🦋special mention. payno, te voy a extrañar toda la vida y te amo para siempre.
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Synopsis:: drunk dean reminds everyone that his girlfriend is in fact, his favorite girl.
Pairing:: Dean Di laurentis x fem!reader
THE woman told Dean that she would meet him at the party and not to party too hard until she got there. Did he listen?, absolutely not, and that is why she is receiving a snap from beau that is a video of Dean standing on top of the kitchen island and declaring his love for her. So she knew she had to find Dean as soon as she walked into the party. And when she walked through the doors of the hockey house she was met with the sight of Dean standing in the corner alone fighting Garrett for his phone. And deans face practically lit up once he made eye contact with his girlfriend.“Baby!, you made it” Dean spoke as he launched himself into the woman’s arms. “I told you I would be here didn’t I?” She replied as she tried to support his weight and he was not light at all.
ONCE she successfully got Dean to settle down and get him up to his bedroom. Dean acted as if she committed a crime when she forced him to sober up and drink at least 2 bottles of water. “I don’t want water, I want the drinks I had downstairs” Dean said as he pushed away the bottles of water that she placed infront of him. “The last thing you need is the drinks you had downstairs” the woman replied as she forced the water down deans throat. She began to feel deans hands pulling her down to lay on him. She complied and let her body fit on top of his and began scratching his scalp, lulling him to sleep.
cómo le explicás a un gringo que entiende el racismo en términos de blanco teta vs negro azabache que en argentina el 90% de las personas son marrones pero se autoserven blancas y el racismo es primordialmente una cuestión de clase? les revienta el bocho.
summary: you want to get Dean back (and make him suffer while at it)
pairing: Dean Di Laurentis x reader
content: dean being your ex, lots of drama, happy ending
inspiration: get him back! by Olivia Rodrigo (preview of the song at the end of the story)
The grease at the Briar University diner always smelled like a mix of cheap maple syrup and impending bad decisions. I sat in our usual booth, shredding a paper napkin into a tiny, sad mountain of confetti.
"I don't just want him to feel bad," I muttered, stabbing my fork into a cold waffle. "I want him to experience a very specific, deeply agonizing existential crisis. I want him back. But also? I want to push him down a flight of stairs."
Across from me, Allie Hayes paused with her coffee mug halfway to her mouth. She blinked, her expression a mix of profound concern and dark amusement. "Okay, first of all, domestic violence is a crime. Second of all, are we talking about the same Dean Di Laurentis who once tried to cure my hangover by reading aloud from a Victoria’s Secret catalog?"
"Yes," I groaned, dropping my forehead onto the sticky laminate table. "That beautiful, infuriating, ego-maniacal idiot."
Dean and I had crashed and burned three weeks ago. It was a classic Dean disaster—he’d gotten spooked by feelings, panicked, and acted like a detached playboy to push me away. It worked. I left. But now, the anger had faded into a restless, chaotic itch. I missed his stupid, crooked grin. I missed the way he looked at me like I was the only girl in a crowded arena.
Most of all, I wanted revenge. And then I wanted his hands all over me.
"I need a plot," I said, sitting up straight. "A highly calculated, deeply toxic, beautifully orchestrated plot to get him back. I'm going to make him so jealous his teeth itch, and then, right when he’s begging, I'm going to ruin his life. In a cute way."
Allie grinned, a dangerous spark in her eyes. "Well, you're in luck. The boys are throwing a party at the house tonight. And Dean has been acting like a miserable, snarling bear for three weeks. If you play this right, you can light the match."
(...)
The Off-Campus house was already breathing. That was the only way to describe the bass-heavy, sweat-and-cheap-beer-scented entity that was a Briar hockey party.
I stood in front of the mirror in Allie’s room, smoothing down a black dress that was frankly doing a lot of heavy lifting. It was tight, cut dangerously low, and smelled faintly of the strawberry perfume Dean used to bury his nose in.
"You look like a weapon," Allie declared, leaning against the doorframe.
"Good. Because I’m going to war."
When I walked downstairs, the living room was a sea of red plastic cups and sweaty bodies. It didn't take long to find him. Dean was leaning against the kitchen counter, a bottle of beer dangling carelessly from his fingers. He looked devastating. His blonde hair was messy, his jawline looked sharp enough to cut glass, and he was wearing that heather-gray Henley that made his shoulders look impossibly broad.
But he wasn't laughing. He looked thoroughly, magnificently bored.
Until he saw me.
I watched his posture instantly stiffen. His blue eyes locked onto mine, widening by a fraction of a millimeter before narrowing into a fierce, simmering glare. He took a slow sip of his beer, his gaze tracking the hemline of my dress.
Hook, line, and sinker, I thought.
I didn't walk toward him. Instead, I turned on my heel, caught the eye of a handsome, unsuspecting lacrosse player named Carter, and flashed my brightest, most devastating smile.
(...)
"Oh, absolutely," I laughed, tossing my hair back and leaning a little too close to Carter’s chest. "I’ve always thought lacrosse was so much more athletic than hockey. It takes actual running, you know? Not just sliding around on knives."
From three feet away, I heard a dangerous, low rumble.
Dean had migrated. He was now leaning against the adjacent wall, practically radiating heat. The sheer force of his glare could have melted the ice rink at Briar.
"Is that right?" Dean’s voice cut through the air, smooth, dripping with sarcasm, and entirely uninvited. He stepped into our space, towering over Carter. "Didn't realize you were such an expert on 'sliding on knives,' sweetheart. Last time I checked, you quite liked the view from the penalty box."
Carter blinked, suddenly realizing he was standing in the splash zone of a very volatile domestic dispute. "Uh, hey, Di Laurentis—"
"Hey, Carter," Dean said, his voice deadly polite. He didn't look at the lacrosse player; his eyes were glued to my face, burning with a mix of fury and possessiveness. "Can you give us a second? The lady and I have some unfinished business."
"Actually," I said, placing a delicate hand on Carter’s arm, feeling Dean’s eyes track the movement like a heat-seeking missile, "Carter was just about to get me a drink. Weren't you, Carter?"
"I... yeah. Sure. Cranberry vodka?" Carter mumbled, eager to escape the suffocating tension. He bolted toward the kitchen.
Dean stepped closer, trapping me between his chest and the wall. The familiar scent of his expensive cologne and mint gum washed over me, making my knees threaten to buckle.
"What the hell are you playing at?" he growled, his voice a low, gravelly vibration.
"I'm just socializing, Dean," I purred, looking up at him through my eyelashes. "You remember socializing, right? It’s what you do when you’re single. Which we are."
Before Dean could fire back, the kitchen door swung open, and the rest of the Off-Campus crew spilled out, entirely oblivious to the sexual tension threatening to detonate the living room.
"Who wants to do body shots off Logan's abs?!" Garrett Graham yelled, holding up a bottle of tequila.
"Absolutely nobody," Logan responded, though he was already unbuttoning his shirt. "Actually, wait, Hannah says I'm not allowed to do that anymore. Tucker, you’re up."
"Leave me out of your exhibitionism," Tucker grunted, leaning against the doorframe next to a very amused-looking Sabrina.
Logan’s eyes slid over to Dean and me. A slow, mischievous grin spread across his face. "Oh, look. The star-crossed lovers are having a standoff. Dean, buddy, you look like you’re about to cry. Or commit a felony."
"Shut up, Logan," Dean snapped, not breaking eye contact with me.
"I'm just saying," Logan chuckled, nudging Garrett. "The girl looks stunning. You look like a gargoyle. I think she’s winning the breakup."
"She is definitely winning," Garrett agreed, taking a swig from the tequila bottle. "Did you see her with the lacrosse guy? Cruel and unusual punishment."
Dean’s jaw clenched so hard I thought it might shatter. "I said, shut up."
"Don't worry about him, guys," I said sweetly, raising my voice so the whole room could hear. "Dean’s just realizing that when you throw something away, someone else is going to pick it up. Right, Dean?"
That's what hit him.
Dean grabbed my wrist—not hard, but firm, his grip warm and electric—and began pulling me through the crowd.
"Whoa, whoa, whoa!" Garrett cheered. "The caveman approach! Classic!"
"Put her down, Di Laurentis, or I'm telling your sister!" Logan yelled.
Dean ignored them all, dragging me down the hallway and pushing open the door to his bedroom. He pulled me inside and slammed the door shut, cutting off the deafening roar of the party. The sudden silence was heavy, filled only with the sound of our ragged breathing.
The room was exactly how I remembered it. Clean, smelled like him, with his hockey gear piled in the corner and a stack of law textbooks on his desk.
"You are driving me insane," Dean said, pacing the length of the rug like a caged tiger. He ran a hand through his hair, messing up the styled strands. "You come here, in that dress, flirting with some absolute tool from the lacrosse team, looking at me like you want to murder me—"
"I do want to murder you!" I yelled, the anger finally boiling over. "You pushed me away because you got scared! You broke my heart because you were too coward to admit that you actually care about someone!"
