dolli ˚ ༘

𝘪'𝘮 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘥𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘮 𝘨𝘪𝘳𝘭, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶'𝘳𝘦 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘮𝘺 𝘵𝘺𝘱𝘦.ᐟ

[polkdotzdoll]

DOLLI’s DESKTOP!

addison rae, outerbanks, john b routledge, art donaldson, lana del rey, all american, formula one, timothee chalamet, the marauders, james potter, gilmore girls, kali uchis, the sims 4, stranger things, harry styles, bridgerton, ron weasley, the rookie, one direction, little women, the resident, criminal minds, johnny lawrence, fred weasley, etc.

MASTERLIST

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[polkdotzdoll]

TEXTS WITH EX!BF!JOHNB in which... reader does nothing but ragebait john b

[sc3ptre]

Something to take the edge off

Pairing: Dean Di Laurentis x coach's goddaugther!reader

⟡ Main Index | ⟡ Archive for Earth-66

a/n: Thank you so much for all the love shown to my first Dean fic! Here’s a little extra so you guys can see what my blog has to offer. I’ve created the masterlist and more is coming (not only smut but I need to get through the horniness first).

Summary: You were always off-limits. The coach’s goddaughter, the team’s PR girl and the one woman Dean couldn’t have...but the thing about limits was that it was still a line to skate over.

Classification: Smut +18 | voyeurism/exhibitionism, detailed mutual masturbation, forbidden romance, risk of getting caught / secret relationship tension (coach’s goddaughter + player dynamic) and pining

Word count: 5,2k

Divider by me ;)

You were the embodiment of ‘off limits’.

A PR and communications student assigned to the hockey team to learn the ropes, glued to a camera, phone or a laptop half the time, always lingering somewhere between the locker room and the rink with that little furrow between your brows whenever the boys gave you trouble. 

And worse, you were the coach’s goddaughter, practically raised by the man and threaded into Briar hockey long before Dean had ever pulled on the jersey. 

You attended Sunday dinners at his house and there probably were childhood photos stacked in dusty albums somewhere in his office. Those were years of trust Dean had absolutely no business threatening.

Off. limits.

Dean repeated it to himself constantly over the last year, as if repetition alone could beat the impulse out of him. He did so in empty equipment rooms when you brushed past him carrying stacks of media packets, in hotel lobbies during away games when you sat cross-legged on a couch editing footage at two in the morning while the rest of the team got drunk upstairs and during practices when he’d glance toward the bleachers and immediately regret it the second he spotted you there, bundled in team colors, chewing absently on the cap of a pen while watching the ice with sharp, attentive eyes.

It wasn’t harmless anymore and that was the problem.

At first he’d told himself it was mere attraction…temporary and easy to bury, but months kept passing and somehow every woman he brought home blurred together because none of them were you, none of them looked at him with restrained annoyance whenever he pushed too far and none of them straightened his collar before interviews with distracted but perfectionist little tugs of your fingers.

Hell, he couldn’t even get it up anymore and the few times he tried sleeping with someone else ended badly enough to bruise his ego.

You hadn’t even touched him yet and somehow you’d ruined him completely.

You hadn’t shown up to practice that afternoon, choosing instead to camp out in your godfather’s office to finish assignments, legs curled beneath you on the couch while the muffled sound of pucks slamming against boards echoed through the walls. By the time practice ended, you’d gathered your folder and headed out to finish your actual responsibilities before the boys disappeared for the night.

You caught Garrett first on the way toward the showers, then Logan and Tucker, who exchanged immediate shit-eating grins before inevitably dragging Dean into it. Completely wrecking your original plan of quietly emailing him the document later and pretending not to care when he probably ignored it for three whole days.

The hallway outside the locker room had mostly emptied by the time he appeared.

Dean strode toward you lazily, sweaty hair sticking slightly to his forehead, gear half removed, skates still carving heavy sounds against the rubber flooring. The second he noticed how empty the corridor was, his mouth tilted upward slowly, something pleased and dangerous settling into his expression.

“Did you need me, Hawkeye?” he asked as that grin widened once he stopped directly in front of you…far too close.

Only then did you realize your mistake, standing near the wall like an idiot, leaving nowhere to go once his frame crowded the space. He towered over you already and the skates only made it unfair. Heat rolled off him fresh from practice, sharp cologne mixing with sweat and cold air from the rink.

“You need to stop calling me that,” you said flatly, immediately looking anywhere but directly at him.

Dean’s eyes fixed on your face with infuriating patience. “Why?” he asked lightly. “Thought your whole job was noticing everything.”

You finally looked at him then, holding his stare in what you hoped translated to ‘behave yourself for once’.

His expression barely changed but something darker flickered behind his eyes anyway.

A quiet sigh left him. “What’d you need me for?” he asked softer this time, voice dropping into that maddening tone he reserved only for you. Gentle and careful, like he was handling something delicate instead of actively making your life harder.

It only got worse when he stepped closer.

Instinctively, you stepped back. Your shoulders nearly hit the wall, breath catching painfully in your lungs at the sudden lack of space. You straightened afterward, forcing your posture taller like it would somehow help. It obviously didn’t because Dean was already bigger than you, even more when he was standing there in skates, looking down at you like he had all the time in the world.

“You need to approve the questions for the next team interview,” you told him, pulling a printed sheet from the folder you carried.

Dean glanced down at the paper briefly but made no effort to take it. His eyes found yours again, gaze lazy and unwavering. “I don’t need to,” he said. “You wrote them.”

“It’s protocol.” You insistently lifted the page higher between you both.

“It’s you,” he replied, like that alone justified everything.

Your expression flattened. “So if someone asks you ‘how many strokes it takes you to nut’ mid-interview, you’re just gonna roll with it?”

A grin spread slowly across his face, brow lifting. “Depends.” He mirrored your earlier shrug casually, though his attention never once left your face. “Will you be the one asking me the question?”

You glanced down the hallway again before answering. “I won’t be there.”

“Then no,” he decided immediately.

“It would still be bad,” you stressed, pushing the page against the center of his chest. The paper bent slightly over the hard padding beneath his gear. “My entire job is making sure things like that don’t happen. Read them and approve at least three.”

Dean looked down at your hand where it rested against him but his own still didn’t move.

“I’m a hockey player,” he reminded you solemnly. “Reading’s already asking a lot from me.”

“Email me your pick.” You pressed the page harder against his chest when he still refused to take it, annoyance sharpening your movements enough to wrinkle the paper more under your palm.

“Can’t,” he replied easily. “She’s standing right in front of me.”

“Of the questions,” you clarified firmly which finally earned a quiet laugh from him.

Dean took the page at last, fingers dragging against yours for a second too long before pulling away. It was entirely intentional, you knew that much from the way his mouth twitched afterward.

“Then I’ll text you.”

“You’ll send your answers to my school email,” you corrected quickly. “Texting is unprofessional and it’ll get you blocked.”

You conveniently left out the real issue, which was that the two of you absolutely should not be texting each other in the first place because every interaction already lingered too long and every conversation slipped somewhere dangerous eventually.

Dean studied you for a moment, his expression soft and voice quieter underneath the teasing. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

You nodded once because denying it would’ve been pointless. “I’ve been busy.”

His head tilted slightly, lips pressed in a tight line. “With what?”

“Avoiding you.” The smile that pulled at your mouth betrayed how true the answer was. “The world doesn’t revolve around you,” you continued. “If I get one bad grade, I lose this job and you are the epitome of a distraction.” You paused, letting the silence stretch as you waited for his answer. “Epitome means–”

“I know what it means,” he cut in, grinning wider now. “Your godfather’s not gonna fire you.”

“No,” you corrected, poking a finger into his chest. The impact hurt you far more than him against all that equipment. “Your coach will. Then he’ll give me some speech about loving me and wanting what’s best for my future, which honestly makes it worse because he’ll be right.”

Something changed in Dean’s face as the grin began fading. “I missed you,” he admitted quietly, the words slipping out before he could stop them.

You saw it happen in real time too, the brief regret flashing behind his eyes after saying it aloud but it was already there now, hanging heavily between you both.

“We’re already stuck doing this…” He gestured vaguely between your bodies, frustration roughening his voice. “‘Almost’ thing and now you wanna disappear too?” He shook his head once, jaw tightening. “We need to figure something out because I can’t think when you’re around.” His eyes dragged slowly over your face before settling back on your eyes again. “And somehow I can’t think when you’re gone either.”

Your brows pulled together, trying very hard to stay serious despite the smile threatening at your mouth. “Can’t fix the lack of a brain, Di Laurentis.”

“Funny,” he murmured flatly, nodding once. “No, actually, that was hilarious. I almost believed you didn’t care for a second there.”

Your mouth opened with a rebuttal ready, but voices suddenly echoed further down the hallway and they got progressively louder and closer. Dean reacted instantly. His hand found your waist before you could protest, firm and warm even through layers of clothing, steering you quickly down the hall toward the nearest side room. 

