeeze as he guides you toward the empty seat. “You don’t need to stand over there.”
Rafe doesn’t look away from you as Topper helps you into the chair beside the bed, panic beginning to replace the sleepy haze clouding his expression.
“…Baby?” His voice is smaller now. “What do you mean?”
He tips his head toward JJ, clearly attempting to keep the conversation between the two of them. It would’ve worked a lot better if he wasn’t speaking at his normal volume.
“What do you mean she’s not my girlfriend?”
As far as he’s concerned, you still belong right there beside him, your hand in his. Nothing else makes sense.
“If he’s awake now,” you ask quietly, glancing toward the nurse, “am I actually needed anymore?”
“—Yes,” Rafe answers quickly.
“Technically? No,” the nurse corrects him gently. “He’s doing well. You’re more than welcome to stay if you’d like, but you’re free to head home.”
You nod once, your fingers curling around the strap of your purse.
“Don’t go,” Rafe mumbles.
His brows pull together as he slowly looks around the room, his good hand lifting off the blanket as he begins pointing from person to person. “One…” His finger lands on you. “Two…” He points toward Topper. “Three…” Kelce. “Four…” JJ. Then his finger circles back toward himself. “…Five.”
He blinks once before his gaze drifts across the bed toward Cami.
“…Six.”
His sleepy eyes settle back on the nurse. “Maximum capacity’s probably five, right?”
The nurse presses her lips together, clearly trying not to laugh.
“Okay.” He points toward Cami with complete sincerity. “Then she can go.”
Cami’s eyebrows shoot up, her head snapping toward the boys when she hears some snickering across the room.
“Fine. I’ll scoot over,” Rafe says, shifting the centimeter that remains between him and the guardrail. “My girl stays.”
JJ looks at the microscopic amount of space Rafe just created before looking back at you. “Enjoy your extra inch, sweetheart.”
“I can try harder,” Rafe assures.
And for the first time since you walked through the door, the laughter begins to fade. Because underneath the anesthesia, he’s completely and utterly devastated by the fact that he lost you.
A knock sounds against the side of the already open door before a man in navy scrubs steps inside, flipping through the pages of Rafe’s chart.
“Hey,” the doctor says warmly when he spots you. “She’s here. I’ve heard a lot about you. I’m Dr. Reynolds,” he introduces with an easy smile, completely oblivious to the fact that the tension in the room was thick enough to cut with a knife.
You slip your hand back into the pocket of your sweatshirt, refusing to look anywhere near the other side of Rafe’s bed where the girl still lingers, arms folded now, her smile disappearing a little more every minute.
“Nice to meet you,” you say quietly.
Dr. Reynolds nods once before turning back toward Rafe, flipping another page in the chart.
“Well,” he says, “your surgery went exactly how we hoped. Shoulder’s stable, clavicle’s repaired, concussion symptoms are mild so far. You’re going to be sore for a while, but everything looks great.”
Rafe isn’t listening. He’s still watching you, and the doctor notices, letting out a low laugh before he sighs. “I’ve got to tell you… You must be pretty special. He has asked for you… What?” He glances over at his teammates. “…I think eleven times since he woke up.”
“Mhmm,” the nurse confirms too. “Every few minutes he’s like ‘Where’s my girl?’ ‘Did she get here yet?’ ‘Call my girl.’”
“…Rafe,” you sigh.
“I’m sorry,” he pouts. “I wanted to make you jealous. I just…” He swallows thickly. “I just wanted you to look at me again.”
JJ buries his face in his hands while Kelce bites the inside of his cheek so as not to laugh.
“I just…I just want my girlfriend back.”
Across the bed, the girl shifts uncomfortably where she’d been perched on the mattress all evening, her shoulders drawing in as she looks toward Rafe, silently willing him to stop talking.
“Ex-girlfriend,” JJ reminds him.
“…I don’t like that.”
“Rafe?” Cami’s voice comes out much smaller than it had before. His attention drifts toward her for the first time in what feels like forever, his heavy eyelids lifting just enough to acknowledge she’d spoken.
“Hi.”
“Last week, you told me you were over her,” she says. “Was that a lie?”
“For the love of god, Cameron. Plead the fifth,” Topper murmurs with a mouth full of chips.
“I lied.”
The girl’s face drains of what little color it had left. His brows pinch together as his concussed, medication-clouded brain slowly catches up with the words that had just come out of his mouth.
His eyes drift toward the ceiling for a second before he lets out the tiniest, most disappointed sigh. “Probably shouldn’t’ve said that. But…” His voice is quieter now, almost sleepy. “It wasn’t gonna work anyway. That’s my wife—my girlfrie—no. Holy fuckin’ shit…” He gestures toward you helplessly. “She just…she owns me, okay? And I love it. I love that shit so much.” His eyes drift back to you, soft and unfocused. “She’s everything.”
“Dude,” JJ sighs through a chuckle, shaking his head. Kelce bites the side of his cheek to keep his laughter at bay as Topper runs a hand down his face in exhaustion.
“…Can you blame me?” Rafe gestures toward you. “Look at her. She’s… perfect.” He yawns and trails off, his lashes lowering as he drifts toward sleep. “So pretty.”
“Hey, Cameron. We get it, buddy,” JJ says.
“Like…” He slurs, fighting sleep, “…A princess.”
Cami looks around the room like she’s waiting for someone to stop him, someone to tell everybody this is just the medication talking. Nobody does.
Rafe’s attention drifts past her, settling on you, that same tired, lovesick smile he’d been wearing since you’d walked through the door.
Cami lets out a slow breath before pushing herself off the edge of the mattress, smoothing both hands down the front of her sweater. “Well…” she says, forcing a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “I guess I’ll get out of everyone’s way.”
Click. Click. Click.
Her heeled boots tap against the old linoleum floor.
“Is she gone yet?” Rafe slurs, lifting one eye just enough to peek out of before slamming it shut.
“I’ll see you around,” she says to you with a careless shrug. “I’m sure it won’t be long.”
You don’t answer. You simply meet her eyes, one eyebrow lifting ever so slightly. She adjusts the strap of her purse higher onto her shoulder, her smile turning just a little sharper.
“So when you two break up next time, tell him not to lose my number, bitch.”
The words barely leave her mouth before JJ pushes himself out of the chair.
“Alright,” he says, his arms folding across him as he steps between the two of you just enough to break her line of sight. “You can be upset. Nobody’s gonna blame you for that. But you don’t get to take it out on her.”
Cami scoffs and rolls her eyes, letting out a short, disbelieving laugh. “I wasn’t—”
“You were,” Kelce interrupts evenly as he locks the iPad and tucks it beneath his arm. He doesn’t raise his voice, but he doesn’t leave any room for an argument either.
“And you’re done,” Topper pipes in fast. “Nobody talks to her like that. Leave.”
“Seriously?” she snips, looking around the room before her eyes rest on JJ’s.
JJ takes one slow step forward, his expression never changing. “You made your point. Time to go.”
“—Whatever.”
Her hand settles on the curtain, yanking it back dramatically enough that the little metal rings clatter—loud enough to startle Rafe awake, breathing sharply through his nose as he looks around the room in complete confusion.
“…What happened?” Rafe mumbles.
JJ glances over at you for a second, watching the way you sit at the edge of your chair, watching your eyes widen when he wakes up. Even though the two of you are over, the panic that catches in your chest when Rafe wakes makes it painfully clear that some part of you still belongs to him.
The nurse told you you could leave. You still hadn’t left. You hadn’t smiled much. Sure. But you’d answered the hospital’s phone call. You’d driven over. You were still sitting in his room hours later, despite every opportunity to walk back out that door.
“Alright,” JJ says casually, fishing his wallet out of his pocket. “I’m gonna go find coffee before I fall asleep.” He nods to the boys to follow along. “Figured we’d give you two a little break from the crunching of chips and Fruit Ninja—”
“I’m not playing Fruit Ninja,” Kelce mutters, still looking down at the iPad. “It’s Overcooked. And, if anyone should leave, it’s you—whoring yourself out to any nurse that walks in here.”
“Rude.” JJ chuckles, even though Kelce isn’t wrong.
A quiet laugh slips through the room, the tension finally beginning to unwind. You look down at your phone for something to do, trying not to think about the fact that you’re finally alone with him, when a soft rustling sound pulls your attention back toward the bed.
Rafe’s watching you still, his good hand lazily patting the empty space beside him when he finally catches your eye. “C’mere.”
You shake your head and roll your eyes. “No.”
“Please.” Rafe’s voice cracks a little, his throat still raw from the tube they’d used during surgery.
“Rafe…”
“Baby, c’mon,” he whispers.
You shake your head, already losing the battle with yourself as you stand from the chair and make your way over to him. “This doesn’t mean I forgive you,” you warn, carefully settling onto the edge of the mattress without jostling his shoulder. “And it definitely doesn’t mean we’re getting back together.”
Rafe nods along with every word like he agrees completely, the sleepiest smile spreading across his face. He waits until you’ve finally settled beside him before his good arm finds your waist, his fingers bunching lightly in your sweatshirt as he draws you as close as you’ll let him.
“I’m just happy you’re here.”
You glance over at him after a few minutes, watching him shift carefully against the mattress, a quiet breath hissing through his teeth as another ache settles into his shoulder, and for the first time all night he actually looks tired instead of simply high.
“You okay?” you ask softly.
Rafe nods and winces, carefully adjusting his arm in the immobilizer. “It hurts a little more now.”
“The medicine’s wearing off?” you ask, and he nods, his heavy head moving a little slower. “Let me go get your nurse to tell her, okay?”
You can see the worry gathering in his glassy eyes, his lashes lifting a little higher as panic begins to creep back into his expression. “Promise you’ll come back?”
“I promise,” you whisper, lifting a hand to push his flattened hair away from his face. “I still smell like hockey, m’sorry,” he murmurs, leaning into your touch.
You chuckle breathily, making the corners of his mouth tilt into a small smile. “It’s okay.”
“If no one's out there, just come back,” he pleads softly.
You peek around the curtain, catch the nurse’s eye, and quietly ask whether Rafe can have more pain medication.
You walk over to the hospital chair and grab your purse and he calls out for you quickly. “You said you’d stay. Don’t go—”
“Just getting you some chapstick, baby,” you sigh.
The word hangs between the two of you for a second longer than either of you expects.
Baby.
You’d said it without thinking, the pet name slipping free before you had a chance to stop it, and judging by the way Rafe’s eyes soften almost immediately, he’d caught it too.
“What?” you ask quietly, already knowing.
“Nothin’,” he hums, smiling so hard it makes his cheeks hurt. “I just…” He tilts his head into the pillow, the movement ending in a quiet wince before he looks back at you. “Missed hearin’ you call me that.”
He taps on the bed, impatiently waiting for you to come back.
You walk back to the bed and settle carefully on top of the blanket, cupping his sharp jaw in your hand. The lip balm glides across his pouty lips—his head leaning into your hand for a moment, his dark lashes skimming his cheeks.
Your body responds before you can stop yourself, your lips pressing softly against the corner of his mouth. His body melts farther into the mattress as a little sigh of relief passes his lips.
“Sorry,” he murmurs as a tear slides down his cheek. “For everything.” Your thumb brushes it away as you look back into his half-lidded eyes, more tears gathering along his lashes.
You rest the chapstick on the cool metal nightstand. Your hand rests on the bed in between you, and the second your palm hits that crisp cotton his fingers lace in yours.
“I missed you,” he admits. “I missed you every day.”
You keep your eyes on your hands, watching his rough thumb move over your knuckles.
“I’d wake up and reach for my phone without even thinking.” Rafe lets out a quiet laugh through his nose, shaking his head at himself. “I’d think, I gotta tell her this, and then…” His smile falters. “I’d remember I wasn’t allowed to anymore.”
He stares down at your joined hands for a long moment, rubbing his thumb across your knuckles.
“I kept hoping you’d answer one of my calls.” He shrugs carefully with his good shoulder before immediately wincing. “Or open the door when I came over. Anything.” Another quiet laugh slips out, this one sounding more defeated than amused. “I would’ve taken anything.”
He finally looks up at you. “I just wanted you to notice me—to want me in your life.” He swallows hard. “Instead, I gave you another reason to walk away.”
Another tear slips free before he can stop it, disappearing into the pillow beneath his cheek. “I’ll do anything,” he says, his voice breaking as his eyelids lift and fall against sleep. “Just give me another chance, please. I love you—”
The last word trails off as exhaustion takes over, a soft snore slipping from him when his cheek settles deeper into the pillow.
You move a little closer, sharing his pillow, brushing away a stray hair before you kiss him softly on his forehead. Your body melts into the bed next to him, and though it’s neither his bed nor yours, it feels a lot like home.
Your eyes fall closed, and every thought about what might happen when you wake drifts away.
Rafe lets out a quiet breath through his teeth as he carefully tries to adjust himself against the mattress, the movement small enough that he clearly isn’t trying to wake you, but enough that the bed shifts beneath your weight.
Your eyes blink open, taking a second to adjust to the darkness before they settle on him.
“Hey, baby,” he whispers the moment he realizes you’re awake.
“Hey.” Your voice is soft with sleep. “How’re you feeling?”