"I am not a coward!" he roared, stopping right in front of me.
"Then tell me!" I challenged, stepping up to him, my chest pressing against his. "Tell me you don't care. Tell me you don't care who I talk to, or who I kiss, or who I take home tonight. Tell me, Dean!"
For a second, the only sound was the muffled bass vibrating through the floorboards. Dean stared down at me, his eyes dark, his chest rising and falling in heavy, ragged breaths.
"I care," he whispered, the anger draining out of him, replaced by a raw, desperate vulnerability that made my heart stop. "I care so much it’s killing me. I haven't slept in three weeks. Every time I close my eyes, I see you. I hated myself the second you walked out that door."
He reached out, his large hand cupping my cheek, his thumb brushing over my cheekbone with aching gentleness.
"I want to get you back," he murmured, his forehead leaning against mine. "But I don't know how to do this. I don't know how to be the guy you deserve."
My heart did a violent, happy flip, but I forced my expression to remain cool. I reached up, wrapping my fingers around his collar, pulling him down just a fraction of an inch.
"Well," I whispered against his lips, "you can start by kissing me. And then, tomorrow, you can buy me breakfast. And after that, I’m going to make you pay for making me cry. Daily. For at least a month."
Dean let out a breathless, beautiful laugh, the tension finally evaporating from his shoulders. "Deal."
When his lips met mine, it was chaotic and desperate, full of all the teeth-gritting anger and wild, undeniable passion of the last three weeks. He pulled me flush against him, his hands gripping my waist like he was afraid I’d vanish if he let go.
Outside the door, a sudden, loud thud echoed, followed by a loud whisper.
"Shh! You’re going to ruin it!" Logan’s voice hissed.
"Get your elbow out of my ribs, Graham!" Tucker grumbled.
Dean broke the kiss, a slow, ridiculously handsome grin spreading across his face as he looked at the door. "Should we go out there and beat them up?"
I wrapped my arms around his neck, pulling him back down. "Later. Right now, I have you exactly where I want you."
pairing – garrett graham x princess!reader
summary – nerves bring the night to a pause, only for trust, curiosity and garrett’s complete lack of pressure to turn it into something even more intimate.
warnings – 18+, explicit sexual content, mutual masturbation, nudity, dirty talk, praise kink, nipple piercing stimulation, consensual dominance, manhandling, masturbation discussion, orgasm, aftercare
notes from me – as requested here!!! i am s o o o down bad for them 🙂↕️
word count – 5.6k
The hockey house is too quiet for what they’re doing. There’s no Logan yelling at a video game, no Tucker opening and closing cupboards, no Dean wandering into Garrett’s room without knocking because he’s never accepted that doors are intended to prevent entry.
They’re all still at the Sigma house, where the party is probably entering the stage of the night involving broken furniture and someone insisting they can perform a backflip.
She should feel relieved. Instead, the absence of everyone else seems to have made the room smaller.
Garrett is sitting against the headboard with one leg stretched over the mattress and the other bent slightly beneath her, his hand warm against the back of her neck while he kisses her like the last thirty minutes have been leading to this rather than the two of them abruptly abandoning a frat party under separate, extremely unconvincing pretences.
She had told Claire she was tired. Garrett had told Dean he needed to check whether the back door was locked.
Now she’s kneeling beside Garrett on his bed, her bare knees sinking into the comforter, sneakers abandoned near his desk and the short skirt of her cream dress gathered dangerously high around her thighs.
The dress has tiny black polka dots and a halter neckline tied behind her neck in a soft bow. It had looked sweet in her dorm mirror, feminine enough to make her feel polished despite the fact that the back barely covered the top of her underwear.
Garrett had stared at it when he picked her up. He’s considerably less subtle now.
His mouth moves over hers slowly, his tongue catching against her own while his fingers slide through the hair at the nape of her neck. She has one hand twisted into his shirt and the other against the hard plane of his chest, feeling his heart beating beneath her palm with the same fast, uneven rhythm as hers.
It feels so fucking good. That’s part of the problem.
She’s kissed men before. She’s kissed a lot of men, actually, some of them long enough that she learned the precise point where their technique would stop improving and she could begin calculating how much sleep she would get if she left immediately afterward.
She knows how to have sex. She knows how to make the right noises, move at the right moments and smile afterward as if the whole thing has been mutually transformative rather than something she endured with polite enthusiasm. She knows how to fake an orgasm convincingly enough that nobody has ever requested additional evidence, then collect her clothes and move on with her life.
Garrett already knows the noises she makes when she actually comes. He knows the difference.
The thought sends another nervous flutter through her stomach, irritatingly delicate compared to the heat gathering lower down.
Garrett’s thumb strokes beneath her jaw. His lips catch her lower one and tug gently before releasing it, drawing a soft sound from her that he answers with a quiet hum. He shifts his weight and catches her around the waist.
She moves without resisting when he pulls her over his thighs, settling astride his lap while his back presses more firmly into the headboard. The position brings her directly over the hard shape beneath his jeans. Her breath catches.
Garrett’s hands disappear beneath her dress. His palms slide up the bare skin of her waist, broad and warm, gathering the soft fabric as they go until the skirt bunches around his wrists. He traces the curve above her hips, then tucks both thumbs beneath the thin elastic sides of her underwear.
He doesn’t pull them down. He only strokes there, small movements against the delicate skin at the front of her hips while he kisses the corner of her mouth.
Her stomach tightens beneath his hands. Garrett pauses. The kiss breaks slowly. His face remains close enough that his nose brushes hers, dark eyes moving over her expression while his thumbs go still inside the waistband.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong,” she insists, although the words emerge too quickly and slightly breathless, which means they sound exactly like every other time she has said she’s fine while visibly not being fine.
Garrett draws one hand from beneath her dress and cups her chin. His thumb passes over her bottom lip, smoothing across skin already swollen from kissing. “Princess.”
She looks at his shoulder instead of his face. His black shirt is slightly wrinkled beneath her fingers, the collar pulled sideways from where she has been holding him. “I’m just a little nervous,” she admits.
Garrett nods once. There’s no laugh. No smug comment about her being the one who dragged him out of the party or climbed into his lap. His thumb moves over her lip again, gentler now. “Baby, we don’t have to have sex tonight.”
Her gaze lifts to his. “We don’t?”
His eyebrows pull together. “No.”
“But…” She glances toward his closed bedroom door, as though Logan, Dean and Tucker might materialise behind it if she references their absence too directly. “The house is empty.”
“That doesn’t mean we need to have sex.”
“Oh.”
Garrett studies her face. “Okay?”
She nods slowly. “Okay.”
His brow remains furrowed. He strokes the centre of her lower lip once more, watching the small drag of his thumb as if he’s trying to smooth the uncertainty out of her by hand. “I’m serious.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
She huffs, but her chest loosens enough for a little more air to enter it. “I don’t know. I thought you’d be annoyed.”
“Why would I be mad?”
She shrugs, the movement small beneath his hand. “I dunno.”
Garrett’s expression changes in a way she cannot name without becoming uncomfortable. Something soft and unhappy crosses his face before his mouth curves, not quite into his usual grin but something close enough to make the room feel familiar again.
“I’m not mad,” he says. “I like having you half-naked in my bed whether or not there’s a scheduled activity.”
Her mouth twitches. “Scheduled activity?”
“Sex.”
She presses her lips together, trying not to smile. “I understood.”
“Good. Didn’t want to overwhelm you with the terminology.”
She rolls her eyes, properly this time.
“There she is,” he murmurs.
She leans forward and kisses him. Garrett makes a pleased sound and settles his hand back at her waist, allowing her to choose the pressure, the pace, the slow movement of her mouth against his.
The butterflies don’t disappear, but they loosen, turning warmer and less frantic beneath her ribs. She kisses him again, then once more because his mouth is soft and hot and his lower lip fits perfectly between hers.
“I like kissing you,” she whispers.
Garrett’s eyes remain closed for half a second after she pulls back. “Yeah.”
She waits.
He opens one eye. “What?”
She huffs. “That’s all?”
“What do you want, a written review?”
She pinches his side.
He laughs, catching her wrist before she can do it again. “I like kissing you too, princess.”
“Good.”
“Great.”
“Perfect.”
“Glad we cleared that up.”
She presses her smile into his mouth. Knowing he’s not waiting for anything seems to have removed the imaginary timer ticking somewhere in the room. She can kiss him without wondering when the kissing is supposed to become something else. She can sit on him and feel his erection beneath her without believing it’s become her responsibility.
Which, naturally, makes her want to get naked. She keeps kissing him as she reaches behind her neck and catches one end of the halter tie. The bow slips loose beneath her fingers. Garrett notices when the front of the dress begins to soften against his chest.
His hand closes around her waist. She draws the ties forward and pulls the dress up. The cream fabric slides over her hips, catches briefly at her breasts, and then disappears between them in a soft, polka-dotted heap.