Once you entered, the door shut softly behind you both.

Your nose scrunched. “What the–,” you whispered harshly. “It fucking stinks in here.”

Your eyes adjusted enough to make out scattered hockey equipment piled around the cramped storage room. Gloves, pads and jerseys that, judging by the smell alone, hadn’t been cleaned recently.

Dean stood directly in front of the door, broad shoulders blocking it almost entirely. “It was either this or getting caught.”

“Oh, so you are aware there’s an issue here.” You nodded slowly. “That’s amazing progress for you, actually.” You pointed toward the door behind him. “Can I go now?”

He shook his head once, decisive even in the cramped, sour-smelling storage room. “I wanna see you tonight.”

You let out a breathy laugh before you could stop it, the sound slipping out lighter than you intended. “I’d like to see me too,” you decided, adjusting your grip on the folder like it could anchor you back into something sensible. “I’ve got things to turn in. Between that and this job I’m trying very hard to keep and deserve despite the obvious nepotism allegations, I barely have time to do anything else.”

“Perfect,” he said, as if you’d just agreed with him. “So I’ll be your distraction.” He paused, then carefully added, “From a…appropriate distance.”

Your brows pulled together. “Are you even listening to me?” You reached up on instinct, tilting his head down slightly like you were physically trying to redirect his attention. “Didn’t know hockey required ear plugs.”

Dean’s grin turned sharper. “You know exactly what hockey requires,” he countered, voice low. “You just wanted to touch me.”

His hand softly caught your wrist halfway before he seemed to remember himself and let go as quickly as he’d taken it. Still, he stepped closer right after, restraint only applying in pieces. Your breath caught on the way in, shallow and inconvenient, as his nose nudged yours gently, forcing your gaze up.

“An hour,” he murmured softly, almost in a begging tone. “Two tops…I’m going through withdrawals here.”

You huffed out a quiet laugh, the word choice alone almost ridiculous enough to cut through the tension. “I don’t think that’s medically accurate,” you said.

“You wouldn’t want to be the one explaining it to the coach,” he continued, unfazed, “or posting it on socials.”

“No,” you agreed, lips twitching despite yourself. “It wouldn’t get the right statistics. It’s bad rep for the team.”

The humor didn’t quite hide the way your breathing slowed, attention narrowing until it was just him, too close in a room that suddenly felt smaller than it should’ve. You breathed him in without meaning to, realizing it was the first time you’d allowed yourself the space to notice everything without immediately stepping away. 

So for one weak second, you indulged in it…and if something happened because of it, if lines blurred and boundaries slipped, you’d blame the idiot currently brushing his nose against yours like he had no self-preservation instinct whatsoever.

You swallowed. “It’s a bad idea.”

Dean shrugged, entirely shameless. “I’ve had plenty of those before.” His lips curved. “Came out alright every time.”

You exhaled and this time your hand came up to his chest pushing lightly to create space. To his credit, he allowed it, always did when it mattered. “You can’t get it up,” you reminded bluntly, “there’s nothing ‘alright’ about that.”

His eyes narrowed slightly, head tilting like he was recalibrating you, yet amusement still flashed across his face. “How do you know that?”

“Voices carry in these hallways,” you replied, momentum making it worse instead of better. “And it’s suspicious when the team’s resident roller coaster suddenly stops offering rides to every girl with a pulse.”

His grin only widened. Fuck, he was enjoying this…and worse, so were you.

“So maybe it really is withdrawals,” you decided.

“Then help me with it,” he added, as the simplest solution in the world.

Silence followed immediately after as you held his gaze while the seconds stretched painfully long, until even the smell of old gear faded, drowned out now by the overwhelming presence of him.

You eventually cleared your throat, stepping back carefully until your shoulder nearly brushed a stack of equipment. “I’m gonna go now,” you announced, voice steadier than you felt. “I’ll go one way–” you gestured vaguely toward yourself, then the door, drawing boundaries in the air. “And you’ll go the opposite way.”

“And then what?” His voice matched yours, it was quiet and careful.

There was no teasing left in it anymore. Dean was used to this part, used to you pulling away at the last second, both of you pretending restraint still meant control but even now, he stepped aside from the door without argument, giving you space to leave because as badly as he wanted this, he wanted you to want it too.

You moved toward the exit slowly, fingers wrapping around the cold handle before glancing back at him one last time. “I’ll see you around,” 

You opened the door and stepped back into the hallway, letting cold, clean air replace everything that had been pressing in on you.

The door clicked shut behind you as Dean exhaled hard through his nose and stayed exactly where he was because the worst part of the entire interaction wasn’t the rejection, it was the reminder that he wasn’t broken at all…the unmistakable hardening tent in his hockey pants made that painfully obvious.

Dean stayed home that night.

For probably the first time in months, he skipped the party the team had been planning all week. The excuse came easily enough, he’d faked discomfort in his ankle the second he got back to the locker room after you left, enough grimacing and irritation to keep the guys from questioning him too hard. 

By the time everyone headed out, the house had finally gone quiet and now he sat alone on the edge of his bed staring at the blank wall across from him with the concentration of a man trying not to lose his mind.

His phone rested facedown on the desk a few feet away, intentionally dead. He had watched the battery drain without plugging it in, convincing himself this counted as effort…progress or even detox. Maybe if the phone died, the temptation would too. This way he couldn’t text you or call, or even stare at your contact until his self-control caved in around midnight like it usually did.

You had become a habit too quickly…worse than a habit honestly, because Dean had given up plenty of things before. Bad grades, classes and women whose names he should’ve remembered to moan instead of yours, but trying not to reach for you felt violent in comparison.

A frustrated breath left him as he leaned forward, elbows on his knees, glaring toward the dead phone anyway. Fucking hell, even silence tempted him.

He could already picture it perfectly if the phone still worked, he would send one stupid text, something harmless enough to start things off. You’d reply annoyed within minutes with sharp little responses pretending indifference while still answering too fast. Then eventually one of you would push too far and suddenly the conversation would drift past every boundary you both kept swearing mattered.

Dean scrubbed a hand down his face roughly then froze when a noise sounded outside his window.

For half a second he thought he imagined the house creaking or branches scratching against the siding just as your head appeared outside his second-story window.

You shoved the unlocked frame forward with visible irritation, balancing dangerously on the ladder propped against the house. “Are you gonna help me,” you hissed, “or just fucking stare while I die?”

Dean moved instantly and crossed the space in seconds, grabbing the window and holding it wider as he reached out for you. The original intention probably involved helping you climb inside normally, maybe by steadying your arm or something. Instead, the second his hands landed on your waist, instinct completely took over and he hauled you inside too quickly.

Your balance disappeared entirely and the both of you toppled backward onto the bed in a mess of limbs and startled noises. You landed squarely on top of him hard enough to knock a grunt from his chest.

Dean looked up at you already grinning while you were certain your eye twitched with annoyance so visibly he almost laughed again.

“Hurt ankle, my ass,” you muttered, pushing yourself upright swiftly and moving off him, sitting cautiously on the edge of the mattress for approximately two seconds before your expression changed.

A look of sudden reconsideration crossed your face making you stand right back up.

Dean watched in amusement as you wiped your palms against your jeans, glancing around the room instead of at him.

“Fuck knows what’s happened on that bed.” You mumbled under a breath.

“You came to check on me,” he said instead, smile widening as he propped himself up on his elbows. “Thought you didn’t do house calls.”

You shrugged lightly, immediately reaching for technicalities the way you always did whenever you crossed one of your own rules. “I didn’t call,” you pointed out. “Or text.”

Dean’s grin softened at that. “Did you get my email?” he asked, weirdly proud of himself.

“I did.” You finally looked at him properly again…with annoyance, of course. “Though signing it ‘Big Dick Dean Di Laurentis’ felt incredibly tasteless.”

He sat up fully now, visibly delighted. “That was obviously a typo.”

“Then why are you smiling?”

Dean climbed to his feet slowly, attention locked entirely on you as he stepped closer. “You could’ve used the front door,” he pointed out. “There’s no one else here.” His gaze dropped pointedly toward where you still hovered beside the bed instead of sitting. “And it’s clean,” he added. “Thought you knew all about how little play I get these days.”

That comment earned him a look, one of those quiet staring contests the two of you somehow kept having lately, where neither person moved first because both of you wanted the other to crack beforehand.

Eventually, you sighed and sat down on the bed properly.

Dean dragged his desk chair around and dropped into it, hands resting on his evidently muscular thighs as he faced you.

“Should we unpack that a little?” you asked teasingly, your tone mischievous. “I almost majored in psychology.”

“There’s nothing to unpack.” Dean leaned back in the chair, watching you carefully while he spoke. “Everything works perfectly fine.”

The pause afterward felt challenging. You held his gaze stubbornly at first, refusing to give him the satisfaction of reacting but eventually your eyes betrayed you, flickering downward despite yourself and straight to the growing outline beneath his sweatpants and judging by the smug look spreading across Dean’s face the second it happened, he noticed.