Rafe looks down at the blanket covering the two of you, clearly weighing his answer. If he admits he feels better, will you decide it’s finally safe to leave?
“A little better,” he says under his breath.
“Better?” You study him carefully.
“Just a little…not enough for you to leave,” he admits, his voice soft and sheepish.
“You’re impossible,” you whisper. A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth as he looks away, rubbing his thumb across the back of your hand where your fingers are still intertwined hours later.
“You remember anything?” You watch his expression change.
“I remember more than I wish I did,” he admits with a tired laugh. “I remember calling you my wife…” His gaze finds yours again. “…And I remember asking you not to leave.”
You wait patiently, giving him room to keep talking. Rafe’s smile slowly fades, replaced by something much more earnest.
“And I remember telling you I still love you.”
He doesn’t rush to explain himself or blame the medication. Instead, he simply watches you.
“I know I don’t deserve another chance just because I finally got my head out of my ass. Trust isn’t something I get back overnight.”
You look down at your joined hands for a moment before lifting your gaze back to him.
“I never cheated on you, I swear on my life. Did I let her get too comfortable around me? Yeah. I would’ve lost my shit if the roles were reversed.”
Rafe glances toward the TV glowing in the dark, his eyes shimmering again with tears. He swallows hard, trying to get on top of his emotion, but he’s in too deep.
“I texted you, I called, I brought flowers, I showed up at your apartment more than once hoping you’d answer the door.” He lets out a shaky sigh. “Every day I kept thinking maybe today’s the day she’ll finally talk to me.”
He drags the back of his hand beneath his eyes, wiping at the tears clumsily.
“When none of it worked, I got desperate. I didn’t want to hurt you—I just wanted something. Anything. I thought if I could make you mad enough, maybe you’d yell at me. Maybe you’d tell me I was an idiot. Maybe we’d finally have a conversation I could apologize in.”
You let him talk, saying nothing. Because just like the little things had slowly chipped away at your trust, the apologies, the flowers, the unanswered calls, and now the quiet honesty spilling out of him were beginning to chip away at the walls you’d spent weeks trying to build.
“I don’t deserve a second chance. The fact that you’re here… I don’t even deserve that.”
Rafe studies your face carefully, searching for something in your expression.
“You didn’t ask her to come here tonight—”
“No,” he cuts in, answering fast and certain. “I came in here a mess before they gave me anything, and when the nurse asked who they should call, I couldn’t answer fast enough. I swear, baby. I didn’t ask her to come.”
His brows pinch together. “I don’t know how she got this far—” He trails off, blinking at you. “…What are we talking about?”
“Cami.”
“Cami?” he mumbles.
“Cami,” you answer quietly. “Marketing partner Cami. The one with the high heels and bunny ears… who wore your jersey.”
His eyes squeeze shut. “…Jesus Christ.” The words leave him on a long breath as his head sinks back into the pillow. “That was so fucking bad.” He shakes his head. “I’m so sorry, baby.”
His gaze finds yours again, hazy with exhaustion.
“We never even kissed.”
“Okay,” you whisper.
“Okay, what, baby?” he asks sweetly, his concussion doing a number on his short-term memory.
“I understand. Don’t worry,” you say through a soft laugh, his attention still fixed on you.
After another moment, the corner of his mouth lifts again.
“If I tell you that I’m still kinda fucked up…”
You already know exactly where he’s going with it, and your eyes roll away before he even finishes.
“…Will you stay?”
A quiet laugh slips past your lips as you look back at him. “Rafe Cameron. It’s three in the morning.”
“I know.”
“I’ve been here since yesterday,” you answer.
“I know.”
“I fell asleep in a hospital bed that has a maximum capacity of one large hockey man because you wouldn’t stop patting the mattress.”
“You did,” he hums, glancing down the length of the cramped hospital bed toward your tangled legs.
“And you’re absolutely still fucked up.”
“You think so?” he asks, trying not to chuckle.
“I’m staying,” you whisper, your thumb lingering against his skin. “You make it really hard to stay mad at you.”
“That’s great news for me.” His arm tightens around your waist when your smile grows. “So pretty,” he whispers.
“Like a princess,” you finish for him, and he laughs.
“Don’t let me wake up,” he murmurs with a shaky laugh. “‘Cause if this is some lucid dream, I’m gonna cry like a fuckin’ baby.”
“And I love you too.” You lace your fingers more firmly through his, giving his hand a gentle squeeze.
“You do?” he asks softly, tilting his head as close as he can get toward you.
“Mhmm,” you hum against his lips.
“Thank you, baby.”
Any broken links removed. If you don't see your n a me please lmk! ♥️
warnings: kissing, nothing explicit, clark forgets reader needs to breathe sometimes
a/n: just a little something since i'll be working all week. again. sigh.
Clark hasn't pulled away to breathe once. It's not like he has to, really, but your lungs are burning. Every stolen breath you're able to steal feels like a gift, but your boyfriend is just. Not getting the memo.
His tongue is in your mouth, his hands buried in your hair as he kisses you with the passion of the sun. It's hot. It's incredibly flattering that he can't stand to pull away from you for even a moment. But goddamn, you feel like you're about to pass out, and not just from him.
You're able to wrench yourself away a few moments later. Any longer and you really might have passed out. For as gentle and compassionate as Clark is with you, he seems to forget a very important fact when the two of you start kissing: you can't hold your breath for hours on end!
Clark tries to chase after your lips, not wanting a second of separation. One firm hand on his chest stops him—not because you overpower him, but because he loves and respects you far too much to push a clear boundary.
"Honey? Did I do something?" he asks quietly.
"No, well—" you laugh and press your forehead to his. Clark's hesitation softens at the amusement in your gaze, and his hands rub up and down your sides. "I need to breathe, baby. Not all of us can hold our breath forever."
Clark's eyes widen into that bright blue puppy dog gaze you can never stay mad at, and an embarrassed flush burns his cheeks.
"Sorry," he murmurs. "You're distracting."
"I don't mind, Clarky. Not one bit."
all written work and dividers belong to @ackpplepie!! do not plagiarize, feed my work into ai, or translate it. i do not own the characters used above.
pairing – rafe cameron x maybank!reader
summary – an oyster-bed injury, an understaffed country-club shift and one infuriating kook turn an already terrible night into something considerably messier.
warnings – strong language, drug use, poverty and financial stress, objectification by older male customers, bleeding injury, minor medical care, class-based insults, possessive behaviour, kissing and ass grabbing
notes from me – as requested here!! thank you baby!
word count – 4.8k
The oyster bed had been John B’s fault until JJ remembered he was the one who had told her to jump. After that, it became nobody’s fault. An unfortunate maritime event. An act of God. A freak accident.
The actual sequence had been fairly simple. They had taken the HMS Pogue out after lunch with enough weed to make the afternoon feel soft around the edges and no plan beyond finding somewhere to swim where nobody from Figure Eight would complain about the music.
Pope had been arguing with Kiara about whether the tide was coming in or going out. John B had been standing at the stern attempting to untangle a rope that had somehow formed a knot. JJ had taken a running leap off the side, surfaced with both hands raised and yelled that the water was perfect.
She had believed him because she was high. Under ordinary circumstances, she might have remembered the oyster beds hidden beneath that particular stretch of marsh. Under ordinary circumstances, she might also have remembered that JJ considered water perfect as long as it was deep enough to prevent his skull from striking the bottom.
Instead, she had jumped. Her right leg caught the oyster shells on the way down.
The pain arrived bright and immediate beneath the water, several sharp lines tearing from below her knee toward her ankle before the marsh closed cold and murky over her head. By the time she surfaced, JJ was laughing because he thought the sound she had made was dramatic.
Then she lifted her leg against the side of the boat and blood started threading down her shin in thin red streams, and the laughter dropped out of his face so quickly it might have been switched off at the wall.
Kiara had cleaned it with bottled water while Pope explained, with unbearable accuracy, how easily oyster cuts became infected. John B had apologised even though he hadn’t told her to jump. JJ had called the oysters cheap-shotting little bitches and offered to go back under with a hammer.
She had still come to work. Every little bit counted. That was how life worked. JJ picked up shifts washing dishes and occasionally bussing tables. John B had been working on Ward Cameron’s boat for months now, sanding, scrubbing, hauling equipment and accepting whatever little jobs Ward found when he wanted to feel generous without committing to anything expensive. Kiara brought food when she could get away with it. Pope sometimes arrived with groceries and pretended Heyward had ordered too much.
She had begged the country-club manager for the bartending job after overhearing that two girls had quit in the same week. She had stood in his office in her cleanest shorts and told him she had experience, which was true if pouring warm beer at keg parties counted, and that she could work any shift he gave her, which was true because desperate people rarely possessed scheduling conflicts.
The fact that she was technically too young had become an administrative problem solved by never writing anything down too clearly.
Now she stood behind the polished mahogany bar in a fitted black polo, a black skirt ending halfway down her thighs and white sneakers she had scrubbed in the Chateau sink the previous night with an old toothbrush.
Her hair was pulled into a high blonde ponytail that made her scalp ache beneath the elastic. The country club required female staff to look neat and approachable.
Her injured leg throbbed every time she shifted her weight. The cuts were shallow enough that she hadn’t needed stitches and deep enough that the skin pulled open whenever she bent her knee. Kiara had wrapped the worst of them before the shift, but the gauze had soaked through during the dinner rush and begun peeling away.
Still, the bar was busy. Busy meant money.
She smiled at a man named Chip while making his third gin and tonic, though Chip had spent the last ten minutes explaining that women her age no longer understood eye contact while staring directly down the front of her polo.
“Extra lime,” he reminded her, tapping two fingers against the bar.
“I remembered,” she said brightly.
She placed three wedges against the rim because generosity occasionally resembled citrus. Chip smiled like she had done something exclusively for him and left a twenty-dollar note under the empty bowl of bar nuts.
Worth it.
She swept the cash into her apron before turning away and letting her face collapse toward the shelves of liquor. Her stomach performed one dry, revolted little turn. Then she rolled her shoulders back, caught the next order and became charming again.
Rafe was seated near the far end of the bar. He had arrived with Topper and Kelce just over an hour earlier, freshly showered and wearing a pale blue polo that stretched cleanly across his shoulders. His hair had grown enough over the top of his buzz cut to cast a faint shadow when the overhead lights struck it, though it remained completely useless for grabbing.
She had already complained about this. He had already refused to grow it. Their relationship, if somebody became reckless enough to call it that, was built from several similarly productive negotiations.
The country club was one of the few places they could speak in public without immediately inviting suspicion. She worked there. He practically belonged to the furniture.
Rafe Cameron asking the bartender for another drink was normal. Rafe Cameron collecting JJ Maybank’s twin sister from the Chateau after dark would result in at least one broken window and possibly a body in the marsh.
Topper hated her with the focused, uncomplicated purity of somebody who had been raised to understand that Pogues existed largely to damage property values. He didn’t flirt with her like the older men or ignore her like some of the women. He watched her with open irritation, as though she had climbed over the back fence and diluted the bloodline.
Kelce was easier. Kelce mostly wanted his drink filled and everybody around him laughing, and he possessed the rare social intelligence to understand that insulting the person holding the tequila was poor planning.
She poured two fingers of scotch into Rafe’s glass and slid it across the bar. “Thanks,” he muttered, catching it without looking away from whatever Topper was saying.
“You’re welcome, sunshine.”
His eyes flicked toward her at that. The smallest warning crease appeared between his brows before Kelce asked him something and pulled his attention away again.
She smiled to herself and reached for a used glass. The movement sent heat dragging down her shin. Not the manageable pulse she had been ignoring all evening, but something wetter. Cooler.
She glanced down, and a thin line of blood had escaped beneath the already half lifted bandage, and travelled along the inside of her calf, slow and glossy beneath the bar lights. It had already reached halfway to her white ankle sock.
“Shit,” she whispered.
The other bartender, Emily, was stacking clean glasses near the register. She was twenty-one, perpetually tanned and kind in the uncomplicated way of people who had never needed kindness to be treated as a limited resource.
She caught the direction of her stare and winced. “Oh my God. What happened?”
“Oysters,” she muttered.
Emily’s mouth opened.
“Don’t ask.” She grabbed two folded cocktail napkins and pressed them against the blood. “Are you okay for a minute? I’ve gotta fix this before it gets on my shoes.”
Emily looked at the customers waiting along the bar, then back at her leg. “Yeah, go, babe. I’ve got it.”
“Love you.”
“Please don’t get sepsis.”
She huffed a laugh. “Pope already gave that speech.”
She slipped through the small swinging door before anybody else could order something. The service hallway behind the bar was narrow, cool and lit with fluorescent panels that made everyone look vaguely deceased. She moved quickly despite the pull in her leg, passing the kitchen doors and disappearing into the staff room before her manager could see her leaving the floor.
The first-aid kit lived on top of a metal locker beside several employee schedules and a laminated poster about handwashing. She dragged it down, collected a wad of paper towel from the sink and dropped into one of the plastic chairs.
The bandage looked worse once she peeled it away. Three ugly scrapes crossed the outside of her shin, surrounded by smaller cuts and thin red scratches. Raw, swollen skin that objected to movement and continued bleeding out of spite. She wet the paper towel and cleaned the blood away, jaw tightening when the water touched the open skin.