Garrett stares. She’s left sitting in his lap wearing only a tiny pair of cream underwear, her nipples already hard in the cool room, the silver bars glinting faintly beneath the light from his bedside lamp.
“Hi,” she says.
Garrett’s eyes drag upward with visible effort. “You’re evil.”
“You said you liked having me half-naked.”
“That was before you launched a targeted attack.”
She smiles, pleased, and reaches for the hem of his shirt. Garrett grips the fabric himself and drags the shirt over his head in one impatient movement. His hair catches in the collar and springs free in complete disarray. She laughs.
“What?”
“Your hair.”
“You’re naked,” he mumbles. “I don’t care about my hair.”
He tosses the t-shirt toward his desk without looking. It lands nowhere near it.
She places both hands against his bare chest. Garrett’s warm beneath her palms, skin smooth except for the faint roughness of hair beneath his navel and the small marks hockey has collected across his body without permission. A fading bruise sits over one rib. There’s a pale line near his shoulder she has seen a hundred times at pools and practices, although touching it now feels like learning it again.
Garrett’s hands return to her hips. She kisses him harder. The relief of having nowhere to get to makes everything more intense. His mouth opens beneath hers. His fingers spread over the bare curve of her ass, drawing her forward until the damp centre of her underwear rubs over the hard length trapped inside his jeans.
Her lips part on a moan. Garrett does it again.
She begins moving without waiting for him, rolling her hips into the pressure, arms winding around his shoulders as she grinds against him. The denim is rough through the thin fabric between her legs. Every slow drag catches against her clit and sends another bright pulse of pleasure through her.
Garrett groans into her mouth. “Fuck,” he breathes.
His head lowers to her chest. He catches one breast in his palm and closes his mouth around the piercing.
Her entire body jolts. “G.”
He hums around the metal, the vibration moving straight through her. His tongue traces the bar before he sucks carefully, one hand holding her hip steady while she continues grinding over him.
Her forehead drops against his curls. The room contracts around the wet pull of his mouth, the heat of his body beneath hers and the heavy friction building between her legs.
This is what she likes most about him. Not only that he knows what he’s doing, although he does, which remains both deeply satisfying and personally irritating. It’s the way he makes the constant noise inside her head go quiet.
Garrett puts his hand somewhere and her body stays there. He tells her to look at him and she does. He catches her jaw, her hips, her wrists, and suddenly she doesn’t have to manage the angle or the rhythm or what expression belongs on her face. She doesn’t have to orchestrate her own pleasure while guiding a man toward the conclusion that he caused it.
She can simply let him handle her. Garrett releases her nipple with a soft, wet sound and moves to the other. His thumb circles the one he has abandoned, keeping the metal slick beneath the pad while his tongue finds the second bar. She whimpers and tightens her thighs around his hips.
“That good?” he asks against her breast.
“Yes,” she gasps.
His teeth graze her nipple. The rest of the complaint dissolves. Garrett laughs softly and turns them.
One second she’s above him, fingers twisted into his curls, and the next her back meets the mattress. He follows her down, fitting himself between her thighs while his mouth travels over the centre of her chest.
She stares at the ceiling as he kisses beneath her breasts, along her ribs and over her stomach. His hands hold her hips in place, thumbs moving absently along the elastic of her underwear.
By the time his mouth reaches the skin below her navel, she’s breathing too quickly again. She pushes herself upright, and Garrett glances up.
His face between her thighs does something dangerous to the rhythm of her heart, but her hands have already reached for his jeans. She catches the button and begins working it open.
Garrett straightens immediately. One hand closes around her jaw, fingers firm beneath her cheeks, and he kisses her. Deep. Slow. Thorough enough that the button remains trapped uselessly beneath her thumb while his tongue slides against hers and the hand at her face keeps her exactly where he wants her. Her thoughts blur.
When he finally pulls back, her lips chase his before she can stop them. Garrett’s thumb presses gently at the corner of her mouth. “Thought you didn’t want to.”
“I…” She glances down at his open fly, then back at him. “I don’t know.”
He watches her. She hates how easily he can see the confusion inside her, the desire winding itself through relief and nerves until she cannot tell where one stops and another begins.
“I want you,” she says, because that part is true. “I just don’t know if I want to, like…”
“Have sex.”
She nods.
“Okay.”
Her brow furrows. “But I don’t want to stop.”
“I didn’t say we had to stop.”
She blinks at him. Garrett’s head tilts slightly. His gaze shifts over her face, then down the length of her body, lingering where her thighs remain open around his hips.
“I have an idea.”
She nods immediately.
His mouth twitches. “You don’t even know what it is.”
“I trust you.”
The words leave her without ceremony. Garrett goes still for one quiet moment. Then he bends and kisses her, softer this time, once against her lips before sitting back on his knees. “You get yourself off, yeah?”
Heat crawls across her chest. “Yeah.”
“Mhm.” He drags the sound out, visibly pleased with the information. “Well, show me.”
Her arms loosen. “What?”
“Show me.”
Her stomach drops pleasantly. Garrett holds her gaze. There’s no mockery in his face, though his eyes have darkened and his mouth keeps threatening a grin.
“And I’ll show you,” he adds.
She looks down at the shape straining against his jeans. Her thighs press together without permission.
Garrett notices. “Interested?”
She nods.
“Words.”
“Yes.” Her voice comes out softer than intended. “Okay.”
He kisses her again as if rewarding the answer, his hand sliding into her hair while his mouth opens over hers. She feels him reach between them and push his jeans down, fabric dragging over his thighs before he breaks away long enough to stand at the edge of the bed.
She watches him strip. His jeans pool around his ankles. He steps out of them, then hooks his thumbs beneath the waistband of his black boxers and pulls those down too. Her breath catches.
She’s seen his cock before, held it and taken it into her mouth in the bathroom at Malone’s, but the cramped stall and the urgency of kneeling between his legs hadn’t allowed her to properly consider the fact that he’s… big.
Garrett’s proportionate to the rest of him, which isn’t comforting when the rest of him is built to drive grown men into plexiglass.
Garrett catches her staring. “Problem?”
“No,” she shakes her head. “Just observing.”
He grips himself loosely, giving one slow stroke that makes his stomach tighten. “Observing what?”
She looks at him. “You know.”
His grin appears. “I’d still like to hear it.”
“Absolutely not.”
He drags his bottom lip through his teeth. “Worth a shot.”
She shakes her head, but her hand has already found the side of her underwear. She lifts her hips and shimmies the fabric down her thighs, kicking it toward the foot of the bed. Garrett’s grin disappears. His gaze travels between her legs and remains there.
The attention makes her want to close them, because nobody has ever looked at her as though the sight itself is doing something to them. Garrett reaches down, catches both her ankles and pulls her toward him. A startled laugh escapes her as her body slides over the comforter, stopping at the edge of the mattress with her knees bent and Garrett standing between them.
“Bossy,” she says.
He wraps one hand around himself. “You love it.”
She opens her mouth to argue, but Garrett strokes once, slowly, and the words disappear. His fist moves from the base to the head, thumb sweeping through the wetness already gathered there. The muscles in his forearm tighten. His lower lip catches between his teeth for half a second before he releases it.
Her mouth goes dry.
“Go on, baby.”
She lets her knees fall wider. Her hand slides down her stomach, fingertips brushing over skin still sensitive from his mouth. Garrett watches every inch of the movement.
She finds her clit and begins circling slowly. Pleasure moves through her at once, less sharp than Garrett’s fingers but familiar, controlled. Her body knows her own touch. She knows the exact pressure to use, the rhythm that will carry her there if she keeps it steady.
The difference is Garrett. Garrett standing over her naked, stroking his cock while his eyes remain fixed between her thighs.
“Fuck,” he says quietly. Her fingers falter. He gives himself another slow stroke. “Don’t stop.”
She resumes, cheeks hot.
“That’s how you touch yourself?”
She nods.
“Words, princess.”
“Yes.”
“Show me properly.”
The instruction sends heat pouring through her. She presses more firmly, circling in the rhythm she uses alone beneath her blankets. Garrett’s breathing changes.
His fist moves faster, not much, but enough to make the muscles low in his stomach flex with each stroke. She watches the head disappear into his hand and emerge again, wet beneath the lamplight.
“You think about me when you do this?” he asks.
Her eyes lift to his. “Sometimes.”
“Sometimes,” he repeats.
She bites the inside of her cheek.
Garrett tilts his head. “How many times is sometimes?”
“Garrett.”
“Every week?”
She says nothing.
His grin grows slowly. “Every day?”
“No.”
“That answer came suspiciously fast.”
She speeds up her fingers, partly because pleasure has begun coiling low inside her and partly because it’s becoming difficult to maintain an argument.
Garrett watches her thighs twitch. “What do you think about?”
“You know what.”
“I know what you told me before.” His thumb brushes over the head of his cock. “My hands on your tits. My mouth.”
Her breath stutters.
“What else?”
She shakes her head.