You dragged your eyes back up to his face with visible effort. “Well,” you started carefully, smoothing nonexistent wrinkles from your jeans, “I won’t ask what the issue is then.” Your mouth curved. “Wouldn’t wanna embarrass you.”

Dean let out a quiet laugh through his nose, low and knowing. “You won’t ask because the issue is sitting right in front of me.”

The words settled heavily between you both.

His gaze dropped briefly as you shifted on the mattress, one leg crossing slowly over the other without much thought. Unfortunately for him, the movement dragged the fabric of your jeans tighter across your thighs.

Dean’s jaw flexed once as his eyes lingered there for a second too long before he forced them back upward. “You’re torturing me,” he rasped. “And the worst part is you know exactly what you’re doing.”

You said nothing, you couldn’t, not when he looked at you like that.

Your attention stayed locked on him completely, unwilling to miss even a second of whatever this had become. The room felt smaller now, warmer somehow despite the cold night air drifting through the still-open window behind him. Every tiny movement seemed louder, from the creak of the desk chair when he leaned back, to the faint rustle of fabric when you adjusted your legs again and the quiet exhale Dean took afterward like he regretted noticing.

“Why are you here?” he asked suddenly.

You shook your head once. “I don’t know.”

Dean watched you for a long moment, expression unreadable for approximately half a second before he gave a small nod, already deciding you were lying and unfortunately, he was probably right.

“You do,” he corrected, eyes never leaving yours. “You’re lying to me…and normally I’d let you get away with it,” he continued. “But not when you’re sitting on my bed rubbing your thighs together.”

Your breath caught at the change in his tone. He spoke each word gently, letting them land with intent as his gaze dipped again, tone turning sultry while his hand slid down and disappeared into the waistband of his sweatpants. “You need something from me,” he decided.

The sentence barely sounded like teasing anymore. Your pulse thudded painfully hard against your throat and between your legs as the silence stretched. You uncrossed your legs in response, your fingers inching toward the button of your jeans.

“Something,” he continued carefully, not wanting to rush this. “to take the edge off.”

The air thickened as you popped the button open, the soft rasp of the zipper following as you drew it down slowly. Your jeans parted enough to reveal the edge of your lace panties, the fabric already damp against your skin. 

Across from you, his hand moved inside the cotton of his sweatpants, the outline of his cock thickening under his palm as he began to stroke in long, unhurried pulls. 

The mere sight of it sent a fresh pulse of heat between your thighs.

You slipped your hand beneath the waistband of your panties, fingers gliding over the slick heat of your pussy. A quiet sigh escaped you as you traced your folds, circling your clit with firm pressure while he watched every motion, his own hand working steadily as the head of his cock peeked above the waistband with each upward stroke. 

Precum glistened at the tip, catching the low light as he smeared it along his length. 

Your fingers moved in slow circles, spreading the wetness that coated your sensitive skin, each pass making your hips twitch involuntarily on the bed's edge.

His breathing grew heavier as he adjusted his grip, pulling his sweatpants lower to expose more of his shaft. The veins along his cock stood out prominently under the firm strokes of his fist, the skin stretching taut with every upward motion.

You could see the way his thumb brushed over the head on each pass, gathering more of that shiny fluid to ease the slide. The visual made your own touch quicken, your middle finger pressing firmer against your swollen clit while your other fingers teased at your entrance.

Drawn by the growing ache, you leaned back until your shoulders met the mattress. The sheets carried his scent of warm musk and faint soap, filling your lungs and making your clit throb harder under your circling fingers. 

You spread your knees wider, jeans still hugging your hips as your hand worked faster inside the panties. Every inhale pulled more of him into you, fueling the slick glide of your fingertips over swollen flesh. The mattress dipped slightly under your movement and you turned your head to press your cheek against the sheets, breathing deeper to draw in that intoxicating aroma. It wrapped around you like an invisible touch, making your nipples tighten against the fabric of your shirt.

He stroked himself openly now, full length exposed to your gaze, firm grip twisting at the head with each slow pass as his eyes landed on your noticeably hardened nipples. 

You pictured him rising from the chair, crossing the space between you to bury that thick cock deep inside your aching pussy, stretching you open with one thrust. The fantasy burned even hotter because you were both holding back, letting the forbidden tension build instead. Your fingers dipped lower, parting your lips to press inside, the wet motion of your touch mingling with the rhythmic slide of his fist. He groaned softly, the sound vibrating through the room as you felt your walls clench around your own fingers in answer.

Your free hand clutched the sheets, twisting them as your hips rocked lightly to meet your own touch. Wetness coated your fingers, dripping down to the fabric inside your jeans while across the room Dean’s breathing grew ragged, eyes half-lidded while he watched your body arch and tremble in his bed. The scent of him made your head spin, your pussy fluttering around nothing as you finally thrust two fingers deeper, curling them against that sensitive spot inside. Every curl sent sparks of pleasure radiating outward, your thighs trembling as you imagined the weight of his body pressing you down, his cock replacing your fingers in one smooth motion.

The pressure coiled tighter in your core, every stroke of your clit sending sparks up your spine as you watched his cock twitch visibly in his fist, a bead of cum welling at the slit before he spread it down his length again. 

You moaned, the sound raw and needy and his pace quickened in response. Your jeans restricted your movements enough to heighten the friction, the denim pressing against the back of your hand as you worked yourself closer to the edge. The room filled with the soft sounds of your mutual pleasure, his low grunts mixing with your gasps.

You allowed yourself to keep your eyes locked on him, watching intently as his fist pumped steadily along the rigid length, the skin sliding taut over the swollen and pinkish head with each upward pull.

Below, his balls hung full and heavy at first, swaying slightly with the motion of his strokes but as the tension kept building, they began to draw upward, the loose skin tightening and wrinkling as the muscles contracted. You watched the way they pulled closer to the base of his cock, tensing visibly with every twist of his wrist. 

His thighs flexed in the chair as he spread them wider, offering an unobstructed view of the entire scene. 

The veins along his cock stood out even more now, pulsing in time with his quickening strokes, the skin pulling smooth and firm as his breathing grew shallow and urgent, mirroring your own. 

The sight pushed you harder against your own fingers as his body locked, balls pulling up completely into a tight, rounded shape at the root of his cock. A restrained groan tore from his throat as the first thick rope of cum surged free, jetting over his knuckles in a hot, white arc that landed across his clothed stomach. His balls pulsed visibly with each spurt, contracting and releasing in waves as more cum erupted, splattering higher and dripping down his shaft.

Your orgasm hit shortly after. Your back bowed off the bed, thighs quaking as your pussy pulsed and gushed around your fingers, sending waves of pleasure rolling through you in hot, liquid surges that left you quivering and whimpering on his bed watching as immediate relief hit the both of you.

His grip loosened slightly, cock jerking uncontrollably while his balls finally relaxed, emptying in long, forceful pulses that left him trembling and spent. Thick strands continued to ooze from the tip as the last tremors faded, his hand slowing to gentle strokes that milked out every last eager drop.

As relief and pleasure eased through your spent forms, you both were left boneless and utterly relaxed. You slowly withdrew your hands from between your thighs, the evidence of your arousal glistening on your fingers as they lingered for half a second like your body hadn’t fully caught up to your brain yet. Staring up at the ceiling, you caught your breath, while he gazed forward, both of you panting as though you had just sprinted straight through every boundary you’d spent months trying to maintain and were only now realizing there was no finish line waiting on the other side.

Neither of you spoke because what exactly was there to say?

Congratulations on making things infinitely worse?

You sat up slowly and met his eyes briefly in the heavy silence before looking away, your hand moving to zip and button your jeans as you tried to act like nothing extraordinary had occurred. You pushed yourself to your quivering legs, balance threatening to betray you for a second before steadying. You stepped towards him as his gaze tracked you the entire way.

Standing in front of him felt strangely so, even more intimate after everything else, which honestly seemed ridiculous considering what had just happened. Still, your throat tightened slightly when he looked up at you flushed and wrecked, pupils blown wide enough to swallow the blue in his eyes almost entirely.

Your hand lifted toward his face before you could think too hard about it and his lips parted faintly against your palm the second you covered his mouth. You pretended not to notice him inhaling the scent of your essence deeply as you pressed a slow kiss to the back of your own hand, right over his lips. 

"I’m glad that question won’t be asked," you murmured, straightening up. Dean’s brows furrowed slightly, still dazed enough that it took him a second. "Couldn’t keep count of the strokes." 

With that, you crossed the bedroom, opened the door and disappeared into the hallway before he could answer, your pulse still hammering against your ribs.

Behind you, Dean licked slowly over his lips where your hand had been, head dropping forward afterward as a quiet curse left him under his breath.