“Fuck,” she hissed.
The first-aid kit contained twelve alcohol wipes, two pairs of gloves, triangular bandages and approximately six hundred tiny adhesive strips designed for paper cuts. Nothing large enough to cover an injury caused by a whole colony of shellfish.
She cleaned everything as well as she could, stuck three of the useless little bandages across the worst spot and sat there for another moment with her hands resting between her knees.
The walls vibrated faintly with music from the dining room. Somewhere beyond them, glasses knocked together and somebody laughed too loudly. She imagined the till filling in her absence, every unserved drink becoming money sliding politely out the door.
“Good enough,” she muttered.
By the time she returned, Emily was taking three separate orders while Chip attempted to catch her eye again. Rafe’s head turned the second the door moved. His gaze went first to her face, then down.
She stepped behind the bar before he could examine the leg properly and took over the nearest order, smiling at a silver-haired man who requested a vodka martini and then told her she had dangerous eyes.
“What makes them dangerous?” she asked, reaching for the vermouth.
“Look like they might get a man in trouble.”
The answer lodged somewhere between her shoulder blades like a dead insect. She smiled anyway, tipped vodka into the shaker and said, “Only if he’s lucky.”
The man laughed and placed a twenty beneath his empty glass before she had even finished the drink.
Behind her, Emily made a tiny gagging noise while slicing lemons.
She turned with the shaker and murmured, “That’s our electric bill.”
Emily’s face sobered respectfully. “Godspeed.”
The night dragged forward in orders, tips and the persistent sting in her leg. The country-club men grew louder with every round, their voices gaining confidence as their balance deteriorated. She let them call her sweetheart. Let them ask what time she finished. Let one of them tell her she would make somebody a very distracting wife someday.
Each time, she smiled. Each time, money appeared beneath a glass. Rafe watched more than he spoke. She felt his attention catch whenever one of the men leaned too close or made her laugh with the bright false sound she used for tips. Once, when Chip put his hand flat against the bar and asked whether she had a boyfriend, Rafe’s gold ring clicked sharply against the side of his glass.
She didn’t look over. Looking would make it something.
Near ten, the crowd thinned enough that she could wipe down the counter without somebody immediately placing a wet napkin on it. Topper and Kelce had moved to a table behind the bar area with two other boys. Rafe remained standing near his stool, finishing the last of his drink.
He came closer while she worked, positioning himself on the other side of the bar where their voices wouldn’t carry. “Am I takin’ you home tonight?” he asked.
She pushed the damp cloth beneath a stack of coasters. “I know where I live.”
“T’Tannyhill.” He glanced toward the dining room before looking back at her. “No one’s home.”
The offer moved warm and familiar through her body despite the pain in her leg. Clean sheets. His shower. A kitchen containing actual food. Rafe’s hands around her hips while he told her to stop talking, usually moments before making it impossible. Any other night, she would have made him work harder for the yes.
She shook her head. “Not in the mood tonight.”
His face tightened at once. “You kiddin’ me?”
“Nope.” She sprayed another section of the bar and scrubbed at a ring left by somebody’s glass. “I just wanna go home.”
“To that dump?”
The cloth stopped beneath her hand. She looked up slowly. Rafe had the sense to keep his face neutral, but not enough sense to take the words back before they reached her.
“Yeah, asshole,” she said. “To that dump.”
He sucked briefly at the inside of his teeth and looked away. “Right.”
She resumed wiping the counter, harder now. “Can you not be a dick? I’ve had a shit enough night without you being a fucking asshole too.”
His eyes came back to hers, sharpened by the challenge. “Watch how you talk to me.”
“Or what?” She leaned one hand on the counter, lowering her voice into something sweet enough to curdle. “You won’t fuck me anymore? Shame.”
A short laugh left him, rough and disbelieving. He tipped his head as if reassessing her from a more interesting angle. “Mm. You say that now. Remember last night when you were beg–”
“Shut up.”
Rafe’s mouth curved.
“I mean it.”
“Yeah?” His voice had gone lower. “Sounded pretty serious last night too.”
Heat climbed beneath the collar of her polo. She glanced toward Emily, but the other girl was occupied at the far end of the bar and unaware that Rafe Cameron was attempting to describe her private behaviour within hearing distance of the ice machine.
“You’re disgusting.”
His smile widened by a fraction before flattening again. “Whatever. Have fun in the Cut.”
“Planning on it.”
He held her gaze for another second, annoyance and something else moving beneath his expression too quickly for her to separate them. Then he pushed away from the bar and returned to Topper and Kelce without saying goodbye. Good. Excellent. She hated him.
Her body, which had spent much of the previous night enthusiastically disputing that claim, could keep its opinion to itself.
She worked for another twenty minutes before the blood started again. This time she felt it reach her sock. The wetness gathered beneath the fabric at her ankle, small but unmistakable. She looked down and saw a red stain beginning along the white ribbing.
“Oh, come on,” she muttered.
Emily followed her gaze and grimaced. “Go.”
“I already went.”
Emily gave her a look. “And now you’re bleeding into your sock.”
She put the cloth down with a sigh. “I’ll be two minutes.”
The service hallway was empty when she slipped through the door again. She had almost reached the staff room when her manager stepped out from the office beside it.
Mr Collins was a narrow man in his late forties who wore his belt too tight and treated scheduling like a branch of military command. His expression tightened the instant he saw her. “Where are you going?”
“Staff room. I just need to–”
“You’ve already taken a break tonight.”
“It wasn’t really a break. I cut my leg and it’s–”
“We’re short-staffed, and I cannot have employees disappearing whenever they feel like it. Emily’s been covering your section twice now.”
Her mouth opened. The blood inside her sock felt suddenly hotter, irritation rising with it, fast and clean. “I’m not disappearing. I’m literally bleeding.”
“You should have addressed that before your shift.”
“Yeah, well, I’ll let the oysters know for next time.”
His face hardened. “Excuse me?”
Before she could decide whether losing the job would be worth the next sentence, Rafe’s voice came from behind them. “Hey, man.”
Mr Collins turned. The change was immediate enough to be embarrassing on behalf of the entire country club. His shoulders lowered. His mouth reorganised itself into something professionally concerned. “Mr Cameron.”
Rafe walked toward them with one hand in the pocket of his shorts, posture easy in the way only rich men could manage while interrupting somebody else’s employment dispute. His gaze touched her face for half a second before settling on the manager.
“Sorry,” he said. “My fault. Asked her to grab somethin’ for me.”
Mr Collins blinked. “Oh.”
“Yeah.” Rafe smiled. It wasn’t his real smile. It was the clean polite one he used around people who worked for Ward, all teeth and nothing warm behind them. “Should’ve asked somebody else. Didn’t realise you were busy.”
“No, no. Of course.” Mr Collins gave a small laugh that made her want to strike him with the first-aid box. “I apologise, Mr Cameron. I was only ensuring the bar remained properly staffed.”
Rafe nodded like the explanation deserved consideration. “No, yeah. Doin’ your job. I understand.”
“Is there anything else you need?”
“We’re good.”
Mr Collins looked at her once, some leftover warning compressed into the glance, then smiled at Rafe again. “Enjoy your evening.”
“Thanks, man.”
They watched him disappear into the office and close the door. The second it clicked shut, she turned and smacked her palm against Rafe’s chest. It didn’t move him. Nothing ever did unless he chose to be moved, which was one of the more irritating things about him physically.
“I don’t need you fighting my battles for me, asshole.”
Rafe looked down at the place she had hit, then at her. “You’re welcome.”
“I had it handled.”
“Yeah.” His gaze dropped to her sock. The red mark was visible now, staining the white just above her sneaker. His brows pulled together. “Clearly.”
She shifted her foot behind the other. “Stop looking.”
“What the fuck happened to your leg?”
“Nothing.”
Rafe gave her a flat look. She attempted to move past him toward the staff room. His arm came across the hallway, palm flattening against the wall beside her before she could get by. “That why you’re not comin’ over tonight?”
She looked at the line of his forearm, then up at his face. “Yeah.”
His expression changed slightly, irritation losing its clean edge. “It hurts?”
“It fucking hurts, and it won’t stop bleeding.” She glanced toward the office door and lowered her voice. “So unless you’ve developed some deeply specific medical kink, tonight’s not happening.”
Rafe ignored that. “The fuck did you do?”
She sighed because the explanation only grew less intelligent each time she gave it. “We were out on the water.”
“Who’s we?”
“You know who we is.”
His jaw shifted.
“JJ, John B, Kie, Pope.” She waved one hand impatiently. “We were swimming and I was stupidly high, and the guys forgot to tell me where the oyster beds were. Fucked my leg.”
For a second Rafe said nothing. He looked down at the injury again, mouth pressing into a hard line. The faint muscle beside his jaw jumped once. “They forgot.”
“Yeah.”
“Your brother let you jump into an oyster bed.”
“He jumped first.”
His eyes flashed. “That doesn’t make it better.”
“I’m aware.”
“Fuckin’ idiots.”
She leaned her shoulder against the wall. “I was also there, Rafe. Participating. Nobody pushed me off the boat.”
His nostrils flared faintly as he breathed out. “Yeah, well, they should’ve been watchin’.”
The words landed somewhere inconvenient. Rafe rarely supplied anything soft without first wrapping it in annoyance and swearing. Still, something inside her chest shifted enough that she looked away toward the staff-room door.
“I’m alive.”
He ran his tongue along his bottom lip. “Didn’t say you weren’t.”
“Pope cleaned it.”
“Pope,” Rafe repeated, visibly unimpressed by the medical credentials involved.
“He knows things.”
Rafe rubbed one hand over the back of his head, the short hair making a faint rasp beneath his palm. “How’re you gettin’ home?”
She shrugged. “Walking.”
His hand dropped. “Yeah. Uh, fuck that.”
She almost laughed at the sheer offence in his face. “It’s not far.”
“No.”
“I can walk fine.”
“You’re bleeding through your fuckin’ sock.”
She sneered up at him. “I’ve got another sock at home.”
Rafe stared at her as if she had deliberately misunderstood the concept of blood loss to annoy him. “I’ll drive you.”
“No.”
His brows drew together harder. “What?”
“I said no. I don’t need you taking me anywhere.”
Somebody came through the kitchen doors carrying a crate of empty bottles. She and Rafe both moved sideways to let him pass, their shoulders brushing in the narrow hall. The employee nodded quickly at Rafe and continued toward the loading entrance without looking at her leg.
Rafe watched him disappear. Then his hand closed around her wrist.
“What are you doing?”
“C’mere.”
She tugged at her arm. “No.”
He ignored the refusal and pulled open the storage-room door beside them, steering her inside before anybody else could enter the hallway. She stumbled after him, more from surprise than force, and hissed when the movement pulled at her shin.
The room smelled like cardboard, cleaning chemicals and citrus syrup. Shelves crowded both walls with napkins, bottles, spare glasses and enough cocktail straws to support the country club through a natural disaster. Rafe shut the door behind them.
She yanked her wrist free. “What the fuck?”
“Lower your voice.”
“You dragged me into a cupboard.”
Rafe stood between her and the door, broad enough to block most of it without trying. “I’m driving you home.”
“I’m not going home with you.”
“Fine.” His patience snapped around the word. “Then I’ll take you to your fuckin’ shack, Jesus Christ. You’re not walkin’.”
She crossed her arms. “Oh, because you care about me so much?”
Rafe’s eyes narrowed. He took one step closer, enough that the shelving pressed near her shoulder and the air between them warmed with him. “I like fuckin’ you.” He glanced down at her injured leg. “And I don’t wanna fuck you when your leg’s all fucked up.”
A laugh escaped her before she could stop it, dry and sharp. “Oh. How romantic.”
“Fuck you.”
“You want to.” She tilted her chin. “I won’t let you.”
Rafe’s mouth twitched once, then his hand came up and closed around her jaw.
His palm fit warm against one cheek, fingers settling beneath her ear, the pressure firm. He drew her forward until the front of her polo brushed his chest and looked at her for half a second with that heavy, irritated focus he usually got immediately before proving an argument physically.
“You’re such a brat,” he murmured.
“You’re such a–”
He kissed her before she could finish. Slowly, which was unfair. If he had kissed her hard, she could have shoved him away. Called him a dickhead. Reminded him they were standing in a room containing industrial quantities of napkins while her manager sat less than twenty feet away.
Instead, Rafe pressed his mouth to hers once, warm and unhurried, thumb resting near the corner of her lips. Then again, deeper this time, his head angling as her mouth opened beneath his.
Her body betrayed her so quickly it felt rehearsed. The tension left her shoulders. Her hand caught the front of his polo. Her face tilted into his palm while his tongue moved against hers, tasting faintly of scotch and mint and the cigarette he had probably stolen from Kelce outside.
Rafe made a quiet sound in his throat, almost satisfied. His other hand slid down her side and cupped her ass beneath the edge of her skirt. She sucked in a breath against his mouth.
His fingers tightened, squeezing once before dragging her closer until her hips met his. Somewhere beside her head, a plastic packet of napkins crackled softly under the movement.