“Come on, baby. You can lie in my bed with your legs open and touch yourself while I jerk off, but you can’t tell me what you think about?”
The words move through her like another hand. She circles herself harder. “You holding me down.”
Garrett’s fist tightens. “Yeah?”
She nods.
“Moving you around?”
“Yes.”
“Putting you where I want you?”
Her hips lift faintly into her own hand. “G.”
“Thought so.” His voice has dropped lower, the amusement thinning beneath something rougher.
She watches his hand slide over himself. His shoulders are tense, broad beneath the low bedroom light, curls falling over his forehead as he looks down at her. He wants to touch her. She can see it in every small movement he refuses to make – the way his free hand flexes at his side, how his body leans toward the mattress before he corrects himself, the dark concentration in his eyes whenever her fingers slip lower and gather more wetness.
But he doesn’t reach for her. He gave her an idea. He gave her a boundary inside the moment, and he keeps it even while his breathing turns uneven. The restraint is so much hotter than touching would have been. She drags her fingers through the wetness and returns to her clit.
Garrett groans. “Jesus Christ.”
Her head presses back into the mattress. “You’re staring.”
“You’re putting on a show.”
“You told me to.”
He huffs. “Best decision I’ve ever made.”
She laughs breathlessly, but the sound breaks when she finds the right pressure again.
“That’s it,” Garrett murmurs. “Keep doing that.”
Her eyes drift closed.
“No, look at me.” They reopen immediately. Approval flashes across his face. “Good girl.”
Her stomach clenches so sharply that her thighs shake.
Garrett sees it happen. “There we go.”
“Shut up,” she mumbles.
“You’re lying there touching yourself because I told you to, and you still think you’re in a position to boss me around?”
She makes a soft, frustrated noise.
“Yeah,” he says, stroking himself faster. “That’s what I thought.”
Pleasure builds steadily beneath her fingers, every circle tightening the coil inside her. She watches Garrett’s fist move, watches the muscles in his thighs tense and the bead of sweat beginning to shine faintly at his temple.
His bottom lip disappears between his teeth again. She’s never seen him like this. Not in the bathroom, where she had been too focused on doing everything correctly, and not the morning he fingered her, when he had kept all his attention fixed on her.
Now she gets to watch pleasure move across his face without disguise. His jaw loosens when his hand twists near the head. His brows draw together whenever he strokes down more firmly. His breathing leaves him in quiet bursts through his nose until she moves her fingers faster and a rough sound breaks from his chest.
“Fuck, princess.” She whimpers. “Look so pretty like this,” he says. “All spread out for me.”
Her fingers slip slightly.
Garrett’s eyes sharpen. “Keep going.” She obeys. “That’s my girl.”
The pressure climbs higher, her stomach tightening beneath the remains of his release-free touch. She bends one knee farther, heel digging into the edge of the mattress as her hips begin moving faintly beneath her hand.
Garrett watches.
“What would you usually do?” he asks.
She pants through the next circle. “What?”
“When you’re alone. What else do you do?”
She shakes her head, unable to organise an answer.
He tilts his head. “You use a toy?”
“Yes,” she breathes.
“What kind?”
Her face burns. “A vibrator.”
“Where is it?”
“My dorm.”
“Shame.” She lets out a broken laugh. Garrett strokes himself harder. “Next time, bring it.”
The phrase next time sends another pulse through her.
“You’d like that, huh?” His voice has become rougher, words breaking slightly around his breath. “Letting me watch you use it?” She nods. “Maybe I’ll hold it for you.” Her fingers press harder. “Keep you still while I make you come with it.”
“Garrett.”
“Or make you hold it and tell you when you’re allowed to finish.”
The pleasure spikes. Her back arches slightly from the mattress.
Garrett groans. “Fuck. You like that.”
She cannot pretend otherwise. “Yes.”
“Course you do.”
She’s never been spoken to like this without finding it embarrassing. Other men have tried. They have repeated phrases clearly acquired from pornography, asked questions they didn’t wait for her to answer and called her names that felt disconnected from everything happening inside her body.
Garrett knows where the words need to land. His bossy best friend, who wants control over every detail until his hands close around her and take the responsibility away.
Her fingers move faster. The orgasm begins approaching in heavy, gathering waves, her muscles tightening around nothing while the wet sound of Garrett’s fist fills the space between her breaths. “G,” she whimpers.
“I know.”
“I’m close.”
“Yeah?”
She nods quickly.
Garrett’s head tips back for half a second, throat working. “Me too.”
His hand speeds up. She watches him, mesmerised by the slight loss of control in his body. His hips begin meeting his fist in small, involuntary movements. His free hand grips the edge of the mattress beside her thigh hard enough that his knuckles pale.
He still doesn’t touch her. “Don’t stop,” he says.
“I’m not.”
“Come on, baby. Let me watch.” Her body tightens. “That’s it.”
She circles herself faster, no longer capable of maintaining the slow performance of showing him. Her thighs shake, knees drawing inward before she forces them open again.
Garrett notices. “Keep those legs open.”
She moans.
“Good girl.”
The orgasm breaks through her. Her mouth opens around his name as pleasure pulses hard beneath her fingers, hips jerking upward from the mattress. She half rolls onto her side automatically, curling away from the intensity while a broken moan leaves her.
Garrett catches her. His free hand closes around her hip and pulls her flat onto her back again. “No, stay there.”
The firm movement sends another aftershock through her. She gasps, fingers still pressed uselessly between her thighs while her body continues fluttering around the remains of the orgasm.
Garrett steps closer. His fist moves once, twice, faster now, eyes fixed on her face as his breathing fractures. “Fuck.”
His body tightens. Warm release spills across her stomach, landing in thick streaks over the soft skin below her navel. Garrett groans, head dropping forward, his hand slowing as the last of it pulses over her.
For several seconds, neither of them moves. Her chest rises beneath the silver bars through her nipples. Garrett’s does the same above her, shoulders shifting with every unsteady breath. The room smells like sex despite the fact that, technically, they have still not had it.
A laugh bubbles out of her. Garrett looks down. She presses the back of her wrist to her mouth, but another giggle escapes anyway, loose and delighted from the endorphins still moving through her.
His mouth curves. “Good?”
She nods, hair shifting against his mattress. “So good.”
“Yeah?”
“Mhm.”
Garrett wipes his hand against the inside of his discarded boxers, then drops onto the mattress beside her with all the grace of a man whose legs have temporarily resigned.
The bed bounces beneath his weight. She turns her head toward him. His face is flushed, curls damp near his temples and chest still rising too quickly. He stares at the ceiling like it’s witnessed something life-changing.
She shuffles closer and settles the side of her head against his shoulder. Garrett’s arm lifts automatically around her. Neither of them speaks for a moment. His fingers move slowly over her upper arm while their breathing returns to normal. Downstairs, the refrigerator makes a loud mechanical hum and then stops.
She glances down at her stomach. “G.”
“Mhm?”
“You’ve got to clean me up.”
Garrett closes his eyes. “Gimme a second.”
She giggles again. “You made the mess.”
“I’m aware.”
Her nose scrunches up. “It’s getting cold.”
His eyes open. “That’s disgusting.”
“It’s true.”
“Can you give me thirty seconds to recover from the most intense mutual-masturbation experience of my life?”
She tips her face toward him. “The most intense?”
Garrett looks down at her, completely serious. “By a humiliating margin.”
Her smile spreads.
“Don’t get cocky.”
“I’m not.”
He nudges his nose into her hair. “You are. I can feel it happening.”
She traces one finger absently over the centre of his chest. “You were staring at me.”
“You were naked and touching yourself,” he mutters. “What did you expect me to look at? The curtains?”
“They’re nice curtains.”
“They came with the house.”
“You should wash them.”
“There she is,” he says, laughing softly as he catches her hand. “Back for twelve seconds and already assigning chores.”
She threads her fingers through his. “You like me bossy.”
Garrett brings their joined hands to his mouth and kisses her knuckles. “I like you all the time. The bossiness is an extra.”
The softness of the answer catches beneath her ribs. She looks back down at her stomach so he cannot watch it land. Garrett notices that too. His arm tightens around her briefly before he sits up with a groan and reaches for the tissues on his nightstand.
“Elegant,” she says.
“You want a warm towel?”
“Yes.”
He pauses with the tissue box in his hand. “Seriously?”
“You asked.”
“I was being sarcastic.”
She waits. Garrett stares at her. Then he drops the tissues and climbs out of bed. Her grin widens. “Thank you.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
“Nobody likes cold tissues.”
“Nobody else orders room service after getting come on them.”
She grins. “I’m your best girl.”
He points at her as he pulls on his boxers. “Weaponising my own words against me is low.”
“You love me.”
Garrett stills for barely a fraction of a second. It’s nothing. A tiny interruption in the movement of his hand as he pulls the waistband over his hips. So brief she could almost convince herself it didn’t happen.
Then he shakes his head and reaches for the door. “Unfortunately,” he says.