His cock throbbed and began hardening again, muscle starting to draw upward once more with renewed tension, the loose skin tightening as his shaft swelled visibly under the fresh surge of arousal.

a/n: Comments, likes and reblogs really do mean the world and help more than you know! More stories will be added to the archive soon, so stay tuned for new content. Thank you so much for reading! 🤍

[lacyydollette]

₊  ֹ  ˖ JOHN LOGAN AS YOUR BOYFRIEND ᱺㅤㅤ   ୨౿ 

mr. handyman. literally every single thing that falls apart in your life, logan’s there to fix it. kitchen cabinets coming loose? great, he’s fixing them. doors squeaky? he’s already on it. something wrong with your car? perfect—he’s taking his shirt off (for your eye candy) and getting to work. and he’s not one of those sexist assholes who thinks men have to fix things while women just stand there and yelp when things fall apart. he actually makes a habit of fixing things with you there, showing you how to do it so next time you can handle it yourself in case he’s not around.

this sweet, sweet man with those pretty doe eyes cannot stay mad at you for more than a day. if he has to go to sleep without fixing things with you, he feels like he might actually die. he just can’t do it. so when you two argue, like normal couples do, he always gives you both time to cool down before coming back to you to offer your favorite takeout, lots of kisses and cuddles, a movie night, and his heart practically in his hands just so you could forgive him. anything. he’ll do anything. just don’t stay mad at him.

as much as he’s a homebody, he actually loves going out—especially with you. restaurants, new cafés, movie theaters, hiking spots, even loud busy bars he’s not usually a fan off. and he’s always patient, giving you all the time you need to get ready without rushing you. and when you’re finally done and looking pretty, he’ll have you leave a bright lipstick kiss on his jaw, visible for everyone to see he’s taken, before you head out together. his favorite part about this whole thing is walking with your hands intertwined and sharing food.

again, he’s big on acts of service. waking up a little earlier to make you breakfast because you’re too lazy to make something yourself and usually skip it. taking the time to draw you a bath after a long day. making your drinks exactly how you like them—no ice, because you hate the watery taste when it melts, buying you things you’ve run out of, whether it’s your favorite snacks or products. taking your makeup off for you when you’re too tired. giving you massages, filling your gas tank—he’s all about it.

he’s so starved for you, so don’t expect him to leave you alone when you’re both home with nothing to do. he constantly has you laying on top of him, just lazing the day away. cooking simple meals together, which he’s surprisingly good at. he believes staying practically glued to you the entire time is good for his mental health and it’d be cruel to deny him.

this man figured out your weakness long before you even started dating that you can never keep your hands to yourself when he’s sweaty, fresh out of the gym. so when you move in together, he starts timing it, leaving the gym just a little after you get home. the second he walks through the door, your eyes snap to him, the sight of him making your knees weak, heat pooling in all the right places. and you don’t even try to fight it. you just walk up to him, grab him, and kiss him deep, fully intending to have those sweaty, ripped biceps wrapped around you in a tight headlock.

masterlist

[puckingcuckbunny]

𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐲 𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐛𝐚𝐛𝐲 ✪

𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐲𝐞𝐫 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐟𝐢𝐥𝐞 : john logan x fem! econ! reader 𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐤 𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭 : tipsy! reader- but not during sexy time, established sober like 500 times, m!cum in pants, f!fingering, teasing!, m!praise, wet making out (is that a warning?), grinding. 𝐞𝐯𝐚𝐥𝐮𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 : It's the end of finals week! that means that John Logan's long time girlfriend can finally let loose at the first party post-exams, but letting loose, means a whole lot more for this man than he thought. OR you teasing Logan by calling him pretty alot. 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞 𝐨𝐧 𝐢𝐜𝐞 : 3.6k words 𝐛𝐮𝐧𝐧𝐲’𝐬 𝐥𝐨𝐜𝐤𝐞𝐫 : thank you so much for the love on my first fic of the blog!! 1.2k likes [as of now] is wild. I know this wasn't on the WIPs, but a Drabble turned into this and I thought it would be cruel to deprive the John Logan smut girlies for so long. gif credit: @firstprinced; divider credit : @digilatte

Finals week had reduced you to a concerning version of yourself. An intense, borderline doped up version of you that scared your roommates into hiding. 

At some point over the last ten days, you had consecutively survived almost exclusively on iced coffee and protein bars, cried in the library stairwell over a statistics quiz worth five percent of your grade, accidentally highlighted an entire textbook chapter because you stopped processing colour properly around three in the morning, and fallen asleep sitting upright against Logan’s shoulder while trying to explain some bullshit economic theory to him.

Which meant two things.

One: You were exhausted and so ready to finally dedicate more than ten minutes to washing your hair.

And two:

The entire hockey team had collectively decided about three days into you bear grylls level study marathon, that you would have to be, as they liked to call it, “reintroduced into society” the second said exams ended. 

Which was how you ended up tipsy for the first time in months, tucked against Logan’s side in the middle of some overcrowded off-campus party while music rattled the walls hard enough to make the floor vibrate beneath your shoes.

“You alive over there?” Logan asked, leaning closer so you could hear him properly.

You looked up from where your cheek was half pressed against his shoulder.

“Barely.”

“Yeah, I can tell.”

“You know,” you informed him seriously, “I think I deserve financial compensation for finals week.”

Logan snorted softly.

“I’ll let the university know.”

“You should.”

His hand stayed warm at your waist while people moved around you in loud, blurry motion. The house smelled faintly like cheap alcohol and somebody’s burnt pizza rolls, humid from too many people crammed into too small a space, but tucked into the corner of the couch beside Logan, everything felt strangely soft around the edges instead of overwhelming.

Mostly because he kept checking on you every five seconds. In a quintessential John Logan way, that made you feel unreasonably fuzzy inside.

Especially when he remembered how much water you’d had, quietly traded your vodka mixer for a weaker one halfway through the night without making a thing of it, and kept rubbing his thumb against your hip absentmindedly every time he noticed your eyes drifting shut.

“You tired?” he asked eventually.

“A little.”

“You wanna head back?”

You considered it seriously for approximately half a second before nodding.

“Can we order cheesy fries on the way home?”

“That depends.”

“On what?”

“How coherent you are right now.”

You gasped softly. “I’m incredibly coherent.”

“You tried to unlock the bathroom with your student ID .”

“That was one time.”

“It was four times.”

You laughed hard enough your forehead dropped briefly against his shoulder, and Logan’s mouth twitched immediately at the sound.

By the time Logan was steering you carefully out of the crowded basement party with one warm hand settled at your lower back, your brain felt pleasantly untangled for the first time in weeks, limbs loose and warm beneath your coat while cold night air hit your cheeks hard enough to make you laugh.

The walk back to the hockey house wasn’t far, cold night air cutting through the leftover warmth of the party enough to sober you steadily with every block. Logan kept his arm around your shoulders the entire time anyway, occasionally glancing down at you like he was recalculating your risk assessment every few minutes.

“You good?” he asked immediately, glancing down at you as you stumbled slightly against him on the sidewalk.

You grinned up at him.

“Perfect.”

“That sounded ominous.”

“It’s because I’m whimsical now.”

“You’re tipsy.”

“I’m whimsical and tipsy.”

“Mm.”

“And for the record,” you continued, poking lightly at his chest through his sweatshirt, “you also drank.”

“I had like two beers over four hours.”

“So you admit it.”

“I admit nothing.”

Logan tightened his arm around you automatically when you leaned more of your weight into him. The walk back blurred pleasantly around the edges, campus quieter now except for distant music and occasional bursts of laughter drifting from frat houses further down the street.

By the time the hockey house came into view, your head felt clearer than it had left the party, comfortably warm instead of blurry, thoughts slower around the edges but still fully there.

Your heels clicked unevenly against the pavement.

Logan slowed instinctively to match you, that stupid fond warmth settled in your chest again.

You stared at him for a second too long.

“What?” he asked.

“You’re very large.”

His eyebrows lifted immediately.

“…Thank you?”

“No like,” you continued seriously, squeezing his bicep, “you’re just kind of everywhere.”

He tapped your nose, “That’s usually how being six foot two works babe.”

“Crazy.”

The house itself was quieter than expected when you stepped inside, only faint light spilling from the kitchen and distant noise from somewhere upstairs, but most of the team had either passed out already or vanished with hookups hours ago. The bitterness of the alcohol had already started to fade, leaving a sweet taste in its wake. You weren’t dizzy anymore, just floaty in that magical post-party way that made everything feel so comforting.

“Miracle,” Logan muttered while gripping your wrist. Watching you carefully as you undid the straps of your heels while leaning on his shoulder for stability, “Nobody’s screaming.”

“Garrett’s probably dead.”

“One can hope.”

You laughed softly. Nudging your shoes, if they could be called that, into a semi-convenient space next to the door, but shrugged once they got stuck in the tangle of a thousand sports trainers.

You stayed over enough that nobody even questioned it anymore.