She tugged at his shirt, needing something to hold because his hair remained useless and his shoulders were too broad to grip properly with one hand. Rafe kissed her deeper, thumb shifting along her jaw while his palm worked over her ass again, slow and possessive enough to send heat curling low through her stomach.
Her injured leg throbbed. The rest of her barely noticed.
Rafe pulled back just far enough for their mouths to separate. His breathing touched her lips. His eyes moved over her face, dark and faintly accusing, as though she had personally caused whatever had just happened.
“You are so fuckin’ annoyin’,” he said.
She nodded, still gripping his polo. “I fucking hate you.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
She pulled him back in and kissed him. His hand returned to her ass immediately, squeezing harder this time as his mouth opened under hers. She sighed into the kiss before she could prevent it, body pressing closer while his thumb dragged once along the curve beneath the skirt.
Unfortunately, her body had never developed the ideological discipline required to hate Rafe properly. He kissed like every conversation had gone on too long. Like words were irritating obstacles people invented because they couldn’t place their hands correctly.
Even now, annoyed and half drunk and pretending the concern was about future access to her body, he knew when she softened. Knew the exact second her grip changed from pushing him away to holding him there.
He slowed again. That was worse than anything. His mouth moved over hers with enough patience to make the storage room disappear at the edges, until there was only the warm grip at her jaw, the broad hand beneath her skirt and the solid line of him against her. Her thighs tightened instinctively, friction catching beneath the thin fabric of her underwear and producing a whole new problem she didn’t have the resources to address during a shift.
Rafe broke the kiss first. She followed for half an inch before pride caught up and stopped her. His eyes dropped to her mouth. A small, smug curve touched his.
“Dickhead,” she whispered.
He hummed. His thumb brushed once over her lower lip, almost gentle. “Pain in the ass.”
“Take your hand off mine, then.”
He squeezed it once more before obeying. She glared at him while tugging her skirt back into place, though the effect was weakened by her swollen mouth and the fact that she hadn’t properly released his shirt.
Rafe looked down at her hand. She let go immediately.
“I’m drivin’ you home,” he said. “When’re you done?”
“Eleven.”
“I’ll be outside.”
She crossed her arms. “No.”
“If you try and leave, I’ll follow your ass.”
She narrowed her eyes up at him. “That’s kidnapping.”
His tongue pressed briefly into his cheek. “Uh-huh. Whatever.”
“You can’t just decide to drive me places.”
“Just did.”
“I’ll get JJ to pick me up,” she argued, because there was no way she was giving in after one kiss.
“On what?” Rafe asked. “The dirt bike? You gonna sit on the handlebars with your leg bleeding?”
She opened her mouth. Nothing arrived.
Rafe nodded, satisfied. “Right.”
“I could call John B.”
Rafe sucked at his teeth. “He’s probably high.”
“You’re drinking.”
He held up two fingers. “Had two.”
“Three.”
His eyes narrowed. “You countin’?”
She tilted her head. “I poured them.”
“Been here three hours.”
She hated when he introduced mathematics into an argument. It made the whole thing feel unnecessarily formal.
Rafe opened the storage-room door, then glanced back at her leg. “Go clean that up.”
“Yes, doctor,” she scoffed.
He pointed loosely at her leg. “Need more than those little Band-Aids.”
“Thanks. I hadn’t noticed.”
“I’ve got a kit in the truck.”
She stared at him. “Why?”
His expression went blank in the particular way it did whenever a question brushed too close to an answer he disliked. “Just do.”
Rafe Cameron kept cigarettes he claimed not to smoke, condoms in his wallet, a blanket in the truck and enough medical equipment to treat a roadside casualty. Nothing meant anything. Every object had simply appeared there through natural causes.
He stepped into the hallway, then paused. “Eleven.”
“I heard you.”
“Don’t leave.”
She rolled her eyes so hard it hurt. “Go away.”
His gaze travelled once over her face, then down toward the hem of her skirt before returning to her eyes. “Fix your leg, baby.”
The endearment came out low and absent, stripped of the mocking edge he usually placed around it in public. Before she could react, he walked away toward the dining room.
She remained in the storage room for another second, listening to the fading sound of his steps. Her mouth tingled. Her ass still carried the shape of his hand. Blood had reached the edge of her sock, and the ache in her shin continued pulsing with every heartbeat.
She looked down at herself. Horny, bleeding and still on the clock. Great.
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— ꕤ｡˚⋆ jack abbot who loves his drama queen wife. . . ♡
"no," jack was saying. he was currently holding a divorce paper he wasn't even sure was legitimate, but your show was far too entertaining to disrupt.
"sign. it," you said with your arms crossed.
"no," he repeated. this time, there was a stupid smirk on his face that made you want to shove him away as much as you wanted to kiss it off.
"i'm serious, jackie," you said. mostly serious, anyway. you pretended to be unaware of your dramatic antics to add to the spectacle, but part of the performance was actually real. "sign the damn paper."
jack laughs at your faux show of confidence. he can't take you seriously with your face twisted in the cutest pout. "you're still calling me jackie while you're trying to divorce me. sure that's what you want?"
"mhm," you huff. the divorce paper was real enough! just because it didn't have his or your name on it and was issued by the internet as opposed to an attorney didn't mean anything.
"and what was your reasoning again, baby?" jack mused.
"you don't love me anymore!"
jack sighs. "i tell you how beautiful you are before i leave for work, bring y’flowers everyday, and take you to dinner every friday, and you think i don't love you?"
"yeah, but those are the routine things!" you said. "so, you obviously don't love me anymore!"
jack put the paper down on the nightstand and approached you, backing you into the bed. "say it again, sweetheart."
you gulp at his proximity, sweat trickling down your face from the way his thumb tilts your chin upwards. "you. don't. love. me."
"yeah, okay," jack hummed. “if you really thought that, you wouldn't be wearing the shortest little skirt," he says, promptly hiking the garment in question up and making your breath hitch, "when you're trying to fucking divorce me."
"jackie-"
"mhm, there she is," jack said. he pushes you down onto the bed without further warning and pulls your skirt down your body, revealing your pussy to his hungry eyes. "and already so wet,” he tsks.
"hmph," you say with a huff. you turn away from his gaze, but it's short-lived as jack cranes your face back towards him.
"ah-ah. what do you have to say?"
you roll your eyes. "sorry."
"like you mean it."
"sorry," you say again.
jack doesn't have it in him to correct your attitude from that look on your face. god, his wife is just too cute.
you don't say anything else as he frees his cock from his slacks, slipping inside your aching cunt. jack is gentle with you as he rocks into you, whispering the sweetest praises that you'd needed for reassurance.
"tell me i love you. tell me how much daddy loves you, baby," jack coos as he cups your cheek, his thrusts slow as he fucks you deep.
"d- daddy loves me," you relent. "so much."
jack nodded with a triumphant smile. "that's my girl."
pairing – garrett graham x kitty!reader
summary – garrett isn’t threatened by a vibrator. he just refuses to share the credit.
warnings – sex toy negotiations, teasing, playful jealousy, light restraint, established sexual relationship
notes from me – douglas's origin story <3 we love you douglas <3
word count – 1.5k
navigation – masterlist | MBF masterlist
The hockey house feels wrong without anybody shouting in it. As if the building is holding its breath before Logan falls through a ceiling or Dean returns with six people nobody invited.
The television is off downstairs, no cabinet doors are slamming, and Garrett’s bedroom door has been left open because, for once, there’s nobody home to walk past and complain about whatever questionable thing is happening behind it.
She sits in the middle of Garrett’s bed like she belongs there, which she absolutely doesn’t plan on discussing, one leg folded beneath her and the other stretched over the rumpled comforter. The little black lace pyjama set she wore over is deeply impractical for Massachusetts and has already made Garrett walk into the corner of his desk once, though he claims he was looking for his phone.
Garrett has been pretending not to stare for twelve minutes. He’s leaning against the desk in grey sweats and an old Briar shirt, arms crossed over his chest, watching her dig through the overnight bag she dropped near his pillows. “What are you doing?”
“Improving your life,” she murmurs.
“My life was pretty good ten minutes ago.”
“That’s because you hadn’t seen the improvements yet.”
Garrett’s eyes narrow when she pulls out the small sealed package and sets it triumphantly in her lap. The box is pale purple, discreet enough that it could contain expensive skincare if not for the smooth silicone shape pictured across the front and the list of settings printed down one side.
His gaze moves from the package to her face. “What’s that?”
She gives him a look. “Use context clues, hockey boy.”
“I know what it is.” He pushes away from the desk, unfolding to his full height with the kind of slow caution usually reserved for suspicious injuries and freshmen holding fireworks. “Why did you bring it here?”
“You said you wanted to try more stuff.”
“I meant, like–” Garrett stops, discovering that any example he offers will only become evidence against him. His jaw shifts. “Baby, I don’t need a toy to get you off.”
The offended seriousness of it almost takes her out. He looks genuinely insulted on behalf of his entire athletic career, broad shoulders squared as though the purple box has arrived at his house and questioned his place on the starting line.
She presses her lips together, but the laugh still gets through. “I never said you did, you big baby.”
He frowns. “I’m not being a baby.”
“You look like somebody drafted a replacement.”
Garrett’s mouth flattens. “I’m not threatened by a vibrator.”
“Good. That would be embarrassing.” She turns the package over, scanning the back even though she has already read it twice. “It’ll be hot. You can use it on me.”
The argument leaves his face by degrees, replaced by a slower interest that starts in his eyes and works downward until his arms uncross. His gaze drops to the picture on the box, then drifts over the lace at her chest and the long stretch of bare thigh disappearing beneath the package in her lap.
“You want me to use it?” he asks.
She looks up through her lashes. “That was the sentence, yeah.”
Garrett runs his tongue over the inside of his cheek. The movement does something warm and irritating beneath her stomach. “And what am I doing while this thing gets all the credit?”
“Oh my God.” She climbs off the bed on her knees and catches the waistband of his sweats, tugging until he steps between her legs. “Nobody is taking your precious credit. You can still be the star player.”
His hands settle automatically on her hips. “Captain.”
“Sorry,” she smiles. “Captain of orgasms.”
“Don’t say that.”
She laughs, leaning back far enough to tear open the top of the box. Garrett keeps one hand on her waist while she wrestles with the internal packaging, watching over her shoulder with reluctant concentration.
The vibrator is small, curved and purple, soft-looking beneath the warm spill of his bedside lamp. When she lifts it free, something bright catches in her chest, delighted and vaguely ridiculous.
“Look,” she says, holding it up between them. “He’s so cute.”
Garrett’s brows draw together. “He?”
She looks at him. “Oh my God.”
“What?”
“It’s obviously a he.”
“How is that obvious?”
She gives the little vibrator an assessing turn in her hand. “Energy.”
“That doesn’t mean anything.”
“It means everything.” She sits back on the mattress and pulls Garrett with her until he lands against the headboard, grumbling beneath his breath. Then she climbs into his lap, knees bracketing his thighs, and places the vibrator against the centre of his chest like she’s introducing two important men in her life. “Name him.”
Garrett stares at her. She waits.
“No.”
She sighs. “Garrett.”
“I’m not naming your vibrator.”
Her eyes narrow. “Our vibrator, Garrett.”
His face goes blank with the slow horror of a man realising he’s entered a negotiation without legal representation. “There is no our vibrator.”
“There is now.”
He scoffs. “I’m not naming that shit.”
She sighs and strokes one sympathetic finger over the purple silicone. “So sexy, but so dumb.”
Garrett glares at her. “You came into my room wearing that, handed me a sex toy and started talking about its gender. I’m not the dumb one here.”
She glares at him. “Name him.”
“No.”
“Name him or I’m taking him home and using him by myself.”
His eyes sharpen immediately. She feels the reaction in the hands sitting at her waist, fingers tightening by a fraction before Garrett catches himself. He looks down at the vibrator, then at her smug little smile, fully aware she’s just backed him into the stupidest corner of his life.
He drags one hand over his jaw. “Uh.” She waits with exaggerated patience. “Douglas.”
Her grin spreads so wide it almost hurts. “Douglas.”
Garrett closes his eyes. “Fuck.”
“I love it!”
“Don’t say you love him.”
She looks down at the toy nestled innocently between them. “Why? He’s part of the family now.”
“He’s not part of anything.”
She nods. “Douglas Graham.”
Garrett makes a sound halfway between a groan and a whine, dropping his head against the wall. “I don’t like that it’s a guy.”
The laugh comes out of her before she can soften it, warm and delighted as she loops both arms around his neck. “God, you’re such a manchild.”
His head lifts. The look he gives her should probably inspire better judgement. It doesn’t. Garrett’s eyes move slowly over her face, taking in the grin she has made no effort to hide, and something in his expression settles into that dangerous, focused calm he gets on the ice right before somebody else’s evening becomes significantly worse.
“What did you call me?”
“A manchild.” She leans closer, mouth brushing the corner of his. “But a very pretty one.”
“That doesn’t help.”
“It wasn’t supposed to.”
Garrett moves before she can laugh again. One second she’s sitting upright in his lap, pleased with herself and holding Douglas like a trophy. The next her back hits the comforter with a startled little bounce, Garrett coming over her in one smooth rush.