She throws a pillow at him. Garrett catches it against his chest, grinning, then tosses it back onto the bed before slipping into the hallway.
She listens to his footsteps move toward the bathroom. Her dress remains crumpled near the headboard. Her underwear has landed beside one sneaker, while the other shoe is somehow beneath Garrett’s desk. His clothes are scattered across the floor. The lamp casts everything in warm, uneven shadows.
Nothing has happened the way she expected. There was no awkward attempt to pretend Garrett’s size didn’t make her nervous. No pressure to continue because the house was empty and they had already taken their clothes off. No need to monitor his pleasure while manufacturing her own.
Garrett had watched her come and known it was real. The thought should leave her feeling exposed. Instead, she sinks deeper into his pillow and smiles at the ceiling.
He returns a minute later with a warm washcloth in one hand and a bottle of water tucked beneath his arm.
“You took forever.”
“I had to wait for the water to heat up.”
“Excuses.”
Garrett climbs back onto the mattress and catches her knee when she starts to close her legs. “Hold still.”
She goes still. His eyes flick toward her face, amusement warming them, but he doesn’t comment. He cleans her stomach carefully, the cloth soft and warm against oversensitive skin. Then he folds it and wipes gently between her thighs where her own release has dried tacky against them.
Her stomach turns over at the quiet intimacy of it. Nobody has ever cleaned her up before. Most men have barely noticed there was anything to clean.
Garrett finishes, tosses the cloth toward his laundry basket and hands her the bottle of water. “Drink.”
She twists the cap and takes several obedient swallows.
He shakes his head. “More.”
“You’re very demanding for someone who claims I’m bossy.”
“Drink your water, princess.”
She drinks again, mostly because the low instruction does something pleasant to the remains of her nervous system. Garrett lies beside her and pulls the comforter over them. She sets the bottle on his nightstand, then curls into his side, one bare leg sliding over his.
His hand settles on her hip. “You okay?” he asks.
She nods against his shoulder. “Yeah.”
“No regrets?”
She thinks about it. “I regret that you know how often I masturbate.”
“I don’t know how often. You refused to provide figures.”
She grins. “And I’ll continue refusing.”
“We’ll see.”
She smiles into his skin. Garrett’s thumb begins moving in slow strokes over her hip, exactly where it had rested inside the waistband of her underwear before he noticed she was tense.
“You still nervous?” he asks.
“A little.”
“About what?”
She lifts her head. He’s looking at her seriously, curls pushed away from his face and all the sharp hunger from earlier softened into patient attention.
She could say his size. She could say their friendship. The deal. The unsettling fact that sex with him will not allow her to hide inside a performance because Garrett will keep looking until he finds the truth.
Instead, she touches the small gold hoop in his ear, turning it lightly between two fingers. “You pay too much attention.”
His eyebrows rise. “That’s a complaint?”
“I haven’t decided.”
Garrett studies her face for a moment, then turns his head and kisses her fingertips. “Take your time.”
The answer settles through her more deeply than anything dirty he said earlier. She lies back down and presses a kiss against his shoulder.
Outside, a car passes along the road, headlights briefly sweeping across the curtains. Somewhere across campus, their friends are still drinking inside a crowded fraternity house, entirely unaware that Garrett is naked beneath his comforter with her polka-dot dress tangled near his pillow.
The secrecy sends a final, lazy spark of excitement through her. She smiles against him. “Dean’s going to know.”
“Dean thinks he knows everything.”
“He saw us leave.”
“I told him I was checking the door.”
“You left a frat party to check the door at your own house?”
Garrett frowns toward the ceiling. “It sounded better when I said it.”
She begins laughing. Garrett catches her around the waist and rolls her beneath him, pinning her lightly into the mattress while she squeals.
“You’re becoming irritating,” he informs her.
“Becoming?”
His mouth twitches. She looks up at him, bare chest warm above hers, one forearm planted beside her head and his knee resting carefully between her thighs. The nervous flutter remains, but it no longer feels like something warning her to leave.
She slides both arms around his neck. “I like kissing you.”
Garrett’s expression softens. “Yeah?”
She nods. He lowers his mouth to hers, slow and warm and smiling slightly when she kisses him back.
“Good,” he murmurs. “Because that’s all you’re getting tonight.”
She catches his lower lip between her teeth. Garrett groans. “We’ll see,” she whispers.
His eyes narrow with immediate understanding. “Bossy.”
to be notified when i post new fics, follow @kooksandpearls-library and turn on notifications! i no longer use a taglist for garrett fics.
summary: the one night dean and garrett decide to share a girl without ruining any friendships.
word count: 3.2k
warnings: 18+ (fem reader)
Garrett notices you first - not at the house party, but a few days before.
You sit in front of him in class, spine ramrod straight like something is up your ass or could be later. You have a semi-permanent frown on your face - one Garrett catches every time you flick your ponytail over your shoulder and look behind you to make sure you haven’t assaulted anyone with it - and one of those girlish jaws that appears soft and round at the edges but ticks impatiently before he has a chance to smother it with one big hand.
When your eyes meet his sometime halfway through the course, your frown becomes more pronounced. Something sharper than intrigue pierces him beneath his ribs. He lifts his head at you in one of those infuriating man nods without an introduction, because he’s Garrett Graham, and of course you know who he is. That makes you frown harder.
He very quickly determines you’re officially on his radar, which now has less to do with the hair he’d like to wrap around his fist and more about challenging himself to wipe the disdain from your face. He is not above using his best friend as bait.
Dean is good at making everyone feel comfortable - not in a manipulative way, but with a genetic blessing and curse that has people opening up to him quicker than he’d sometimes like. It has something to do with his smile and the way it crinkles at the edges of his eyes. He takes one good look at a girl across the room and she stops talking, drowning in whatever sparkle he’s placed there. He has alley-ooped to Garrett more times than either of them can count combined on this basis alone.
What Garrett sometimes does not account for is that Dean may end up wanting the girl for himself.
Case in point: you.
Garrett nudges him when you walk into the hockey house that weekend, pulling the red cup up to his mouth to hide his whisper. Dean absorbs all relevant information, skipping past Garrett’s quiet groan when he notices how short that skirt is. Frankly, Dean had noticed your legs even before Garrett had pulled him aside. He had noticed your makeup, too, something dark and smokey that pulled your eyes back into a cat-like slant that had him wondering what you would look like atop him in something that scantily resembles Anne Hathaway’s latex suit from The Dark Knight Rises. He also categorizes your pouty mouth as mean and casual and something Garrett might not be able to handle after all.
Garrett is shaking his head before Dean has said anything. “No.”
Dean lifts his own cup to his lips. “I didn’t say anything.”
“I know that look.”
Dean feigns indifference even though he is now mentally calculating how he might be able to get your attention and shove Garrett elsewhere at the same time. “What look?”
“The one you get before you slam someone into the boards.” Garrett careens his eyes back to you. “The competitive one.”
Dean leans against the wall and considers that for a moment. “Competition is good for everyone.”
Garrett hates the biological part of him that agrees. “You’re not going to make this easy, are you?”
“Are you?” Dean’s eyes flash with an unknown spark that Garrett will find the courage to label much, much later.
His lips twitch in response. “No. I guess I’m not.” He tilts his head imperceptibly towards you. “Make her comfortable.”
Dean swallows the rest of his vodka in one go and pats Garrett on the chest, admittedly more in condescension than anything else. “That’s always first on my list.”
On his way to you, he grabs an unopened can directly out of someone’s hand, eliciting a protest that he lets die down somewhere behind him, but not before you hear the noise. Your narrowed eyes find him when he’s only a few steps away from you, somehow still much taller than other girls have described him and broad enough that he takes most of your line of sight with him. With quiet interest, you acknowledge he somehow pulls back on his physical size so as to not corner you.
He offers the closed drink to you. “You look like you could use this.”
You steadily look him up and down, pausing on his outstretched hand without immediately taking it. “Is that your official opening line?”
“You want me to start with my name?”
You roll your eyes at that. “I know who you are, Dean.”
That inflates his ego and brushes against his dick quicker than he’d like to admit. “Great, that’s out of the way then. What’s your name?”
You ignore him completely, easily spotting Garrett yards away, pretending to look interested in what a football player is yelling over the music when you had just caught him staring at you. “Did your friend send you over here?”
Dean struggles to not close his eyes in disbelief, both of their covers blown simultaneously. “He’s that obvious, huh?”
“Not just him.” You take the drink from his hand finally, intentionally brushing your fingers against his palm. “You, too.”
His fingers curl around yours for a moment before they drop. “And what is it you think I’m being obvious about?”
You crack open the can and take a sip, wincing when the cheap beer hits your tongue. Dean catalogues that reaction and sifts through his personal inventory that he can offer you instead. “You're playing wingman.”
Dean lets his grin unfurl at that. “Maybe. Maybe not. What if I think you’re pretty, too?”
“You make me sound like an innocent little flower.”