There were hair ties in Logan’s bathroom drawer. A skincare bottle next to his sink. Dean had once walked into the kitchen at eight in the morning, seen you wearing Logan’s shirt while making coffee, and simply said,

“Oh thank god, you live here now. Maybe you’ll stop him eating dry cereal for dinner.”

You’d stayed over enough times by now that his room already half-felt like yours anyway. 

Logan guided you up the stairs and into his room, the quiet settled differently when the door clicked closed, the comforting kind of silence that greets you after a weeks long holiday away from home.

He tossed his keys onto the desk before turning toward you immediately.

“You need water.”

“You sound like my doctor.”

“You’ll thank me tomorrow morning.” 

You smiled slightly while he crossed the room, “You’re really pretty tonight,” you murmur.

Logan laughs softly under his breath while digging through his dresser for one of his shirts to replace the dress you had on currently.

“Tonight specifically?”

“Mhm.”

“Good to know.”

“No, like-” your voice catches slightly around another laugh as you crawl onto the mattress behind him and grab one of his pillows, you bury into the clean scented cotton and angle your face towards him, moreso speaking to his back. “I mean it.”

He turns then, still holding the shirt loosely in one hand.

And something about the way you’re looking at him makes his expression shift. He had tugged his sweatshirt off sometime upstairs, leaving him in a dark grey t-shirt that stretched distractingly across his shoulders, curls messy from the cold outside air, cheeks still faintly flushed from alcohol and laughter.

Your chest squeezed unexpectedly.

“What?” he asked immediately.

“You’re just.. so pretty.” You breathe out, a tangled mix of a gasp and sigh, pushing yourself up slowly, hair messy and strewn across your face.

The corner of his mouth lifted automatically.

“Yeah?”

You crawled to the edge of the bed closest to him. “Like… genuinely.”

You could practically see the exact moment he realised you weren’t teasing him.

“You’re pretty all the time,” you continued quietly, reaching out toward him- fingertips outstretched and ghosting over the belt loop of his jeans. “I just don’t think I say it enough.”

He steps between your knees where you’re sitting, shirt still hanging forgotten from one hand while your palms slide slowly up his thighs.

“Pretty hands,” you whisper, mainly to yourself, tracing the calluses on his palm and the soft cuticles of his nails. You travel higher to his forearms, beckoning him to bend closer towards you- his knee coming up onto the comforter. Logan watches, his eyes still playful and face flushed.

“Pretty arms,” fingertips tracing over the veins in his forearms before guiding his large palms to lay flat on your hips, he exhales heavily, a crack in his breath punctuating the shift in his gaze from loving to lustfully curious. 

“Baby,” he said softly, “How tipsy are you right now?”

You looked up at him properly, “Enough to say this,” then smiled slightly, “But not enough to not mean it.”

You watched his throat move when he swallowed, eyes flicking down to your parted lips.

“Promise?” he asked quietly.

You nodded immediately.

“Promise.”

The tension in his shoulders eased after that.

And then you touched his face again.

“Pretty eyes,” you murmured softly, fingertips barely grazing the edge of his lashes in a way that makes his breath stall for half a second before he steadies it again.

“Pretty cheeks.”

Your hand cups his face now properly, softer than your words sound, thumb resting near his jaw like you’re holding him still just to admire. Your fingers graze his stubble and you itch to rub your face against his, like a cat, arching for attention.

He exhales again, slower this time, eyes fixed on yours- watching as your mind filters through every possibility, a dark, dirty loop. 

You can feel the shift before anything else changes - the room, the air, the space between you narrowing without either of you daring to move away, too transfixed on your next move. 

“And pretty hair.” You almost moan out, the memories of how you’d bury your hands in his hair and tug and scratch appreciatively in response to his actions. 

Your fingers slid into his curls, nails dragging lightly against his scalp.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered quietly

You bit your lip, teasing it between your teeth to hide the way your mouth watered at the blush that stained his cheeks. 

“Are you done?” he asks, somehow leaning even closer to you whilst not brushing his lips against yours. You almost snicker at the wrecked expression he has, but instead you let out a shaky breath when he uses his thumb to pry your bottom lip out from the grips of your teeth. 

“No,” you say immediately, you gulp thickly and continue your appreciation, “m'taking my time baby.” 

A shiver travels down your spine when his fingers move, dangerously slow to the hem of your dress that is already so far up your thighs that you aren’t sure there's a point in still having it on. But you lose most of your coherent thought train when his fingertips breach below the tight sequined fabric. 

You quickly stand, twist Logan into your space and push him down on the bed. He wipes a hand down his face and lets out a growl from the bottom of his throat, eyes raking up your debauched appearance,

“Is this how you feel when I manhandle you?” 

“Little bit, but you normally do that after I’ve come twice, so I’m not complaining." 

You take one of his wrists and pull him up so you can climb into his lap, knees settling carefully on either side of his thighs while Logan looks up at you like he couldn’t decide whether he’s overwhelmed or completely gone already.

Probably both.

“You know what your problem is?” you asked softly, wrapping his arms around you as you shuffle further up against him.

“What?”

“You don’t realise how hot you are.”

That finally got a real laugh out of him, breathless around the edges.

“Baby, I play hockey. Unfortunately that’s like ninety percent of my personality.”

“No,” you insisted, leaning closer. “I mean it.”

Your fingers drifted down his throat slowly, tracing the shape of his Adam's apple, before you brush your mouth against his jaw, he groaned at your featherlight touch, eyes screwed shut and control fraying at the edges.

“You’re stupidly pretty.”

Logan’s hands flexed harder against your waist, fingers digging into the swell of your hips.

“You cannot say shit like that and then not kiss me,” he muttered.

“Why?”

“Because I’m trying to behave.” That made you scoff out a chuckle against the corner of his lips.

“Baby,” he whispers, his voice serious as he holds your face in his hands, prying you away from his neck, “You’re not tipsy right now, right?”

You pull away and look at him carefully for a second, eyes softening as he studies your face. 

“Positive,” The hand that you had resting on his neck comes up to spread against his jaw, guiding his gaze to focus on yours, “I'm completely sober right now.” 

Logan’s silent for what seems like hours, watching, analysing you. How your once slightly tangy breath is now coming out in fresh puffs against his nose and the tipsy giddiness in your eyes is replaced with something calmer. 

“Okay.” He finally whispers, threading his fingers into your hair and pressing your forehead against his.

“I love you,” You whisper, giggling when he scoffs and kisses your cheek, “Where was I?”

He lets out a small breath when his hands finally slide up your back properly, warm palms flattening on your ass while he tips his head back to let you kiss along his throat. 

You grip the bottom of his shirt, “Can I take this off?” 

Logan nods, moving back so he can remove it in one fluid tug. You lean into his hands when they return to your back, pushing your weight into him so you can take in his bare skin, the healed over hockey scars and bruises hidden in the shadows of the room, the dips and slants of his muscles contracting which each deep breath- clearly visible in the glow of his lamp. 

“Really pretty shoulders,” You grip the thick muscle in question, nails digging in slightly as you grind down experimentally, “And chest, god, I really hit the jackpot here.”

You ignore the flustered heat radiating off of him and begin to kiss down his neck, wet open mouth kisses that leave glistening stamps on his tanned skin. They make a path of their own, winding around his throat and down to his clavicle, where you begin to lose composure, sucking and biting the skin, whimpers bleeding out in between each new lovebite; they continue to twist onto his chest, spiralling each pec until you can’t comfortably continue. That’s when you push him down and adjust his hands on your body, pulling up your dress to your waist so he can grip you harder. 

“Are you still behaving?” you whispered, punctuating the question with a bite to his abs. 

“Barely.”

You smile against his stomach, your lips meeting the line of brown hair that starts as a splattering at his abdomen. 

Logan swallowed hard from above you, one arm resting on his forehead- his hand balled into a loose fist, the other rested on your head, lightly scratching your scalp, fingers buried into your hair. 

His thighs flex beneath you and you sit up once again, “And your thighs baby, you have such pretty thighs”. You grind against the prominent bulge in his jeans, “So strong too.” You press your palms behind into his legs, arching your back into his chest as he sat up once more. 

“Baby-” He gasped, “You can’t just- shit” You ripped off your dress, or whatever rolled up and wrinkled version you had on, “You can’t just say shit like that.”

“But it's true Logan.” You let him pull down the cups of your bra, mouthing messily at your breasts as he slowly guides your hips against him. 

At this point, Logan’s lips were swollen and spit-slick from biting them and wetting them with his tongue. They were warm against your nipples, teeth a dull ache against the hardening buds as he rolled them, alternating between gentle kisses and tugs with his fingers to sharp sucks and pinches. 

You moan out loudly, pulling at his hair as your hips begin to quicken. Your hands shake from the pleasure coursing through your entire body, but your grip on his jaw is steady as you kiss him. Mouth engulfing him in an open mouth kiss, tongue plunging into his mouth slowly, he matches your desire, his own tongue tangling with yours, hot puffs of air bursting from each millisecond you take to breathe. 