His forearm pins both her wrists above her head, reminding her that he’s much bigger than she is and currently done participating in the joke on her terms.
Her breath catches. Garrett’s mouth curves while his free hand closes around Douglas and plucks him cleanly from her fingers.
“Hey,” she says, twisting once beneath his arm. “Be careful with him.”
His grin turns sharper. “You’re the one who brought him into my room.”
“Our room.”
“My room.”
“Our vibrator.”
“Keep talking, Kitty.”
She opens her mouth to tell him not to call her that, but Garrett finds the button first. Douglas hums to life between them. They both glance down. Garrett presses it again. The low vibration jumps into a quicker pulse. Again, and it changes into a strange rising pattern that builds, pauses, then starts over. Again, and it starts buzzing harder than she thought were possible.
Her eyes widen before she can stop them. “Oh, fuck.”
Garrett looks at her face, then at Douglas, then back at her. Slowly, his grin spreads.
She swallows. “I didn’t realise it did that.”
“No?” He flicks through another setting, watching the small purple thing buzz with renewed enthusiasm in his hand. “Thought you did your research.”
“I read, like, the important parts.”
“Clearly.”
The vibrator hums between them while Garrett leans closer, his curls falling toward his forehead and his forearm remaining warm and solid over her wrists.
His mouth brushes hers, barely a kiss, more the shape of one held there while his eyes stay open and dark with the kind of pleased concentration that has already started making her body react ahead of the actual problem.
“You’ve got a long night ahead of you, baby.”
She blinks up at him, suddenly much less certain who has introduced whom to Douglas.
“Oh boy.”
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✦summary: you and dean have beautiful secret, and dean learns how to show you that he means everything more than he can say✦
✦warnings/tags: Dean Winchester x female!reader, no use of y/n, no description of reader, friends to lovers, loss of virginity, age gap (20s - 40s), dbf!dean, angst, overprotective, bad at feelings dean, pining, idiots in love because it's the best way to be, dean's down so bad, shameless smut (dry humping, senstive reader, begging, teasing, light spanking/pussy spanking, praise kink, massive dick dean, fingering, dean's got a panty kink, dean's dirty talk, spanking, oral f!reciving, stripping, body worship, degredation kink, nipple play, soft!dom Dean, size kink, begging, overstimulation, soft and rough sex, messy, creampie, mean dean, dumbification), love confessions, fluff✦
✦wc: 9.6k✦
✦author's note: from a few requests! i need him so so bad its like a problem✦
You know you’re far from the first, who’s dreamt about Dean Winchester. It would be like thinking you’re unique for liking ice cream, or wanting world peace. Nothing worthy of note. You gawk at him when he walks around the yard shirtless, and you’re no better than all the suburban moms and bar girls that lick their lips at his smallest smile. It’s really front page news, to be in love with the handsome, muscular man that holds open doors and helps old ladies cross the street. You’re really breaking barriers, drooling over his biceps when he works on a car and pressing your thighs together when he catches you watching and winks.
But that’s where you do start to get a little ahead of the curve.
Dean looks back.
He’s not supposed to. You both know he’s not supposed to, and you’re both awfully good at pretending you care. Dean walks into your house without invitation, saying he’s looking for your dad, and you suddenly have about fifty different reasons so bend over and stretch and wear the shortest skirt you can find. Your dad asks you to drop something off at Dean’s garage, and his secretary—an even older man named Bobby, who detests the word secretary, but doesn’t really have any other kinds of duties since he stopped being able to work on cars—doesn’t exist anymore. Dean needs to come out to greet you himself. He has to take the package and let your fingers brush, and his sleeves need to be rolled up, and he’s so sweaty he simply must use his shirt to wipe his face.
You gape at his thick, muscled chest and abdomen. He says your name, grabbing your waist for attention, and you both stare at each other a little too long.
He licks his lips. His throat bobs. Your breath hitches, and you take the smallest step forward. His dull nails dig into your hips, and your hand lands on his belt for balance. There’s an electricity in the air you can taste. It shoots down your spine like a lightning and makes your skin wet and hot. Dean’s eyes go dark, and you push up on your toes.
Then something rattles. Someone calls. Your dad walks back inside with a wide grin and spread arms, and you and Dean jump apart like children playing cooties. He steals a glance at you, before you walk away. You lock yourself in your room or car and rub your inner thighs, eyes squeezed shut with frustration, face burning from the flood of arousal between your legs, sticking your panties to your cunt and filling up the air with the smell of shame and need.
Neither of you speak of it. The dance replays itself for almost a year, and you’re not brave enough to change a single step.
But Dean isn’t either. Though he’d call it not stupid enough. It doesn’t matter than he’s told you he’s more at ease with you than anyone else he’s ever known. He doesn’t think the evidence of his need for you—impressive and mouthwatering, straining through his jeans whenever you accidentally let your ass press against him—amounts to anything but a desire that makes him sick.
It’s wrong, he’d say.
And you’d agree, if it wasn’t growing over your life like a weed. If you hadn’t tried to move on—over and over and over, with boys in clubs and co-workers and dating apps—but failed more times than you can count, all because of Dean. He lives in your dream, now. You structure your day around trying to steal a glimpse of him, because it’s all you’re allowed to have. You stop trying to work the weed of your love out. It’s prettier than all the other deadened brushel of your previous crushes. It breeds a new kind of ecology, makes you brave in different ways than you were before. You know more about cars than you ever thought you would. Bobby let you into his old man book club—even Dean and your father aren’t allowed—and you can drive a boat because summer vacation comes with even more Dean, and it was just impossibly important that you basically sit on his fucking knee while he taught you to drive.
You won’t change yourself for him. You won’t play pool—there’s too much math and just… standing around—or pretend to like things you don’t. But you know you’re not the only one changing.
Your dad says Dean’s been listening to different music lately. That he doesn’t kill the fish after he catches them anymore, when they go out to the docks, and you’re sure it has nothing to do with you getting teary eyed when he tried to do it in front of you. He let you describe your makeup routine to him once, and remembered everything you told him, to the point that his sister-in-law Eileen noticed that he understood her product before his brother Sam. He’s even—supposedly—driving slower, after you hit his arm and told him not to get himself killed.
And the big one.
He doesn’t flirt.
Not the way he used to. He doesn’t do cheesy pickup lines that only work because he’s a living Adonis, and he doesn’t stuff numbers in his pockets like spoils of war. You overhear your dad making fun of him for having lost his game, and Dean just chuckles and shakes his head.
“Maybe I’m growin’,” he drawls. “You ever think of that?”
Your dad laughs, and it echoes over the lake. “Why the fuck would I have thought of that?”
Dean shrugs and takes a swig of his beer. You can feel his gaze, over the firepit. It’s warmer than the raging flame. You pull your knees into your chest, and don’t dare to look back.
“You really looking for something serious, Winchester?” Your dad asks, and Dean hums.
“Somethin’ like that, yeah.”
Your dad beams and starts to talk about single women he knows, who might be good for Dean. They all sound perfect. Intelligent and kind and age-appropriate, with no weird complications. Your throat hurts like you’re catching a virus. You excuse yourself for the night, and lock yourself in your room.
And it goes like that for a long, long time.
But when the weeds grow over everything, it does, so slowly, start to change.
It’s almost inevitable. Like you both accept that there’s nothing to do but go with the tide, even if it’s sweeping you out to sea. It’s still not spoken about. It just… is.
“You doin’ something tonight?” Dean asks you, and you shrug.
“I never do anything. Any night.”
He snorts. “That ain’t true, sweetheart-“
“I don’t do fun things,” you counter, and Dean hums.
He’s lounging on your couch like he owns it, his arm tossed over the back of the seat and a beer in his hand. He watches you move around the room with lidded eyes and a hand fisted on his thigh. Neither of you acknowledge the almost bungee like tension, that sends you walking past him, even when you don’t need to be.
“I think you’re plenty fun,” Dean offers, and you roll your eyes.
“Yeah, sure.”
He frowns. “I’m not joking-“
“Dean,” you give him a flat look. “It’s okay. I know I’m not- You don’t have to make me feel better about it. I have other redeeming qualities.”
“Redeeming-“ Dean cuts himself off with a disbelieving laugh. “Jesus, woman.”
“What?”
He shrugs and takes a long swig of his beer. You cross your arms and glare at him, trying not to get too stiff. You know you’re not fun. Not like the women he’s used to, not like most people. You can be fun, but you’re never anyone’s first choice to get a thrill. You keep yourself in your head, and you read, and you work, and that’s it.
Dean’s type, if your dad is to be believed, is long legs that are hard to catch and batting lashes that try to outdo his smirk. You’re very easy to catch. All Dean would have to do is offer a hand, and you’d fall to your knees. You couldn’t outdo his smirk if you tried, because the only weapons you have are eye rolls and sharp words. Difficult, you’ve been called.
Not fun.
But Dean’s looking at you like he’s having the time of his life, staring you down from the couch. You tip up your chin and narrow your eyes, and he raises his brows, amused and lazy.
“What?” You demand, and he shrugs.
“Didn’t say nothing-“
“Yes, you did, you- You said Jesus, woman,” you drop your voice to mimic his, and he snorts.
“I don’t sound like that-“
“You sound exactly like that.”
“No-“
“Yes.”
And this is what you mean. You’re stubborn and mean and a lot of teeth for a girl who doesn’t really know how to use them. But Dean’s eyes gleam, and his smile only grows. Suddenly you’re restless. You need to press your away from that dangerous, hungry gaze, or you need to throw yourself into the dark and hope it’s as warm as you’ve dreamed.
“I think you can be plenty fun, princess,” Dean teases, and you bite your lip. “You just don’t go out.”
“You don’t go out,” you snip, because it’s all you can think.
Dean just hums, looking you up and down. “You’re right,” he muses. “We should fix that.”
You huff, then pause. “We?”
Dean grins, and that’s how it starts.
It’s not a date. You remind yourself of that the whole drive there, that this is not a date. Dean’s just taking you a dive bar he knows, far enough out of town that your dad wouldn’t catch you—though it doesn’t matter if he does, because this is not a date—and he’s going to buy your drinks and sit next to you in the booth and listen to you babble about nothing like you’re telling him the secrets of the universe.
He turns down a waitress with boobs almost spilling out of her shirt, and keeps his hand on some part of your body almost the whole night.
But it’s not a date.
“So,” he murmurs, his thumb drawing small circles on your wrist. You watch him with wide eyes, your breath caught in your throat.
He hasn’t been drinking. You didn’t know that was something he did. And he smells like sweet, summer smoke and leather and oil, and his body radiates heat like a furnace, and you think you might just melt under his gaze.
“You from ‘round here?” He drawls, and you swallow.
You know that tone. He’s inviting you to play, but in a way that feels far more dangerous than usual. Dean leans down until you’re only inches away. Your eyes flick to his lips, and his hands fists on the table.
You shake your head, and his lips twitch.
“Just passin’ through town, huh?”
You nod, and he raises his brows.
“What’s got a pretty little thing like you, hangin’ out in a place like this?”
Oh. He wants to play play. To have the exact kind of fun you warned him you weren’t capable of.
But you can try.
Under Dean’s gaze, it kind of feels like you can do anything.
You pull all your confidence together with clenched knuckles, and lean forward. Close enough for your lips to brush, if either of you dared to breathe a little too heavy. Dean blinks, and his ears go a little red, but he doesn’t back away. You smile as coy as you can manage, and run your nails lightly up his forearm. You’ve watched a lot of movies, and you might not be fun, but you’re a fantastic actress.
“My daddy did me wrong,” you coo, fluttering your lashes. “Hurt me real bad, and now I’m lookin’ for something new.” You lean a little further forward. Dean’s throat bobs. “Can you help me find it, sir?”
Dean stares at you, and for a horrible second, you think you took the bit too far.
Then he laughs. It’s strangled and tight in a way you’ve never heard. It sends a rush through your blood, and paired with his red face and squared shoulders, you think you might get addicted.
“Fuckin’- Christ.” Dean takes a long drink from his beer, grinning like he doesn’t know what else to do with his face. “That was- Good one.”
You beam, your heart glowing under his pride. He pats your shoulder, throat bobbing, and your eyes dart down to his jeans.
To the thick outline, threatening the fabric. Your mouth waters, and you frantically look away before Dean looks back. He’s grinning when he does, casual but wide. His arm slings fully over your shoulders, his thumb dragging in those small circles, and you wonder if he has any idea, exactly what pathetic kind of doll he turns you into.
“See, princess,” he taps your nose, and it scrunches against your will. “You’re real fun.”
“I think,” you say slowly, trying not to sound too breathless, too desperate, too his. “You have a low standard.”
Dean shakes his head. “I think I got a high standard. You just never seen anyone else clear it.”
“But-“ You try to fight the question. It slips out anyways. “I- I clear it?”
And something in Dean’s face softens. You don’t know how to pinpoint it, because it’s so small, you didn’t even know there was tension. But it eases, and it’s like the clouds clearing from the sky.
“Yeah,” he says. “You clear it.”
You smile. He smiles back.
And before either of you can realize what’s happening, you both let go of that edge at the same time. The one you’d been clinging to, that plunges from stares to… Something.