“I can tell just by looking at you that you’re not.” He lets his eyes drop to your chest before he brings them back up to your face. “But I didn’t want to be disrespectful.”
You hum, taking another sip for the courage alone. “I don’t mind when guys who look like you are a little disrespectful.”
Dean suddenly decides you and him are going to get along just fine. His grin widens. “See? That’s what I mean. Garrett respects women too much. I don’t have to if you don’t want me to.”
Both of you are surprised when your little laugh shines through, but Dean lets his chest absorb the sound. Garrett’s eyes flicker over to you two again at the movement in your throat.
“Don’t throw him under the bus when he’s not here to defend himself,” you chastise without any real scolding. “He’s cute, too.”
Dean wishes he had another drink in his hand to salute you. “I’m joking, of course. Consent is key.”
Both of you pause for a moment, letting the statement linger between your bodies. Dean thinks he might see you angle yours closer to him; you think you might imagine his chin dipping closer to your head. Neither of you mention either puzzle piece.
“What, exactly,” you whisper, your lips impossibly pillowy and plump up close and enough to derail Dean’s stream of consciousness completely, “am I consenting to right now?”
Dean’s voice deepens to a baritone of a murmur that caresses somewhere deep below your waist. “This conversation. My best friend staring at us and arguably making things weird while I’m working. Me flirting with you without knowing your name.” He pauses. “That’s a little scandalous, don’t you think?”
“You not knowing my name?”
“Yeah.”
Your shrug brushes your bare shoulders against his chest; he feels the contact everywhere. “Garrett knows my name. Why didn’t he tell you?”
Of course he didn’t, that sneaky fuck, Dean realizes. He inhales softly through his nose. “He knew I would get it anyway.”
“Mmm. I’m not sure that’s the full truth.” You press one finger into his chest and he exhales, rougher this time. “Invite him over here.”
Dean’s hand, which moved without him knowing, slips where it resides against the wall by your head. “What?”
Your mouth, which sought him without you knowing, curves against his. “Invite him.” Your lips brush the corner. “Over here.”
“Baby doll.” Dean lets the name slip out because he doesn’t know your real one and also because his brain can no longer function, but someone still has to stay in control of the situation. “Do you know what you’re doing with this?”
“I do.” Your eyelashes flutter, coated dark and thick and too damn tempting for him to say no to. “I’m a consenting adult. Are you?”
Dean is going to bite your lip for that later. “Let me go find out if he is.”
“Don’t scare him too much. He seems sweet.”
He finally lets a chuckle loose because his chest is getting too tight and needs to release something before he blows completely in his pants from this wet dream. “You’re gonna be in trouble. Stay here.” The hand that was beside your head now hovers at your waist and you let him. He tries to squeeze gently, but his fingers are too big and sure and you decide you don’t care. “You want something else to drink?”
“Please. Tequila.”
“Jesus Christ,” he groans. He momentarily looks up and thanks whoever is watching over him. “Yeah, trouble. Stay.”
Garrett looks equal parts disappointed and seconds away from being provoked when Dean finds his path towards him on wobbly legs. “Dude, what the fuck was that?”
“Kitchen. Emergency meeting. Now,” Dean utters while barely moving his face.
Garrett promptly shuts up and follows him. Dean takes two steps into the kitchen before everyone else not invited into a threesome sees the madness in his eyes with Garrett grumbling darkly behind him. They smartly vacate the room entirely.
Dean starts checking the cabinets for booze that he would deem good enough for you while still not inhibiting everyone completely.
Meanwhile, Garrett fumes loudly. “Is there something you want to tell me?”
“G.” Dean rests his forehead against one of the wooden doors, not quite looking at his best friend yet. “For reasons I do not care to unpack, the hottest woman I have ever seen in my entire life walked into our house and implied a threesome by inviting you. A ménage à trois, Graham.”
Garrett’s entire ecosystem reboots. “Her?” He repeats your real name and Dean’s head snaps up like he’s finally found god. “She asked for a threesome? With us?”
“Well.” Dean grimaces briefly. “Actually, I do need to get her to say that explicitly. But G, her mouth was right there, and she was looking at me with those eyes, and she didn’t even care you were watching us the whole time.”
Garrett guffaws offensively. “I was not - I was not watching you the whole time.”
Dean powers on, “Are you in or not? I can draft up a legal contract with ground rules, but tomorrow. She’s waiting.”
“You’re a fuckin’ idiot,” Garrett grits out, but his neck is flushing red and his hand is going up to rub at it like he’s considering it all and trying to funnel brain cells through touch alone. Dean watches every movement and mutters a get the fuck out when one of their freshman teammates tries entering the sacred ground.
Garrett stays quiet another tedious moment before he takes the bottle out of Dean’s hands and uncorks it with his teeth. “Ground rules,” he hisses. “No eye contact, no filming, we don’t tell anyone, and we go back to being friends tomorrow.”
Dean’s smirk appears as soon as the first wave of tequila hits Garrett’s mouth. He accepts the offering when he passes the bottle back to him and takes his own long swig. “Deal.”
---
“Ground rules,” you start softly ten minutes later, lazily bracing yourself against Garrett’s mattress with your hands splayed behind you. “No back hole, no filming, no jealousy, and condoms always. You can stop whenever you want. I will stop whenever I want.”
Garrett thinks he’s died and gone to heaven but can’t quite find the words to continue the coordination. Dean clasps his hands safely in front of him and nods like he’s done this before.
When he asks politely, “Pain level? Choking? Any other hard stops? How do you feel about degradation?” Garrett realizes maybe he has.
You play with the hem of your skirt that already barely covers anything; Garrett’s eyes zero in on the new strip of skin anyway. “I’m good with light slapping and choking. Don’t spit in my mouth. You can tease me, but I draw the line at rude physical comments.”
“Nice,” Dean breathes out, nodding faster.
Garrett still doesn’t say anything. You notice this and frown at him like you did only earlier this week, trying to figure him out. “Are you good with that?”
His jaw clenches at the same time his eyes darken. Your eyebrows raise to your hairline. Maybe he can be mean and casual with all of this. “Yeah. I’m good.”
“So.” You alternate looking at either of them, pulling the competitive nerves out once more. “Who is going to kiss me first?”
Dean and Garrett had decided on his room because it’s cleaner and because he needs more familiarity than tequila can provide, so he offers an olive branch without looking at his friend. He swallows roughly and mutters, “Dean is.”
If Dean is surprised by that, he doesn’t show it. Instead, he takes one step towards you before his fingers lock around your ankle, expertly pulling you to the foot of the bed in a quiet display of strength. Garrett would roll his eyes if he wasn’t thinking about being knuckle deep in you at this very moment. When Dean grabbed you, your skirt hiked up further.
Dean settles himself above you, spreading his long fingers wide across your jaw. His mouth is wet and warm slotted against yours, teasing your tongue with his own every time your lips part on a soft gasp that fizzles right into his cock. His thumb presses down against the pulse in your neck, exploratory at first, then firmer when your hips meet his in response.
Garrett feels his heartbeat pick up. His hand goes to palm the tenting of his dick against his zipper. He stops completely when, without pulling away from you, Dean makes a noise from the back of his throat and motions to Garrett with his free hand. Garrett freezes altogether, but blinks himself out of it once that same hand disappears under your skirt and you moan the prettiest sound he has ever heard.
Garrett promised he wouldn’t get jealous, but fuck it, he is.
His feet move before his brain picks up on it. His knees hit the mattress, careful of your hair now fanned out across his comforter, and only sees soaked lace where Dean is rubbing you.
“Fuck, G, touch her,” Dean whispers, still not meeting his eyes as he teases one digit against your opening. “Wettest pussy I’ve ever felt. Isn’t that right, baby?”
You whine something muted and unintelligible at his praise, fighting with the hand that holds you down meticulously.
Dean and Garrett promised they wouldn’t look at each other, but fuck it, they do.
Dean grins wickedly. Garrett feels the thrum of contention that often makes him skate faster, push harder, and fuck louder.
He welcomes it this time.
When Dean’s hand presses down on your tummy to make room for Garrett’s, something inside him snaps. He pushes the sodden fabric to the side and coats two of his fingers with your slick, teasing your slit with a firmness that is there and then gone before you can egg him on.
If you and Dean are surprised by that, neither of you show it - except you’ve also lost your train of thought.
“Which one of us are you gonna call ‘daddy,’ baby doll?” Dean’s hand finds your windpipe and presses down lightly, tethering you to the bed. “Me or him?”
Garrett slips only the tip of his finger into your cunt the same time Dean asks his patronizing question, purposefully distracting you. They are teammates, after all.
You can barely think, but your mouth pulls from that meanness Garrett noticed first. “Neither of you,” you pant.
Dean tsks and Garrett pulls his hand back. You curse them both.
“That smart mouth,” Dean murmurs, tightening his fingers around you, “is going to get you into a lot of trouble.”