Logan made this sound low in his throat that went straight through you, and suddenly you wanted more of it.

Your fingers tightened in his curls.

His grip on your waist sharpened.

The room felt warmer now, heavier somehow, every breath pulling slower than before while his mouth moved against yours with growing urgency.

“Baby,” he breathed quietly when you shifted in his lap without thinking.

“Your’e so pretty baby,” you whimpered softly before you could stop yourself, a mix of your saliva dripping from your lips.

Logan exhaled sharply against your mouth.

“fuck,” he panted, “What has gotten into you”

You shrug, thighs burning as he picks up the pace of the messy grinds against you, hands digging into your waist, “Just wanna appreciate my beautiful boyfriend, hah, my hot,” You kiss his neck and roughly thrust your hips, “sexy,” You switch sides, “amazing boyfriend.” 

His head tips back as he laughs.

“Jesus Christ.”

His mouth crashed back into yours harder this time, one hand diving into your underwear to press your clit whilst the other ran his nails up your spine, fingertips pressing into soft skin hard enough to make your breath catch.

“You’re killing me,” he muttered roughly against your mouth, “You’re so fucki-”

You kissed him again before he could finish the sentence, desperate to feel his lips against yours, to feel his tongue slip into your mouth and invade your taste buds. 

Your fingers gripped his neck, digging into the sensitive skin as you whimpered, “I forgot,” You lifted up suddenly, looking down to where your bodies were feverishly rubbing, his fingers still teasing your folds and rolling your clit beneath his thumb, “Your cock,” the lewd words were breathed against his ear, as your briefly slowed to press your fingers against the spot where his dick seemed to be straining against the zipper of his jeans, you were met with a damp patch, fingertips tracing the exact area, feeling it out since the darkness of the room wasn’t helpful in identifying just how badly he wanted you, “Your cock is so pretty baby.” 

Logan shuddered against you and you gasp coyly, “yeah? I knew you had a praise kink. You are really liking this.” 

You begin rolling your hips once more, this time directly on the mound that is throbbing against your cunt, warmth radiating through your ruined panties. Logan kisses you and smiles against your mouth, “Good thing I know just what you like,”

His fingers shifted, two digits now circling your hole, in response you arch your chest into him, “So pretty baby.” He snickers against your chest, slowly entering you, mouth parting in parallel with yours whilst a broken moan escapes your throat as he curls his fingers messily. 

The irony isn’t lost on you, his cheeky smile makes you slow your hips, rocking deeply instead of short and snappy movements- languidly drawing out low moans from your boyfriend, who is heavily groaning into your parted mouth. 

Both of you breathing into one another, wetness slipping down from your tongues into a messy, filthy mix against your chins. 

His eyes roll back, as do yours when you find the perfect angle at which his fingers can firmly plunge against the spongy place inside of you whilst you catch the tip of his bulge with each slow rock. 

You know he’s about to cum when short, barely audible whimpers leave his lips, his dark eyebrows pulled together in concentration as his mouth puckers to a shaky pout,

“You gonna cum baby?” You tease the coils of hair at the nape of his neck and watch him bite his lip hard, glancing down to where his hand disappears beneath the waistband of your panties, his fingers mutilating the soft lace in an obscene way. 

Logan shook his head sharply, “Need- fuck- need you to cum first.” His other hand that had been kneading your ass, now went to your waist, guiding your hips in tandem with his fingers that now grinded into you, the heel of his palm pressing into your pubic hair with enough pressure to make your body jerk.

“Oh,” you bit into his shoulder, teeth digging into the muscle, surely going to leave a mark, “I will, Logan, i’m cumming, fuck oh my god.”

The way you moan his name made his hips buck and chest seize up, stuttering whilst you felt the denim beneath you warm considerably. You cup his face, thumb just below his bottom lip as you kiss him slowly, perversely, all slow strokes of your tongue and drool smacking against both of your teeth.

When Logan is able to control his body once again, he kisses you back, his fingers that never stopped, only slowed- picked up the pace. Making you jump, and gasp, “Logan,” you babble out obscenities:

“Yes, fuck right there, please dont stop.”

“So good, baby- need it so bad.”

His chest heaves when you do break around his digits, spasming wildly as wetness coats his knuckles and dribbles down into his palm, he croons at your blissed out expression, face glowing with sweat. He pushes your hips back slightly to pull out his hand, an empty feeling replacing them but soon it disappears when you watch him through hooded eyes, lips parting to welcome his glistening fingers into his mouth. 

Logan groans, smacking his lips, eyes never leaving yours, “So fucking glad your exams are over babe.”

[polkdotzdoll]

me trying to figure out if i'm looking at a picture of fred or george weasley

[lacyydollette]

₊  ֹ  ˖  DEAN’S BIGGEST WEAKNESS IS YOU TUGGING ONTO HIS CHAIN ᱺㅤㅤ   ୨౿ 

dean likes being told what to do by his girl. getting bossed around. getting lectures. getting walked around like a dog.

he just can’t help it. It’s a tiny, teeny secret kink of his that he’s buried deep in his heart and never admits to anyone. not even to you.

perhaps he’s a little embarrassed in this matter? (so unlike him)

but with the way he’s so goddamn compliant around you all the time, answering 99.8% of all your requests and wishes with a simple “yes ma’am,” it gives it all away.

his roommates who lived with him for years and have gotten the opportunity to witness this every day called him things that pretty much consisted of “a whipped motherfucker” or “a goddamn rubber that bends his ass out with a simple push” and much more.

but dean didn’t mind that though. he just thought they were too single and bitter to get it.

so it was no surprise that you finally open your eyes properly and discover this secret little kink too when he was on top of you, his cock buried inside you to the hilt while you moan and writhe beneath him, begging him to move. begging him to stop with the pity pecks and kiss you properly like he always does. messy and all tongue.

and him being the teasing asshole he is just grins while shaking his head as if to punish you.

which leaves you no choice but to latch your teeth into his silver chain he has on all the time, pulling it harshly which brings his head closer to yours, and grab the nape of his neck, kissing him while arching your back, squirming underneath him anything just to get him to move.

“fuck,” he abruptly stops and slumps on top of you, his head buried into your chest. just as you’re about to ask what’s wrong, you feel the warm sticky liquid slowly running down your thighs.

as if he knows you too well and knows you’re about to tease the shit out of him, he whines out a “don’t. I’ll make it up to you all night long, baby please.”

fine. you would just have to bring it up against him during an argument.

“get to work, di laurentis.”

“yes ma’am”

masterlist

[ballard96]

[theunfortunate-author]

my daily affirmation as an author

[slvtzofhell]

johnnys positive affirmations

[spider-stark]

dizzy on the comedown

pairing | jonathan byers x reader

summary | late nights listening to music lead to late-stage realizations (aka, jonathan finally realizes you have a thing for him)

warnings | childhood best friends, reader likes pop music, minor steve harrington slander if you squint, don't fact check my 80s pop culture references, got this idea while listening to dizzy on the comedown by turnover, fluff

word count | 2.6k

Your gasp rivaled the too-loud volume of The Clash's latest album spinning in Jonathan's record player, sat up on the old vinyl shelf that always looked to be one ill-timed breath in its direction from collapsing.

Jonathan was on the floor beside you. He sat with his back against the side of his messily made bed, your socked feet resting in his lap as he read some comic Will had asked him to check out.

At your gasp, he immediately looked up.

You shot him a toothy grin from over the top of this month's Teen Beat. "You'll never guess what happened."

The corners of his mouth twitched upwards. "Try me," he dared.

Flipping the magazine around, you tapped excitedly at a blurry photo of Cher and Val Kilmer, caught locking lips in the back of a limo after some glitzy Hollywood party.

"They're dating!"

Jonathan dropped the comic, putting on his best I Love Gossip voice. “You're kidding."

You cut your eyes and flipped the magazine back around. "Don't mock me, J."

"Does that sound like something I would do?"

"Indubitably," you announced, dramatically turning a page.

"No," said Jonathan. "It's just, it's exactly like you said." It was obvious he was trying hard to stay serious, to keep that shy smile of his from taking over. "I can't believe it."

Laughing, you tossed the magazine at his face.

He dodged, but only barely, too busy laughing right along with you.

If Joyce was home, now would've been when she'd knock on Jonathan's door. Exhausted, yet kind as ever, she would've reminded you both that it was quarter past nine and she had work in the morning. Just...try to keep it down, okay?

If Will was home, then approximately five minutes ago would've been when he'd invited himself inside, settling on Jonathan's bed to hover sweetly over the top of you and Who's dating? while craning his neck for a better view of the magazine.

But they were both out right now. Joyce working a closing shift at Melvald's, and your favorite drama queen playing D&D at a friend's house.

It was only you. Only Jonathan.

And The Clash, of course.

"You're insufferable," you eventually told him, still glaring playfully.

Jonathan squeezed your foot. "Says the one obsessed with crappy magazines."