Not dating. There’s nothing but soft touches shared the whole night. Dean looks at your lips but never moves. You stare at his chest but never climb it.
But there’s something.
And together, you start to fall.
Once a week, you go to the bar.
You tell your dad you’re going for a walk, or to a friend’s. You go down the street, and Dean picks you up. Neither of you talk about why you’re sneaking around, even though you’re not sleeping together, because you know.
Whatever this is, it isn’t above board. It’s stolen glances and bodies pressed together against the bar. It’s Dean’s hand on your ass, but only ever over clothing, and you sitting in his lap but never kissing more than your drink. It’s secrets whispered in the dark and being backed up against a wall with no way out, and nothing close to a desire for one.
It’s Dean glaring at men who get too close, and you dressing up in a way you’ve never done for anyone else. He’s a causal man, but he turns wolfish when a guy your age sits next to you at the bar. You never wear anything you don’t want to, and you’ve never been lazy about your appearance, but with Dean you try. You get high on his dragging looks and glinting eyes, giggling and smoothing your skirt like a schoolgirl.
You’ve never been a fool for a man. But Dean doesn’t count.
Because he’s a fool for you in return.
“I don’t need the doctor-“
“Everyone needs the doctor, dumbass,” you tap your fingers on the wheel, and Dean grunts.
He’s slumped like a child in his seat. You rub his neck, trying to soothe him, but all you get is a lean into your touch and a few less complaints.
He made the mistake of telling you he hasn’t been to the doctor since his late twenties. You’d like him alive, so you’re putting an end to that now.
And neither of you mention, that you’re out in broad daylight. It’s dangerous. You can’t care, when Dean holds you hand walking into the office and demands you go back into the room with him. He’s restless the whole appointment, looking at the door like he’s thinking about running. You grab his knee, and he shoots you a glare.
“Please,” you whisper, and his shoulders slump.
“Fine,” he mutters, holding your hand on his leg. “For you.”
You smile, and float through the rest of the day.
For you.
He said it simply. Like it was all the reason he’d ever need. He agrees to eat a banana every once and a while, and lower his salt intake, for you.
“I’m fuckin’ old,” he whines on the drive home, and you smile at the road.
“You complain like you’re young.”
“Haha,” he rolls his eyes, then gives you a strange look. You try not to squirm beneath it, but Dean never makes that kind of thing easy.
“What-“
“You really don’t mind,” he cuts you off with quiet words. You don’t have to ask what he means. “I mean- Princess, you could be runnin’ around with a real white knight, instead of-“
“Dean,” you give him a firm look. “Shut up.”
He raises his brows. He doesn’t look convinced, but his mouth twitches. “Yes, ma’am,” he says, and you huff.
He is a knight. Not the fairytale one, but you’ve never liked things that are so perfect they have to be plastic. You like Dean with all his scars and callouses and rough words. He doesn’t save you, and you don’t save him, but that’s not what this is about.
Your dad says Dean looks alive, in a way he hasn’t in a long time. Your friends say you look happy, in a way they’ve never seen. You don’t cry into pillows anymore. You drive to Dean’s place and knock on the door with teary eyes, falling into his arms because it’s safer than any fortress in the world.
“I’ve got you, baby,” he mutters, carrying you up to his bedroom. “Let it out. I’m right here.”
You still don’t kiss. Dean’s knuckles graze your bare skin, and his morning wood rubs between your thighs, but that’s it. You wear his shirt, and pretend not to notice that your panties go missing, every time you stay at his place.
There’s this line in the sand, and it keeps getting washed away. All that’s left is you and Dean, both pretending it’s still there. So the dance turns. Both of you take new steps in perfect time, staying in the boundaries of something acceptable. Something deniable.
Something leaveable, even if neither of you seem to be eyeing the exit.
Something safe.
It’s all still safe. Your dad has no idea. You think Bobby’s noticed, but he doesn’t say a word. You hold Dean’s hand with both of yours when he pulls you through a crowd, and he looks back to make sure you’re still smiling, but it all coated in the illusion of a friendship.
A friendship where he says he loves you, when he thinks you can’t hear. A friendship where your lips brush his neck when you’re cuddling, and you pretend not to feel his cock rut against your thigh. It’s not sustainable, but you’re willing to let the candle burn itself out, just to have him like this.
But it doesn’t burn out. It’s electric and solar powered, and every bit of warmth only lets it sustain itself long. Nothing dies. Nothing changes. You and Dean never let yourself touch deeper than your souls, and neither of you dare to ask for more.
Until something snaps.
It’s nothing. Compared to the everything that you and Dean have been pretending not to notice, there’s no real reason for this to be the break.
“You goin’ out?” Dean asks from the couch, and you nod, sorting through your purse.
“Yeah, um- Groceries.”
“Ah.” He glances at the fridge. “We outta something?”
Your mouth twitches. “We’re out of everything.”
“We ain’t outta everything, sweetheart-“
You yank the fridge open, revealing it’s bare innards, and Dean cuts himself off. You give him a pointed, smug look, and he drums his fingers on his knee.
“Huh.”
“Huh?” You snort, closing the door. “I think sorry is better.”
Dean laughs, low and rough, his gaze raking over your body. You flush, but don’t shy away. He always does this. It never amounts to something worth being flustered over.
You cross your arms and raise your brows, pretending to wait for your apology. Dean’s jaw works. His tongue flicks out, and you shift on your feet.
“You’re real dressed up for the store,” he mutters, and you shrug.
“So?”
A vein pushes in his brow. “Nothin’. Just- C’mere.”
He stretches out a hand, and you swallow. “Dean…”
He beckons. Two fingers, crooked and pulling you forward like he’s got you on a string. You almost stumble between his legs. You flush for the first time in a while, tucking your hands nervously behind your back. It’s never been this close before. You’ve stood here, but never with his hand so securely on your hip, with him leaning forward so his breath fans over your midriff. His hand drags down the back of your thigh, goosebumps rising in its wake. You shift on your feet, heat pooling in your core.
“You want to come with me?” You whisper, because it’s all you can muster.
“Nah.”
He doesn’t even look up, as he answers. He watches himself touch you, retracing sensitive spots and furrowing his brow in a brutal focus that makes your head spin. You open your mouth to say his name again, but nothing expect a tiny gasp comes out. His fingers are teasing your inner thigh, and it turns your knees to jelly. You brace a hand on his shoulder. His eyes snap to yours, and there’s nothing teasing or restrained behind them.
His face is blown out with hunger, and you could so easily shove yourself away, but you don’t want to. He doesn’t need to give chase or fight. You’re not a hunt he’s going to lose. You’re laying yourself down like an offering, and whatever he does with it, you’re more than happy to comply.
Dean tugs you down to his lap in one movement. You squeak in surprise, and his free hand wraps around your neck. You barely have time to brace yourself, before he’s kissing you.
And this is better than dreaming.
This is Dean, warm and strong and demanding beneath you. He kisses you like he’s both going to and returning from war. His mouth slots perfectly over yours, lips chapped and warm and coated in a thin layer of spit. His tongue slides over your teeth, then presses down your throat, working in a way that makes your legs spread wide, imagining that heat against your count. His fingers press into your soft skin, encouraging you to mold easily into his body. You coo, throwing every bit of friction back, and a low rumble rolls through his chest.
Dean settles back against the couch. You straddle him, your wet core pressed against the tent forming in his jeans. You comb your fingers through his hair, and his beard scrapes against your cheeks and jaw. He sucks on your lower lip, squeezing the back of your neck. Your hips roll, and he groans.
He’s hard. Thick and hard beneath you in every possible way. Combined with the heat and unrelenting kisses, it makes you dizzy. You need him. You need him in a way you’ve never needed anything, so much it hurts, so much you think you’re going to scream.
And there’s a little problem. You think he knows about it. You’re less sure than you’d like to be. The tips of his fingers graze your inner thigh, and you buck against him with a whine.
Sensitive. Too sensitive. You think you could cum just from grinding against his rock-hard bulge, because it’s the only way you’ve cum before, and combined with Dean’s mouth roaming over your neck—planting open, messy, possessive kisses—you’re already halfway there.
“De- Dean-“ You gasp, and he groans against your skin. “Dean, slow down-“
He pulls back immediately, his brow knit with worry. “What- What’s wrong-“
“No- Nothing’s wrong, I just-“ You swallow, and Dean’s frown deepens.
“Sweetheart, if you ain’t ready-“
“No!” You shout and Dean’s mouth curves in a smug, surprised smirk. “No- No, I just- Stop looking at me.”
It’s a pathetic whine, but Dean obeys it like an order. He squeezes his eyes shut and cups your cheek, like he’s still trying to keep track of where you are. You giggle, and his thumb drags over your upper lip. You let your tongue flick against the pad of his finger, and he groans.
Dean drops his face against your chest. Still not looking, but mouthing at the curve of your breasts, in a way that really isn’t fair to anyone. You weave your fingers through his hair, trying to only breathe steady. Dean rubs your waist, humming against your skin.
“Talk to me, baby girl.”
“I- I’m not-“ You’re stumbling. Stuttering even in your own thoughts, unable to think outside of Dean’s lips. “You know I’ve never- Been serious with anyone.”
Dean grunts, nipping at the swell of your tits, and you hide your face in his hair.
“It’s- I’ve never been anything,” you whisper. “Except myself. And I- I’m not very good at it.”
That’s an understatement. You cum too fast and it’s nothing more than a small, disappointing shiver. Toys barely help. Nothing helps, except thinking of Dean.
And now you have him below you. Completely still, breathing so heavy it makes you nervous. He’s gripping your hips tight enough to leave a bruise. Tears start to prick in your eyes, having nothing to do with the dull pain.
“I- I’m sorry-“
Dean’s head snaps up. His massive hand covers your mouth, and you blink with glossy-eyed, nervous confusion. You’ve never seen his eyes so dark, his jaw so set. That hidden gleam, that shines just for you, it’s out and free. Dean looks at you like you’re an angel, falling from Heaven, ready to be dragged to the deepest pits of his desire. Your body starts to tingle with excitement, your heart pounding out of your chest and in your pussy.
“Never?” He asks, his voice impossibly low. You nod nervously, and he swallows. “And you want- You want me?”
He asks it as if you’re insane. As if you could ever want anyone else. You grab his wrists and squeeze gently. His throat bobs, and he shakes his head.
“Princess, you could be doin’ so much better- Yes, you could.” He gives you a stern look, when you shake your head.
You push your hips further against him, and a vein in his neck throbs. You drop your brow against his, and he releases your mouth, cradling the back of your neck instead.
“Baby…” He rasps. “I- I might love you, but I ain’t the only douchebag who’s gonna feel that-“
“But you’re the only one I love back.”
Both of you fall silent. Dean tenses, and you hold his stare. He said it first. You just said it back. Now it’s on him to actually fucking do something about it.
You’re offering to crash into the waves and drown together. He can either stay in line, or try this new dance. Be the one to show you, to have you, to finally just fucking take you. It’s not the noble thing to ignore this anymore. It’s only cruel.
Dean’s throat bobs. You wait.
“Yeah?” He chokes out, and you don’t hesitate.
“Yeah.”
“Are you-“
“Dean,” you breathe. “Please.”
His throat bobs. He nods, once to himself, then once more. Something sharp settles over his features, like a picture coming into focus. His hold on your body tightens, his breath steadies, and his tongue darts over his lips. A satisfied yet starved light shines in his eyes, and your heart thunders. You didn’t know anticipation could feel like wildfire, until you were trapped under Dean’s attention. But he looks at you the same way he looks at a pool table before he makes a move, his hands starting to slowly massage your hips, and you’re being unraveled with nothing but his gaze.
“Please?” His tone is low. Close to mocking. “Please what?”
You swallow, your voice stuck in your throat. You’ve practiced this, in the mirror. Ever since this—this strange, beautiful dance—began, you’d spent hours under the steaming shower water, imagining Dean pressed behind you, the roll of his voice, the way you’d be cool and collected and match his every sparring tease with the ease of a woman he’d want. The older, leather-wearing, red lipstick models that wrap boys around their finger like they’re collecting rings.
But the practice is paying in nothing. You’re not one of those girls. You’re nervous and wired and wound up so tight, you can’t do anything but lean further over Dean’s chest and pant.
Dean raises his brows, dragging one hand down to kneed at your ass. Your breath hitches, and your hips mindlessly roll. Dean’s jaw ticks, his eyes going so dark you think you might be drowning in them. He pulls you closer, his lips parting as he watches you fuck yourself against his thigh, and it starts to dawn on you with the rising heat, electric up your spine.
For whatever reason, Dean doesn’t want the cool, collected woman. He’s entranced by you, confused and rigid and so frantic for him that you don’t know what to do with yourself.
And you’re in the best kind of trouble about it.
Dean splays his hand on your lower back and shoves you down, trapping you against him with no chance for friction. You whine, and his hand slips under your shirt. He drags a rough, light touch up your spine, bunching the fabric against his wrist, and wraps his fingers around the base of your neck.
“You’re gonna need to use your words, sweet girl,” he warns, dragging his thumb in tiny circles. “I ain’t able to help brats that won’t talk to me.”