When you whimper again, he mutters something to Garrett that you can’t hear before he shuffles you back until you rest upright against the headboard. Garrett stays at the bottom, his eyes tracking your panties. He barely moves from his spot when all three of you hear the unmistakable clink of Dean’s buckle coming undone as he stands above you beside the bed.
The blonde cups your cheek, suddenly serious. “You want my cum down your throat, pretty girl? Or do you want me to pull out when I’m done fucking it?”
Your eyes might roll to the back of your head. You breathe harder into his hand. “Just fuck it, please.”
Dean hums. “You decide when you have such good manners, don’t you?”
Once he gets to the prong of his belt, Garrett slides up to you and finds your softness again. His thumb leads alone, and then he lowers his curls slowly, peering up at you from below. Your thighs clench around his head. You don’t know where to look.
“Yeah,” he whispers haughtily, almost to himself even though you hear it all against your clit. “There she is.”
Dean’s cock, long and hard and leaking precum, finds your parted lips the same moment Garrett pushes your panties to the side and latches onto you with his mouth. You muffle a moan into Dean’s warm skin before he catches the back of your throat, your fingers fighting to find purchase at his thigh and Garrett’s hair simultaneously.
Dean feels like being nice for the moment, so he lets you leave your hand there as he gives his first few thrusts, testing how far he can go before you gag and drool around him. Garrett’s hand closes around yours, and he sucks at your clit while his other hand crooks one finger into you until you start pulsating against him.
“Nice and quiet now, aren’t you?” Dean taunts, snapping his hips hard enough that you can only grip Garrett’s head in response. Garrett moans into your pussy, adding another finger, and Dean fixes his hand against your neck.
You start to feel your buildup at the same time Dean’s toes start pushing into the carpet, searching for anything to ground him. Garrett grinds himself down into his mattress, searching for any sort of release he can find while they work you towards yours. They match each other’s pace without verbally planning it, so much the same duo they are on the ice as they are in bed.
You start to babble around Dean’s cock, now looking down at where Garrett’s is begging to be touched. Dean smirks, broadening his caging grip to your chin.
“Round two?” he asks Garrett, ignoring your mumbles completely.
Garrett looks up at him, mouth wet and glistening. “I’m game.”
author's note: it's been a while so be nice please 🙏🏻 Also the pick above is how dean shows up to your wedding the beautiful bastard
You stand looking at yourself in your gown. Everything in your life had led up to this moment. Everything was perfect, the flowers, the ten thousand dollar dress, your shoes, and yet your palms were soaked with sweat.
Daniel had come into your life during a time you had least expected it. It was during your first year at law school at Stanford, three thousand miles away from everything you've ever known and the biggest heartbreak of your life. Daniel was kind, smart, and humble. The two of you were paired on a project in one of your classes mid-semester and the rest was history.
Daniel had given you everything you wanted, hell you were getting married back in Boston away from everything the two of you built just because he remembered how you spoke about it. He had said "The way you spoke about it your eyes lit up, and I knew I wanted to give you that forever."
But what he didn't know was that every corner, every street, every park, and every restaurant was haunted by a ghost you could never quite forget.
Your gaze on yourself snaps when you feel something place in your hair. It's Allie, one of your closest friends and one of your maid of honors placing your veil into your hair.
You must have had a grim expression on your face because she looks at your while fluffing.
"Say the word and I will steal the limo and get us on the next flight back to LA."
Your other maid of honor, Hannah, snaps her head in the direction of the two of you. She walks over in a frantic state.
"Are we running do you want to run? We can go whenever to wherever." She says with a concerned look across her face.
"I'm fine, I'm excited." You say with a smile on your face.
The two women look at your expression before looking at each other.
"Are you sure?"
"Why wouldn't I be? I marrying the best guy I know."
Allie bites her lip holding back her thoughts although her expression says it all.
"Honey, are you sure? Most people would say they are marrying the love of their life."
The love of your life. The love of your life. The love of my life…
Your eyes widen and you take a deep dry gulp.
"I'm marrying the love of my life guys." You let out a pitiful laugh.
Everything is fine. Daniel is perfect. This is how things are meant to be.
Hannah and Allie trace their eyes over you with concern but bit their tongue. There is nothing now that could change your mind now.
You take a step away from your friends and look at yourself once again the mirror.
"You deserve it all, the white gown, the white satin shoes, the ceremony in Central Park, and me with tears in my eyes waiting for the love of my life at the alter." a voice in the back of your mind says. His voice.
"Maybe we'll meet again sunshine. I love you." His perfect face gives you a sad smile. His blonde hair falling in his eyes perfectly hiding the tears he is hiding from you.
A knock on the door snaps your focus. You turn and you see the wedding planner with a wide smile.
"It's time! Everything is all set and the guests are waiting. All eyes are on you."
A sour taste hits the back of your throat but you shallow it down.
The show must go on. You tell yourself.
"Then let's get this show on the road." You smile warmly.
The wedding planner smiles with immense joy. She picks up your bouquet and dries the water off the the stems of the flowers before handing them you.
As you reach for the bouquet, your hand begins to shake. You quickly take the flowers hoping no one realizes your nerves.
You, Allie, Hannah, and the rest of your bridesmaids are escorted and arranged in front of a large door leading right into the hall.
Just as you all settled into your places the music began, one by one each of your bridesmaids walked down the isle until it was your turn.
When it was your turn you could feel everyone's eyes are on you. Then hall looked magnificent, flowers of all different varieties combined to make a beautiful arches leading you to the altar.
As you walk down the isle you see your family, your friends from California, and then all of your friends from Briar University.
Garrett, John Logan, Tucker, Dean. Dean? Dean.
Dean DiLaurentis, the man who broke your heart five years ago, and you hadn't heard from since, now sits among your close friends.
Dean sat in a black tux with a black tie with creme, red,and brown embellishments. His blond hair is slicked, a single curl escaping the gel hold framing his face.
The two of you lock eyes and never break away until you realize you were about to be right in front of Daniel.
As you turn to Daniel, you look into his eyes. His eyes aren't filled with tears of love for you as you expected but they are filled with light and happiness. And in that moment your heart sinks.
The realization that you do not want to marry Daniel floods your mind.
"Everyone you may be seated." Brandon, Daniel's best friend and the officiant of the wedding, says.
The whole room sits and the room is silent. To you, the silence, is deafening.
"Dearly beloved we are gathered here to celebrate the union of our dear friends, Y/N and Daniel."
The sour taste in the back of your throat and you push it down. But this time tears weld up in your eyes and your throat is scratchy as you go to speak.
Daniel has a confused look on his face when you open your mouth.
I'm sorry. You mouth to him.
His confusion only grows as you turn towards the sea of people.
"Stop the wedding!" You say panicked. You let out a breath of relief as the large sum of people gasp.
"I'm sorry, I can't do this."
There is another collective gasp.
You quickly pull the ring off your finger and shove it into Daniel's hand.
You bunch up your dress and start running towards the open hall doors and you leave you make eye contact with Dean one last time.
You run down the hall of the library leading you towards a large stair cause that you can see the exit at the end of it.
As you hold your bunched up dress and make your way down the stairs you hear foot steps behind you and you speed up think it's Daniel coming to stop you.
"Y/N!" Someone calls out your name.
You turn around and it's him.
It's Dean.
You are still frozen with both anxiety and excitement.
He runs down the stairs down after you until he is right in front of you.
You're caught in his gaze when you remember what is happening and what you are currently doing.
"Dean," you say frantic. "I cannot do this right now. This is the wrong time." You turn away but he is quick and grabs your arm gently.
"Tell me why you didn't marry him and I'll take you away from here." He says with a look you've only seen once before. The day he broke up with you.
"Dean," You whine. "We cannot talk about this here."
"I think this the perfect place."
You roll your eyes. Same old Dean.
"You know exactly why, asshole."
"Please."
You look up into his eyes and you they were glossy and full over hope.
"Because I love you, it was always you." You sigh feeling a bit of shame, one because of your guilt towards Daniel but because after five years you could never stop loving Dean.
He was it for you.
Dean steps up to you and places his hands on your cheeks before look at your lips and then back up at you.
“Dean—” You whisper.
Dean brings his face to yours, kissing you tenderly. He tastes of whiskey and mint. A hum escapes you when his lips hits yours.
You wrap your arms around his neck letting your fingers escape into the hairs at the name of his neck.
When the two of you pull away, it is quiet as the two of you catch your breath, your foreheads pressed together.
“I love you.” Dean whispers.
You look at him with a wide smile. You are about to kiss him again when you hear more steps coming your way.
You look at Dean panicked slightly. But he just smiles and takes your hand and like you could read his mind with your open hand you pick up your dress.
The two of you continue to run down the steps and out the doors and onto the street. You run street to the curb.
Dean hails a taxi quickly and the two of you jump in.