"Oh I'm sorry, J — am I too lame for you? Is my love for pop culture ruining your street cred?"

Another laugh framed his pretty brown eyes with the most precious crinkles. "Who says street cred?" he asked incredulously.

"Lame-os, apparently."

It was his turn to cut his eyes. "If either of us lame," he contended, "it's definitely me."

The urge to frown was unbearable, but you tried resisting it.

Jonathan talking down on himself was a frequent occurrence. He'd always been insecure, even back in elementary school when you were both too young to know why older kids picked on him for his too-big coat and out-of-style sneakers.

High school had made it worse, though. A lot worse.

Sometimes you wished all of Hawkins High could see Jonathan the way you saw him. Understatedly funny with impeccable music taste; a photographer NYU would be lucky to teach; smarter than half this damned town and caring to a fault.

Other times — selfish, greedy times — you were glad they didn't.

Hawkins didn't deserve Jonathan, anyway.

Gently, you nudged him in the stomach with your foot. "If you're lame, then I'm lame by association," you told him. "Which actually means you're not lame at all, because I—" you laid a hand on your chest "—am the coolest person to ever exist."

"Didn't you just call yourself a lame-o?"

"Have you never heard of a joke, J? A bit of witticism? An old chestnut, even!"

With a groan that was both embarrassed on your behalf and thoroughly amused, Jonathan tossed his head back against the bed. "Great," he said to the ceiling. "So we're both lame."

You had full intent to argue for argument's sake, to make some exuberant claim as to why you were the furthest thing from lame (as if you weren't spending a Saturday night on your best friend's bedroom floor raving over celebrity romance while wearing fuzzy socks with cat in rainboots on them) when the room went totally silent.

The album had ended.

Jonathan lifted his head.

The two of you shared a look.

And then—

You shrieked when Jonathan shoved your feet of his lap, both of you scrambling to get off the floor. His room became a flurry of limbs and shouts and shoves, each fighting the other to cross the mere feet that separated you from the decrepit vinyl shelf.

Jonathan beat you.

"No fair," you whined. He was already lifting The Clash record off the platter and sliding it back into its sleeve. "You picked the last two albums. It's my turn, Byers!"

"You know the rules," he teased. "You snooze you lose."

"We should play rock-paper-scissors for it."

He dragged a finger over the records on his shelf, deciding which to play next. "You wouldn't say that if I was the one who lost."

"It's not losing if the competition's rigged!"

This whole Race to the Record Player thing was an unfair challenge. Not only were his legs longer than yours, but he had home-field advantage! His room was in such disarray that if you ran too fast, you were likely to twist your ankle on a lone Converse living under a denim jacket.

Jonathan turned his head to smile at you. It was so boyish and sweet, so unknowingly adorable, that you almost forgot to stay mad at him.

"You know," he said, "no one likes a sore loser."

An Oh, phooey! was already halfway up your throat when he slid a record out and showed it to you for approval.

One look at the cover and your Oh, phooey fizzled into a gasp.

"You're kidding!"

Jonathan's taste was eclectic but leaned into post-punk rock territory. Talking Heads, Joy Division, The Psychedelic Furs. Spending so much time with him meant you had come to love all those bands too — but unlike him, you weren't immune to the bubblegum bite of the pop-music bug.

Cyndi Lauper was your new favorite artist.

And now — in Jonathan's beautiful, beautiful hand — was her first ever studio album, She's So Unusual.

Released less than a week ago, there was no way he'd gotten it without spending a pretty penny. A valuable penny. One that could've been given to Joyce for extra groceries or put aside to replace the starter in his car. He could've even bought himself a new record, instead of spending hard-earned money on an album he wouldn't even listen to outside of your presence.

"Remember when I called you insufferable?" you asked.

He tipped his head to one side, pretty brown eyes crinkling as he pretended to think. "Vaguely."

"Well consider this my apology."

Before he could react, you lifted onto your toes and grabbed his face in your hands, pressing a sweet kiss to his cheek. His skin was soft, a little prickly where he'd missed a few spots shaving. He turned red so fast you felt warmth bloom under your lips. When you pulled back, admiring his new cherry complexion, you decided you liked making Jonathan blush.

Trying to seem unfazed, Jonathan busied himself with putting the record on. "I'll take it under consideration," he said, but the awkward way he cleared his throat before speaking made it obvious: you were definitely forgiven.

He lowered the needle. Money Changes Everything floated through his room, a lively beat that made your bones tingle.

You flopped backwards onto his bed, sighing comfortably. It smelled like him, bar soap and laundry detergent. If he hadn't turned to face you, you probably would've buried your nose in the sheets.

"So." You needed to talk. Otherwise you'd spend too much time admiring how cute he looked, unsure what to do with his hands, unable to hold your gaze but incapable of looking away. "Will," you said.

Concern took him immediately. "What about Will?"

You laughed. "Calm your engine, sports car. I was just gonna ask if he was going to the Snow Ball."

The infamous middle school dance was next weekend. An old teacher of yours had reached out to ask if you'd help with snacks for it, and you maybe promised to bake and ice two hundred cupcakes by next Friday — a venture you fully planned on wrangling Jonathan into.

Jonathan shrugged. "I don't know...I think so."

"Good," you chirped. Because if he'd said no, you would've had to conjure a last-minute plan to convince Will that school dances were So Cool and not Life Ruining Awful. "What about you?"

He gave you a look. "I'm pretty sure I aged out of middle school dances."

You chucked a pillow at him. "Not the Snow Ball, dummy. Our dance."

Winter's Dream, they were calling it. They being Hawkins High's budget friendly planning committee consisting of cheerleaders and theater kids. According to the fliers, the whole gym would be transformed into an ethereal frozen paradise — cotton ball clouds strung from the ceiling along with papier-mâché snowflakes; plenty of twinkle lights; fake snow covering the linoleum.

They had made crowns, too, for whichever lucky students were voted to be the Winter King & Queen. Everyone was gossiping over who would be crowned queen.

There was no doubt who would be king.

Jonathan edged towards the bed. Sat, and immediately started fiddling with a stray thread on his black jeans. "I don't know. Probably not."

"Trick question." You shot up straight, knocking your shoulder into his. "You're definitely going. So, onto our next question: who are you gonna ask to be your date?"

You expected him to say 'I don't know' again.

Instead, he reluctantly replied: "Who's your date?"

You bit your lip against a smile. "No one."

"No one's asked you?"

"No one worth saying yes to." Truth was, there was only one person you'd say yes to. "Connie heard that Steve Harrington's gonna ask me on Monday, but you know Connie. You'd be better trusting a call-in psychic."

"You love call-in psychics."

"But I don't trust them," you said, bumping his shoulder again.

Jonathan kept picking at the thread on his jeans.

On accident, he snapped it right off.

"Well...if Steve asks," he started, still focused on his lap, "will you...I don't know, say yes, or..."

Do you want me to say yes?

"I'm offended," you said solemnly. "Honestly, you're supposed to be my best friend, J! If you don't know that I'm gonna tell Steve Harrington where to shove it, then who will?"

He forced a chuckle. "I don't know...I mean, it wouldn't so...strange, I guess, to think maybe you'd actually want to go with him."

"Why? Because he's got nice hair and a BMW?"

Brown eyes flicked to yours in a sidelong look that said Uh, yeah?

Your jaw fell. "Don't tell me you really think that a BMW is all it takes to win me over."

"Of course not," defended Jonathan. Then, with a too-shy smile: "I think nice hair is all it takes to win you over."

You reached back for his other pillow and whacked him in the face with it. He burst out laughing, stole the pillow, and tossed it clear across the room.

That didn't stop you.

You swatted his arms, his chest, shouting I can't believe you! and Take it back, dummy! Jonathan just kept laughing, dodging hits and trying to catch your wrists, failing and resorting to tickling your sides.

You didn't know how you ended up on top of him. Only that you were, both of you smiling and breathless, your hands pinning his wrists to the bed on either side of his head.

In the background, Time After Time hummed so softly you worried he could hear the sound of your heart fluttering wildly in your chest.

"I take it back," you mumbled, making his brow furrow. "Turns out you really are insufferable."

"Because I don't think you're immune to King Steve's charm?"

"Because you're an idiot." You let go of one of his wrists. His chest froze mid-breath, your fingertips grazing just above his eyebrows, brushing a strand of hair to the side. "Steve Harrington's not the only boy with nice hair, y'know."

Pretty brown eyes were blown wide, his throat working around a swallow. "My hair is...bad."

"To you, maybe." He never complained, but you knew he'd never liked that they didn't have enough money for his hair to be anything but a product of love and kitchen scissors. "I think it's perfect," you whispered, when what you meant was I think you're perfect.

Because he was, wasn't he? Always playing along with your silly Hollywood gossip, buying records he wouldn't like because he knew it'd make you happy.

How could I ever want Steve Harrington, you wondered, when Jonathan exists?

Stupidly, you murmured, "Hey."