You nod, but you’re still breathing too fast to speak. Dean hums, settling fully back into the couch cushions, and waits. Patient and cruel, rubbing your lower back and squeezing your neck in a gentle prompt.
“C’mon,” he coos. “Where’d all that smart talk go?”
You don’t know. You dig your nails into his chest and watch him with wide eyes, trying to drag your thoughts out of the humid, demanding throb between your thighs.
“Deeean,” you manage to whine, and Dean’s throat bobs.
“Right here, baby,” he rasps. His voice dropped. It sends a rush through your blood, the ache between your thighs growing.
“I- I-“ You try to grind down, to show him what you need, and a sharp spank lands on your ass. You squeal, and Dean’s mouth twitches in amusement, massaging the sting until it fades to only pleasure.
“You like that, huh?” He mutters, right before landing another. “Dirty girl. Been neglected too fuckin’ long, haven’t you?” Another spank. You fall against his chest with a cry of need, and his hand drags down, letting him thumb at your pussy through your shorts.
You wrap your arms around his neck, and he weaves his hand through your hair, delivering one more spank before kissing the side of your head.
“No one’s been takin’ care of you,” he says, low and rough. You clench around nothing, nodding uselessly, and Dean hums. “Needy fuckin’ baby, doesn’t even know what the hell to do with herself when she’s finally gettin’ some attention.”
“Dean,” you whimper. “Dean, please-“
He moves his hand around, grabbing your jaw and forcing you a little back. You blink at him through teary lashes, the eye contact too intense, too addictive.
“Please, what?” He taps your cheek, and you swallow.
“Please. Fu- Fuck me-“
Dean yanks you forward, cutting you off with a demanding, bruising kiss. Your nails sink into his shoulders, your body turning to putty as his tongue pushes back down your throat. Dean grunts, groping your ass and angling your head so the kiss deepens.
“De- Dean-“
“I know,” he grunts against your lips, barely giving you a second to breather between sloppy, open-mouthed kisses. “I know it’s achin’, baby. I’m gonna take care of it.” He kisses one corner of your mouth, then the other, his voice dropping to a murmur. “I’m gonna take care of it.”
You mewl, nipping at his lower lip with every bit of energy you have. Dean grunts and stands, keeping you tight against his chest. You wrap your legs tighter around his waist, and he half-stumbles down the hall and up the stairs. You make it five steps before he’s pressing you against the wall and focusing on sucking and licking your neck, then another five before he’s pulling at your skirt, teasing his thumb back over your clothed cunt. Like he can’t help himself from touching you. Like everything is secondary, to getting his hands all over your body.
The paintings on the wall shake, when he kicks open the door to your room. You hug him tighter, kissing over his beard with sloppy, uncoordinated lips. He grunts, swaying against the door frame. You dare a glance up, and find his eyes rolling back, his jaw gaping and breathing ragged. You double your efforts, hypnotized by the effect you seem to have on him. His fingers dig into your ass, and he moans, pressing further back against the door frame.
His eyes flick down to yours, and you keep thinking you’ve hit the bottom of his desire, just to find a new, rawer layer below.
“You like watchin’, sweetheart?” He rasps, and you flush so hard you think you’re on fire.
Dean chuckles and pushes off the wall, kicking the door closed behind him. His kisses turn suddenly sweet and slow, exploring your lips, working you up until you’re panting and scratching at his shoulders. It’s romantic in the worst way. He’s treating you like a delicate flower—setting you down on the edge of the mattress, kneeling between your legs and massaging your thighs—when you just want to be tossed around and fucked like a doll.
Then his hand glides ever so slightly up, his knuckles teasing against your clothed pussy. Your breath hitches, and Dean chuckles.
“You’ve never let yourself feel good, have you?” He murmurs against your lips, and you swallow.
“I- I don’t-“
“’S okay,” Dean kiss over your cheek, his knuckles grinding into your weeping slit. “Should’ve known my busy girl was neglectin’ herself. So smart, so sweet,” he nips at your jaw. “So fuckin’ bad at relaxing.”
You moan a broken agreement, and Dean hums. His mouth travels down your neck, sucking love bites right as his fingers hook around your panties. Your eyes go wide, your cry a strangle, desperate sound you didn’t really know you could make. Dean smirks, pressing his knuckles right against your clit before he rips your panties clean off.
“Dean-“ You cut yourself off with a choked whimper, your elbows shaking with the effort to keep yourself upright. The air on your pussy is cold, and the need just makes it impossible to do anything but blink at Dean’s set jaw and devout gaze.
He brings your panties up to his face and takes a deep, slow breath, his gaze never leaving yours. You whimper, grabbing his hand on your thigh, and he flips it palm up, letting your fingers lace together.
“So fuckin’ sweet,” he grunts. “Bet you’re gonna taste even better, won’t you.” He squeezes you hand, and you whimper.
“De- Dean,” you spread your legs wider, shameless and needy under his stare. “Just- Please.”
Dean’s gaze drops. He shoves your skirt higher up, fully revealing your slick, pulsing pussy. You’re not sure you’re breathing, as you watch him take you in. He glances up to your wrecked, hopeless expression, a vein ticking in his brow.
“You’re gonna be loud,” he mutters, and you blink.
“Ma- Maybe, I’m not- I’ve never-“ God, you’re seconds from sinking into the bed and never coming back up. “I’ve never- Finished,” you whisper, and Dean’s hand flexes in yours.
He closes his eyes for a moment. Takes a deep, almost labored breath, and shakes his head.
“Gonna fuckin’ kill me,” he mutters, running his thumb over your knuckles. “Swear to god, sweetheart, you could make a man lose it just listenin’ to you.”
You swallow. “So- Sorry-“
“No,” Dean glares at you, and your mouth snaps shut. “No apologies. Never to me. Just gotta- Hold on.”
He kisses the back of your hand, and stands suddenly. You watch, trembling and cold without his touch, as he stuffs your panties into his jean pockets, then yanks his shirt over his head.
And dear lord, he’s a work of art. You’re only able to breathe shallowly, as if something too deep and loud will wake you from this heated, perfect dream. The one where Dean’s towering over you, all muscle and broad shoulders and warm, tanned skin. His chest alone is massive—his tits might be bigger than your—and his biceps bulge with every single movement. You don’t even realize you’re drooling under he’s wiping the spit from your lower lip, smiling with such adoration it makes you squirm.
“Here’s what we’re gonna do,” he mutters, careful and slow. “I’m takin’ care of you, and you’re just gonna lay there lookin’ nice and pretty, alright?”
You nod frantically, trying to lie down immediately, but Dean catches you by the back of your neck. You falter, blinking up at him in confusion, and his lips twitch.
“So fuckin’ perfect,” he says to himself, squeezing gently. “Gonna make that wet little pussy feel better, baby girl. Gonna make it feel so good.”
You whimper, and Dean lets out a ragged breath. He ducks down, pressing his lips slowly against your, and you push up on trembling fingers to kiss him back. He rubs your thigh, tracing his tongue over your swollen lips, and slowly presses you back into the sheets. You’re fully trapped beneath him, wrapped in pure warmth and safe, worshipful strength.
Dean glides one hand up your side, teasing over your hips and ribs before resting it right under your breast. Callouses fingers flick your nipple once, before dragging gently over the hurt. He smiles against your lips, at your tiny squeak, the sensation sending a jolt right to your pussy.
“I know it hurts, princess,” he coos. “But you’re bein’ so good for me. So fuckin’ patient.”
You make a disgruntled sound. You’re not exactly choosing to be patient. You just don’t have the strength to wrestle with him, or the mind to argue. You’ve watched enough porn and read enough smutty fanfiction to think you’d understand how this would go. In all your carefully crafted fantasies, Dean rips off your clothing and pins you to the mattress, fucking you suddenly and desperately, like an animal finally let out of its cage.
But Dean’s not the kind of animal that others kept trapped. He had himself on the leash. He’s more practiced in control than you could’ve imagined, an expert at letting himself have just enough to be satisfied, without actually having anything at all. And now you’re spread on the bed for him to take without any kind of consequence he could make matter, and he’s not going to do anything but take his time.
“First time I fuckin’ saw you,” he mutters, lips brushing against yours. “Knew I was goner. Spent four years, hearin’ about how smart and kind you were, never knew you were a fuckin’ knockout too. Thought I’d died and gone to heaven, before I realized who you were.” He bunches the fabric of your shirt in his hand, slowly pulling it up your body. “Didn’t realize I was gonna be trapped in a hell where I couldn’t have the one girl I’d ever thought about wantin’ forever.”
Dean pulls off your shirt and begins to pepper kisses over the curve of your breasts, massive hands massaging your sensitive tits. Your back arches, a soft whimper leaving your throat as snaps your bra strap against your skin, then slowly traces the line of the fabric, all the way around to the clasp. He undoes it with a single, easy motion, and, before something ugly and green—reminding you of how many times he’s done before—settles in your gut, he squeezes your tit, and kisses his way back up your neck.
“You got no idea,” he purrs. “How much I’ve been dreamin’ about this. How fuckin’ hard,” he pushes his hips against your thigh, forcing you to feel the length of his hardened cock. “It’s been to keep my hands to myself, when you were runnin’ around looking like every fantasy I’ve had since I was a goddamn teenager. Used to pop one justwatching these bounce around,” he ducks back down, mouthing at your swollen tits. “And thinkin’ about how reactive you’d be, how good you’d feel…”
He trails off with a groan, wrapping his wet, warm mouth around your nipple, his free hand teasing the neglected bud with careful fingers. You pull on his hair and he groans, pushing his boner harder against you, all while offering no friction to your pussy. You try to protest and whine, try to shove his face lower, but he’s set on taking his time.
Dean switches attention between your tits, letting his hands roam your body with leisure. He maps every curve and dip, letting that dirty mouth follow the wake of shivering, burning need his touch leaves. He pulls your skirt down slowly, kissing over your stomach and hips, wrapping a massive arm around your knees and trapping them together when you try to grind into his face.
“Be good,” he warns, letting the tips of his fingers drag under your ass, barely brushing the lips of your pussy. “I know what you want, baby, but you’ve been waitin’ this long. You can be good.”
You think, somewhere in your lust addled brain, that he has a lot of misplaced faith in you. You cannot be good. Not when Dean kisses everywhere around your dripping mound, but never lets anything but his nose touch that little button. Not when he fully drags your skirt off your legs and teases your knees and feet, smiling to himself when you squirm and splaying a huge hand over your tummy, pinning you to the mattress and kissing his way back up your trembling legs.
He pushes your knees to your chest, and sucks dark, possessive marks on your inner thighs. Two broad fingers press the lips of your fluttering pussy together, and your hips buck, tears starting to spring into your eyes. You’ve never been teased like this. So careful and deliberate, like he’s trying to find every possible way to pull you apart. He kisses every spot twice, glancing at your slack, drunken expression like he’s measuring and memorizing each and every reaction. He blows on your pinched pussy and you cry out, grabbing his wrist and trying to roll away from the touch.
“Ah,” Dean spanks you cunt, pushing up on his knees. “This ain’t bein’ patient, sweetheart.”
“I’m- I’m trying,” you try and push his hand back against your core, but he’s too strong. “Dean, just- Just touch me, pleaaseee- Mhm-“
Dean leans down, kissing you back into the mattress. You’re almost folded in half beneath him, your cunt clenching around nothing, weeping for attention he’s taking his sweet time to give.
“If I’d known I was makin’ you this needy,” he rasped. “I woulda started fuckin’ you that first night.”
He spanks your pussy again, then swallows your needy sob with another kiss. You hump the air, the movements shorts and stuttered with how he’s keeping you pinned down.
“So goddamn wet,” Dean drags his hand against your swollen cunt, grinding the heel of his palm against your clit. Your eyes roll back in your head with every short movement, and his lips curve in an adoring, smug smirk. “You like that, baby girl? Feels good?”
“Ye- Yes,” you manage to stutter, clawing at the arm pinning you against the sheets. “Dean- Deean-“
“That’s right,” Dean spanks your pussy again, before running two thick fingers through your soaked folds. “Just like that. Jesus, you’re dripping on my fucking hand.”
He laughs in disbelief, and you didn’t think you were able to flush more, but the heat starts to cascade like a waterfall, a wet pressure building up at the top of your core.
“De- Dean-“ You’re trying to warn him, but his eyes only darken.
“You’re gonna cum?” He pushes those fingers against your entrance, barely dipping them into your tight channel. “Lose it just from hearin’ about how I wanna fuck you?” He leans down, forcing your gaze to stay trapped against his. “How I wanna stuff this pussy up with my fingers, my cock, my fuckin’ cum? Fillin’ you up like you deserve, makin’ you even stupider and prettier than I’ve got you right now, let it drip out, let everyone see who owns this perfect little cunt-“
The heat snaps, and you cum with a long, broken scream of his name.
You’ve never had an orgasm like this. It makes every single one with your vibrator seem downright pathetic, the way this one crashes through your whole body, forcing stars behind your eyes and making you thrash like a dog in heat. Your pussy is gushing in a way you didn’t know was possible, your body rolling in the sheets as the pleasure crests and becomes almost too much to handle.