Your future maybe unknown but at least it is with one another.
jj’s arms were wrapped around you, holding you tight as he slept. the thickness of his limbs felt like vines reeling you in, holding you steady. your backside was flush to his bare chest, light snores seeping from his lips. your breathing was sound and light, nonsensical murmurs hung low in the air.
behind you, jj found himself entranced within his dream. not the best place for him to have a wet dream, but he couldn’t help himself. not when his nose was pressed into the back of your hair, inhaling the scent of you, practically intoxicating him.
slowly, maybe even a bit restrained, his hips rolled into you. it caused a low whine to leave his lips, his arms tightening around you ever so slightly. when you shifted back into him, he full on moaned, mouth falling agape.
he kept rutting into you, short and slow movements, letting his bulge grind against your ass amidst his slumber. huffs and whimpers seeped through his lips, eyes fluttering before snapping open. his hips abruptly stopped.
he looked down at where his erection met your ass and groaned. he was throbbing, silently begging to be touched. but he knew he couldn’t keep going, so he turned around.
with his back to yours, he nearly missed the sound of your soft mumble. “jj … why’d you stop?” he could’ve sworn he came in his shorts right then and there.
↳ Warnings/Themes: Mature (🔞). Smut. Kink mentions. Position mentions.
↳ Pairing: Dean Di Laurentis x F!Reader (Established Relationship)
↳ Words: 1656
↳ Summary: An A-Z of smutty headcanons.
☁️: finally got some dean motivation back 🤭 let me know what you think and DON'T jump me for the end xoxo
General Masterlist here. Dean Masterlist here.
↳ A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)
There is definitely an attentive level difference between six flags!Dean and boyfriend!Dean, but both Dean's have a genuine love of women so you'll be treated right.
He loves to pamper and be a loverboy, so he'll throw you over his shoulder and carry you into the bathroom to wash you off in the shower. Some nights, he may even run you a bath, sitting behind you as he washes your back and whispers in your ear things that sends heat pooling low in your belly once again. Even if it's not a bath or shower, he'll always be there to clean you up with a rag or wet wipes.
He's a cocky mf, so he'll jump out of bed, soft dick swinging and glistening with a mixture of your fluids as he runs to get you a snack or some water as he boasts about how he 'wore you out so you need your strength back'.
↳ B = Body part (their favourite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)
You: Your mouth!!!! Dean is obsessed with all things to do with your mouth. The filthy words that come out of it; the lewd moans that leave as he buries himself inside of you; the little pants with every thrust; the way your tongue swirls over his tip; how pretty your lips look all swollen and wet when they're stretched around him... he loves it ALL. If your mouth is open and sounds are coming because of him, he's in heaven.
Him: Dean's earnt the confidence he has in his body, and he's proud of how good he looks for himself and for you. His favourite body part might be his chiselled chest, especially when it has angry red lines where you've dragged your nails down it.
↳ C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)
Dean takes great pride in ensuring you're enjoying yourself and that you'll at least cum once before he does. He'll be genuinely offended if you ever implied that he should get off before you do.
He loves to sit back and watch your thighs tremble and back arch off of the bed with smug satisfaction as he brings you to the brink again and again.
In terms of his finish, besides the obvious when he's buried in you, he loves to see his release all over you, whether that's your face, your breasts, your thighs etc.
↳ D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)
Would say exhibitionism but we all know that's not a secret...
Dean has a secret craving for being completely dominated and edged to the point of overstimulation. He loves a woman in control and the thought of you tying him up and bringing him to the brink, only to pull away and do it all again genuinely turns him on. He LOVES to beg more than you know.
↳ E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)
It's Dean Di Laurentis... he's experienced...
Seriously though, further to the sheer volume of women he's slept with, he treats fucking like a art that takes dedication and months of studying to master. He knows what he's doing because he puts the WORK in. This shit is serious.
↳ F = Favourite position (this goes without saying)
Dean is the CEO of Sex (iykyk). He has too many positions in his back pocket for him to have a singular favourite. He is just a big fan of positions that leave your mouth exposed to everyone in the vicinity can hear how loud you moan.
Ones he's particular to can be read here.
↳ G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)
Dean's goofy cause he's a loveable idiot, he's also dramatic af so he'll defo be whipping out the smirk and the dimples sometimes.
He'll go with your vibe, but he'll hit you with the "this is no laughing matter 🤨."
↳ H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)
Dean is old money, well-groomed is an understatement. His hair is always effortlessly styled, even when he's run a hand through it a million times, even when you've gripped it tightly and pulled on it when he's between your legs. His hair down there is practically non-existent. At the very least, it's very tightly trimmed.
↳ I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)
Dean's six flags reputation isn't completely an act. Sex for him just isn't as deeply intimate and romantic as it is for others. Dean shows intimacy & romance in other ways.
That said! Dean is very attentive as pleasuring women, especially one he's in a committed relationship with, it a priority for him. He'll defo worship and appreciate and make you feel extremely desired.
↳ J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)
Six flags!Dean doesn't have time to masturbate cause he's fucking every night. But boyfriend!Dean masturbates to pictures and videos of you often, especially when he's on the road.
He'll do it when he's in bed so he can use his phone, watch over the movies that you made together and listen to the sounds of your moans flowing through the speaker on his phone.
He 1000000% sends you cumshot videos and vids of him moaning your name as he's jacking off yup.
↳ K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)
Mirror Mirror on the wall.... he loves to spread you open and make you watch as he plays with your clit. He makes you watch as he brings you to a quivering mess by just his fingers. He's brought a full length mirror just so you can see how every part of you reacts to him
Dean has experimented with kinks before and there's not really a thing he'd outright veto unless it contained the obvious.
↳ L = Location (favourite places to do the do)
Literally anywhere. The more public, the better.
↳ M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)
Not to make him sound like a whore (he is), but there's a lot that can put Dean in the mood.
One thing though is confidence. He loves a woman that completely owns her womanhood. So, seeing you walk into a room looking all confident and gorgeous (whether you're wearing something scandalous or not), really gets him going.
↳ N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)
He wouldn't do anything you weren't super enthusiastic for. Sex for him is about the enjoyment and if it's something that you're only trying for him or kind of like meh? about, he won't be turned on.
↳ O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)
Giving: Grandmaster level. Dean considers himself to be a connoisseur and that's because he is. He'll happily spend an hour between your thighs, using every technique and tool at his disposal, tongue, lips, toys, fingers etc. until you're sobbing his name.
Receiving: He'll lay back, arms tucked behind his head as he watches you go to town. It would be all about the eye contact with him too, so he'll want you to look up at him through your eyelashes and tears.
Preference: Surprisingly! He loves receiving more, he eats you out on the daily because it makes you feel good and that's what he wants.
↳ P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)
Dean can switch it up and be whatever is needed for the situation.
He's good at the build up, giving you slow and deep strokes intended to have your toes curling, then once he has you unravelled and begging, he'll speed up and drive it home.
↳ Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)
Oh Dean LOVES a good quick fuck. A five minute bang against his bedroom door before he's got to run off to practice or class. He loves the spontaneity and time pressure.
Partly why he loves it too is because it gives you less time to rearrange yourself and not look so thoroughly fucked, so when you go back to the group, they know...
↳ R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)
Again... it's Dean Di Laurentis...
The man invented risk and experimentation. He practically holds the Kamasutra book as his guide to life, trying every and anything at least once.
He gets a rush out of even potentially dangerous situations, like getting head while he's driving, and the risk of getting caught makes him (metaphorically) wetter.
↳ S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)
He's outlasting you by FAR. Better remember to bring water, snacks, and some sweets to replenish all the lost fluids.
↳ T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)
Dean is a toy connoisseur. His nightstand is a goldmine of toys you didn't even know existed that can do things you'd never even thought of. He's got toys, cock rings, wands, paddles, restraints, oils, lubes, the whole nine yards in there.
Every couple of nights he's whipping out something new to enhance the session and you'll be left wondering how much more could there possibly be.
↳ U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)
(Un)Fortunately for you, Dean wants you to break your composure so he'll tease and tease and edge and edge and only give you that sweet release if you say his name loud enough that his housemates can hear you.
He's also one to tease you in public knowing that you'll have to wait to get the relief you crave.
↳ V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)
A yapper and a narrator through and through. He basically never shuts up with a mixture of dirty talk and praises and grunts and groans.
↳ W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)
Dean loves a good role play and he takes that shit seriously, dressing up and being full on in character and expecting the same from you.
↳ X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)
DON'T JUMP ME! But Dean is not packing. He's a grower, not a shower, and he's like 5'5 MAX when fully hard. He just knows exactly what he's doing with it.
But it's thick and flushes dark red when he's aroused, tip excessively leaking precum out of the lil mushroom head that slightly curves to the right.
↳ Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)
RIP you. That man is HUNGRY.
↳ Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)
Within like 15/20 minutes he'll fall asleep, but that's only after making sure you're washed, fed, and wrapped up. He'll pull you flush against his bare chest so he can hold you all night long (so you can wake up with his dick pressed against your ass).
If you enjoyed, please consider leaving a comment, ask, reblog etc. it means a lot x
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.”