He said it back, just as stupid.

"I've got an idea," you said. "What if we go to the dance?"

You weren't sure his eyes could get any wider. "As...friends?" he asked.

"Or a date," you suggested too quickly. "Unless you think it'll hurt your street cred, being spotted with some pop culture lame-o."

"What happened to being the coolest person to ever exist?"

"Depends on the moment." And right now, you certainly felt like a lame-o.

Jonathan considered a long moment, gazing at you all the while.

Finally, he said, "I don't have anything to wear."

"I'm sure we could find something."

"I don't have a BMW, either."

You cut your eyes and leaned in so close that the tips of your noses nearly touched. "If you allude to Steve Harrington even one more time," you threatened, "I promise to smear blue icing all over your face."

His brow furrowed. "And you just...keep icing on you, or...?"

"Did I not tell you?" you asked, knowing full well you hadn't. "I signed us up to bake two hundred cupcakes for Will's dance."

"Two hundred?!"

"Oh, c'mon! It's for your brother," you told him. "I'll even let you lick the whisk!"

"Is that supposed to convince me?"

"Convincing implies choice, which last I checked, I didn't give you."

An easy laugh tumbled from his lips. Without thinking, he brought the hand you'd freed up to your waist, squeezing light enough to make you squirm at the tickling sensation. "Have you ever considered that maybe you're the insufferable one?" he asked.

You shook your head. "Not even once."

His gaze flitted to your lips. You thought of all the times you'd wanted kiss Jonathan over the years, imagining what it'd be like to feel the warmth of his mouth and taste his toothpaste on your tongue, and wondered if maybe, just maybe, he'd been wanting to do the same.

He brought his hand to your face. Grazed his knuckles along the curve of your cheek, so soft you could barely feel it.

He swallowed. Asked, "Can I—"

The door swung open.

Will stood in the doorway, one hand on the doorknob, a cheerful "I'm home!" cut short when he caught sight of you straddling his older brother.

None of you spoke.

Then Will darted back into the hallway, slamming the door shut behind him as he shouted, "ABOUT TIME!"

You immediately started laughing.

"This isn't funny," Jonathan protested, cheeks flushed. "You know he can't keep a secret. He's gonna tell Mike, who's gonna tell his sister, who's probably gonna tell the whole school and then—"

You shut him up by running your fingers through his hair.

"So. About that dance," you said. "Are we going?"

He looked at you like you were crazy. Like he was so sure this was all some mistake, a prank gone too far. You couldn't actually want him to be your date, and any minute now he was counting on you to remember that, to say so and send all the surreal beauty of this moment crashing down around him.

But that never happened.

So he gave you a faint teasing smile and said, "Pick me up at eight."

// masterlist // send me your thoughts // comments & reblogs appreciated! //

a/n | don't mind me, just thinking of all the ways the Winter's Dream dance could go (+ making cupcakes with Jonathan). ugh.

thanks for reading!

[b6rntosdiee]

[polkdotzdoll]

MOODBOARDS

masterlist off all my moodboards ⤵

ERICA SINCLAIR

[polkdotzdoll]

ERICA SINCLAIR

"you can't spell AMERICA without ERICA"

[polkdotzdoll]

WONDERING WHY

·˚ ༘ JOHN B x HONEYBEE!READER STANDALONE SERIES

·˚ ༘ this is a standalone series, meaning each "episode" doesn't necessarily connect to others... in simple terms, unless explicitly marked otherwise, (ex: part 2, part 3, etc.) you don't need to read any other episodes to understand one you are currently reading.

·˚ ༘ highschool cheerleader x footballer AU -- john b attends kook academy on an athletic scholarship. HONEYBEE's dad is ex-nfl.

·˚ ༘ the pair's relationship dynamic is heavily inspired by the song WONDERING WHY by the red clay strays

·˚ ༘ she comes from silver spoon, golden rule, private school, never missed sunday church ·˚ ༘ and i come from blue collar, low dollar, out here where concrete meets old red dirt...

WORKS!

"HOW'D YOU MEET?" - fluff, 1k words

[polkdotzdoll]

"HOW'D YOU MEET?"

JOHN B x HONEYBEE!READER

·˚ ༘ she comes from silver spoon, golden rule, private school, never missed sunday church ·˚ ༘ and i come from blue collar, low dollar, out here where concrete meets old red dirt...

·˚ ༘ WONDERING WHY -- standalone series!

·˚ ༘ warnings!: reader gets awkward, like, secondhand embarrassment level awkward. OC named mckenna is HONEYBEE's teammate. highschool football x cheerleader AU.

·˚ ༘ aprox. 1k words

finally, 5 pm, the end of cheerleading practice. you hurry to put away all your stuff, making sure your stanley cup doesn't spill at the bottom of your cheer bag like it did yesterday. you're on a mission, the same mission you have been on every monday through thursday for the past month;

pack up the fastest, be the first outside, watch the last 20 minutes of the football team's practice, watch him practice.

there he is, john b routledge in the flesh. football in hand, shirt nowhere to be seen and sweat glistening down his chiseled abs as he practices with kook academy's varsity football team.

sure, he's a pogue, but he's the best football player you've ever laid your eyes on,--and that says a lot considering your dad is ex-nfl--i mean, he even got a merit scholarship to kook academy for his ball skill, so that means he's, like, better than other pogues, right?

either way, you're staring, hard, and it doesn't go unnoticed. your teammate, mckenna, breaks away from the rest of the girls on your cheer team after they make their way outside and she spots you eyeing up the new transfer for the third time this week.

"you actually gonna talk to mr. pogue prince this time or are we still being stalkers?" she teases, leaning onto the gate around the stadium next to you.

"it's not stalking, ken, it's scoping out potential. my dad likes to mentor guys like him, i just wanna make sure he's, uhm, mentee material." you try deflect--your cover was blown weeks ago, but actually having to admit to being obsessed with a guy you've had but one conversation with? tragic.

"you sure you're not trying to see if he's boyfriend material?" she continues to tease, earning herself a groan and eye roll from your end.

"don't you have a family dinner to attend?" you ask, though it was more of a triumphant statement. a foolproof way of getting her to go away.

"you're no fun!" the girl beside you whines, pushing off the gate. "talk to him!" and with her last little scolding encouragement, she runs off to her car, leaving you and your slightly creepy, but mostly endearing people watching alone again.

maybe mckenna was right, maybe you should talk to him...

taking a metaphorical leap of courage, you decide that instead of watching john b practice from the gate like a weirdo, you'll head up to the bleachers. plus, you can actually sit on something other than the ground or your cheer bag that way. it was a win-win.

5:23 pm, the football team are currently gathered in a tight little circle in the middle of the field, practice is officially over.

interpreting it as your cue, you run down the bleachers--still being careful not to trip and fall because that would be humiliating--and head over to the locker room doors that reside under said seating.

after a few minutes of waiting there, you watch guys that you've known for years walk into the room--most of them ignoring your presence, others giving a casual nod--until you finally see him.

john b's the last to make his way in your direction, as he was going over a few things with the coach after the team broke their huddle.

he's about to pass you. he's gonna leave. you have to do something quick.

"hey pretty,"

fuck. why would you say that? well, your mom didn't raise a quitter, so you cant back down or take it back now.

a flash of intrigue meets the brown-haired boy's face as he takes in your bold greeting. "sorry?" he asks, just to make sure he heard you right, not because he was offended.

"i said, hey pretty." you double down despite feeling sick to your stomach about how bold you are being all of a sudden.

he chuckles at your audacity before wiping sweat off his hand on his shorts and sticking it out to you. "Well hello to you too, pretty."

your brain short circuits for a moment as you take his hand in a shake, theres no way this is real. "uhm... HONEYBEE, i mean, like, fuck, i'm HONEYBEE."

still laughing, the boy takes your introduction as a sign to do so as well. "john b."

"i know." I KNOW? who even says that? you apparently. "no! i mean, like, so- my dad was in the nfl, you're good at football." how the hell did you go from bold and cheeky to stumbling over your words so quickly?

john has to be an angel sent from heaven with the strict assignment to ignore how awkward you're making everything the way he doesn't miss a beat before answering. "no kidding? that's awesome. when can i meet him?"

straight to the point, huh. "i can, uh, set it up- can i get your number?"

"because you think i'm "pretty" or to set something up with your dad?"

"both?"

"perfect."

john b doesn't miss the stupid smile you try to hide as he waits for to you fumble to get your phone out of your cheer bag so he can put his number into your contacts.

he snaps a picture of himself flexing--because of course he does--for the contact photo before handing the phone back to you. "alright, HONEYBEE, i'll be waiting for a text tonight, k?"

"you have my word."

you can't hide your little flustered smile anymore, so you stare at your phone with red cheeks as the boy disappears into the locker room. while staring, you realize what he put as his name in your contacts.

PRETTY BOY...

[polkdotzdoll]

How figuring out how to do this gradient text has me feeling