And you don’t get a chance to come back down. To settle and collect yourself and just beg for his cock, the way he’s been promising for too long.
Your orgasm doesn’t fade, because Dean doesn’t let it.
He presses your knees right to your chest, tangles your hands back together, and shoves his face right into your trembling cunt.
You thought the fingers and the dirty talk were bad. You thought you knew the limit of pleasure your body could take, but Dean seems to be determined to prove you wrong. You knew his mouth was warm and wet and unrelenting, but you hadn’t been prepared for how it would feel against your pussy. It’s like a vibrator got sent on fire and covered in cocaine, giving you a second hand high just from the contact. Dean makes out with your cunt like it’s your lips, but without demanding a single thing in return.
He groans when you pull on his hair, his tongue flicking back and forth over your clit so fast you can’t even find anything but a high-pitched whine in your throat. He licks a rough stripe up your cunt and mouths at your fluttering hole, drawing out every bit of arousal with the tickle and scrape of his beard against your already overused thighs. He draws back for half a second, spitting on your clit and using three fingers to rub your pussy so brutally, your knees give out laying down.
“Dean- Dean- Fuuuuuuck-“ You cry it over and over like a prayer. You hump his face and try to squirm away from it at the same time, but Dean never lets you get too far. He smiles and nips at your clit when you grind against his jaw, and chases you up the mattress when you try to get away, manhandling and dragging you back against his face. Soon you’ve got nowhere left to roll without falling off the bed, and Dean stops putting up with your antics.
You’re still in half below him, but he’s pressing you down too tight for you to move. You sob and crane your neck, holding onto his head for dear life, the slick between your thighs starting to feel too tight again. You don’t have to say it this time. Dean’s eyes glint, opening to look back to yours, and wraps his lips around your clit, sucking on it like the sweetest candy he’s ever tasted.
There’s a thick, slapping sound that fills the room, and you manage to focus from the blur of pleasure just long enough to crane your neck and find its source.
And Dean was already a sight, between your legs. His eyes peeking up, his muscles budging, the hair you convinced to let him grow flopping over his brow. But there’s a reason he’s pushed himself so high on his knees, dragging your ass fully off the mattress.
He’s freed his massive, thick cock from its confines in his boxers, and he’s beating it into his hand like he’s watching the most sinful, lewd porno in the world. He moans against your cunt, almost drinking up your arousal, and his hips jerk into his fist. A shining pearl of precum, falls from his angry red tip.
Your eyes roll back in your head, as your second orgasm rip through you like a storm. Pulling you so totally apart you think you float out of your body, twitching in the sheets and gaping at Dean under hooded eyes.
Dean groans, his mouth working you through it, and when you float back down he’s already started to rub his cock between the lips of your pussy, tapping the head against your clit, and smiling when it jolts you like lightning.
“Look at this fuckin’ mess,” Dean murmurs, bending over until he’s resting his chin on your knees, still trapped against your chest. “Look at you, sweetheart. Such a good girl for me, takin’ it so well.”
You keen under the praise, past words, past anything but the thought of Dean’s warm skin against your, his dick notched at your entrance, begging to just come inside and take what’s been his since the first time you saw him.
“You gonna talk to me?” Dean kisses the corner of your mouth, and you blink at him under fluttering, doe-like eyes. “Or did I work my girl a little too hard already?”
You shake your head frantically, grabbing his wrist. Dean pauses, raising his brows.
“Baby, if you’re tapped out-“
“No,” you manage to breathe, and Dean’s throat bobs. “Please. Please don’t stop.”
Dean stares at you, the mask of teasing and control slowly slipping away. All that’s left beneath it is a man that’s just as wrecked for you as you are for him. He smears drool over your cheek and takes a ragged breath, glancing down to where your bodies are almost joined, where his dick is begging to just drive into your pussy and make you his.
He looks back to you with a zealous, almost primal need. You tip your head back, offering your neck, your throat, your jaw, anything he wants, just as long as this lasts forever.
“You mine, sweetheart?” Dean says, low and rough, almost desperate. Like he’s afraid to know the answer.
You don’t know why. There isn’t another you could possibly give your heart, knowing their going to destroy it and keep it safe all at once.
“I’m yours,” you breathe, and that’s all Dean needs.
He pushes you into the mattress with shockingly gentle hands, dropping his weight over your legs to keep you nice and curled up beneath his massive body. His cock pushes slowly, inch by inch, into your abused, weeping pussy. You gasp, the stretch both more and better than you ever could’ve possibly imagined.
And the through worship of your body paid off. There isn’t a place in your body you can’t feel him. It’s like you’re being split in half and fused back together, all in the small, shallow thrusts that Dean uses to get himself fully seated inside you. His head kisses your cervix, his balls swollen and pressed against your slick ass, his face buried in your knees and his breath fanning—hot and ragged—over your tits.
“So fuckin’ tight,” he says, squeezing you tighter. “Son of a- You feel so fuckin’ good baby, you- You’re gonna fuckin’ kill me.”
You giggle. You don’t know why. You can’t really justify it, past being so cockdrunk and wrecked that everything is kind of bubbly and bright. Dean’s head shoots up, his eyes narrowed, and you giggle again, smiling at him so freely, you can’t bring yourself to care about the tears streaming down your cheeks and cunt. You just feel full, and it’s perfect. You never want him to pull out.
Dean’s eyes glint, and you know you’re in trouble.
Good. You really want to be, as long as it’s with him.
Dean snaps his hips, and your giggle falls into a broken, shameless moan. Dean grins, kissing the tears off your cheeks and setting a slow, rutting pace in your cunt. He bumps over and over against your g-spot, fucking you into a whining, squirming mess within minutes.
“That’s right,” he whispers in your ear, pushing your knees a little higher up. “Feels so fucking good, doesn’t it? Sweet girl, takin’ this cock like you were made for it. Lettin’ me use you like the greedy little cockslut you wanna be. Mine,” he kisses a soft spot under your jaw, words rough and possessive. “Fuckin’ mine.”
You nod, babbling out a pathetic agreement. You are his. You’re a useless, soaked wreck beneath Dean’s massive body, but you’re his, and there’s nothing else you’d rather be.
And you were sure that you’d reached the limit for orgasms for the night, especially given that your previous record was one, weak and barely worthy of note.
But you’ve never been fucked by Dean before. And with the way he’s ruining you, you don’t think you’re going to be able to be fucked by anyone else after.
His cock slides in out of your pussy, like your bodies were made to mold together. The sound fills the room, obscene and lewd, mixed with Dean’s low moans in your ear and your own, pathetic whimpering. He bullies that gummy spot inside of you, driving against it over and over, as his thrusts become longer and harsher.
Every inch of your body is so thoroughly claimed by him, you almost can’t stand it. The squelch of his dick, each vein and pulse making your wet pussy throb, his messily connected to yours and his hands groping desperately at your hips as you both reach your peak. The heat is building back up like a flood, making your eyes cross and your head spin. You grip his shoulders with shaking hands, your nose twitching and wrecked pleas falling from your lips.
Dean kisses everyone away, past words himself. He grabs your jaw one last time, angling his hand between your bodies to toy with your clit, and something at the very base of your spine shatters. It’s not like the dreamy floating of your last orgasm. It’s loud and wet, making you feel every single second of overwhelming pleasure as Dean’s thrusts become unruly and frantic. You milk his cock, crying his name, gushing with so much slick that you’re almost worried you’re peeing.
The sound that leaves Dean is almost inhuman. He doubles over, clinging to you with a reverence like you’re holy, emptying thick, hot ropes of cum into your pussy. You’re so full, so loved, you grab Dean’s bicep and gape up at him with open, loving eyes.
Dean grunts, drilling his cock into your g-spot with shallow, uncontrolled thrusts.
“One more-“ He grunts. “One more ‘f me, Babygirl, please-“
One last orgasms blooms and shudders through your core. Dean makes a feral, satisfied sound, and collapses over you with a moan.
And for a little while, you both just lay there. Lost in the feeling of each other, the pure, simple ease. Dean kisses away your tears and buries himself a little deeper, whispering an apology against your lips when you whine.
“’S okay-“ You gasp. “Feels good.”
Dean grunts, still doubtful, and you give him a winning, gentle smile.
“I liked it,” you cup his cheek, pushing your breasts a little higher. “A lot.”
Dean’s cock twitches inside of you. He groans and drops his face between your breasts, shaking his head. You giggle and pet his head, and he props his chin up.
“Too rough?” He mutters, and you shake your head.
“Perfect.”
“Hmm,” he looks you up and down, and you spread your legs a little wide, using your heels to push him closer.
He grunts and braces himself next to your head, eyes soft and gleaming in the dark. He takes you in—boneless, limp, and dizzy with happiness—and lets out a slow, ragged breath.
“Think I mighta just created a monster,” he mutters, and you beam.
“Maybe.”
He raises his brows, kissing the inside of your wrist. And he’s buried inside of you. You’re filled with his cum, and covered in love marks you have no idea how to hide.
You still flush.
Dean’s eyes gleam with satisfaction. He kisses your wrist again, massaging your hips.
“We’re gonna do this again, right?” You ask knowing the answer.
You just want to hear him say it.
“Yeah, baby,” he murmurs, watching you like none of the world matters. Like it’s really only you and him, and a hazy but glowing and certain future. “We’re gonna be doin’ this until you get sick of it.”
“And if I don’t?” You whisper. “Get sick of it?”
Dean shrugs, smiling faintly. “Then I think we’re gonna be doin’ it for a long, long time.”
✦End note: dfb fever is getting me and i'm not. mad about it.✦
✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦
hi bb! not necessarily a storyline idea but for briar media!reader i think it’d be kinda cute if we saw her trying to get the team to lock in and film content but they’re being particularly difficult that day for some reason! so she kinda puts them in her place and g is like “….thats hot” OR alternatively he kinda snaps at the team for her !! (i feel like this sounds a lot more angsty than i intended but i was thinking of it being super light hearted !!!)
It should have taken four minutes. That was the part making the muscle beneath her right eye twitch. Four minutes. Maybe six if somebody forgot the line.
She needed eight players standing against the Briar media wall after practice, each saying one sentence about Saturday’s fundraiser so she could cut the clips together, throw captions over them and have something usable on Instagram before dinner.
Instead, twenty minutes in, Dean had changed his line three times because he felt come support a great cause lacked sexual intrigue, Logan kept deliberately walking through the background, Tucker was trying to help but had somehow become responsible for holding three sticks, somebody’s helmet and her spare microphone, and Garrett had spent the last forty seconds flicking balled-up athletic tape at Dean’s head.
“Okay,” she said, lowering the camera. “Garrett, stop.”
“I’m not doing anything,” he muttered.
A piece of tape left his fingers and bounced directly off Logan’s shoulder. She stared at him.
Garrett’s mouth twitched. “That one was already in motion.”
Dean laughed. Logan threw it back. Somebody behind them started making fart noises into the microphone Tucker was still holding.
Something hot climbed the back of her neck. “EVERYONE SHUT THE FUCK UP.”
The room died. Even the distant scrape of somebody unlacing skates seemed to reconsider itself.
She stood there with the camera clenched against her chest, pulse beating high beneath her jaw. “Do as I fucking say or, so help me God, I will get Coach, and we all know he likes me more than you dumb fucks. Stand where you’re supposed to fucking stand, say what I asked you to say, and if one of you fucks around one more fucking time, I swear to God–”
“Yep,” Logan said immediately. “Shutting up.”
“So sorry, boss,” Tucker added, already placing everything neatly on the bench.
Dean straightened against the wall. “Deeply sorry. Huge supporter of the fundraiser.”
Behind him, Garrett muttered something.
Her head snapped toward him. “Something to add, Captain?”
Garrett, who had the survival instincts to look only mildly amused, lifted one shoulder. “Was just saying you’re hot.”
She closed her eyes for one second. “Stand there.”
“Yes, boss.”
“And say the line properly.”
“Yes, boss.”
Dean leaned toward Logan and whispered, “Terrifying.”
Without lowering the camera, she said, “I heard that.”
Dean immediately faced forward. “Sorry. Love charity.”
Wait cause that last ask got me thinking about a touch deprived Colston… like him in training camp all day and having to sleep at the hotel the whole time. I just know he would be so affectionate and needy wow
i love the way you think bc exactly 😁 colston hates being away from his lady for more than 24 hours. it actually gets so bad for him you can visibly see the toll that not sleeping next to you has on him from the dark circles under his eyes. and it’s not that he’s not getting any sleep, he’s getting his 8-9 hours every night. it’s just never the same without you.
once he’s back with you though, know that you will not be leaving his side for the next 12 hours. he needs cuddles, he needs kisses, he needs your hands scratching his back, he needs you playing with his hair, he needs your voice in his ears, he needs your heart beating with his. if you have to get up to make a snack, he’s there, wrapped around you and nuzzled all in your neck. if you need to get some work done on your laptop, he makes a very comfortable chair, don’t worry. and when you try to peel him off you, he’ll make a little grunt before telling you, “don’t leave. i need this.”
this stays between the two of you, though. no one else needs to know that he pouted to earn your sympathy. no one else needs to know that you called him your baby and he responded, “baby needs a kiss.”
