~*~

Garrett watches, shirtless with his bedsheets barely covering the lower half of him, as you slide out of his bed in search of your clothes.

“I’m still not understanding,” he says slowly, even though athleticism is a core value of his brand, “why you want to go running right now.”

Your thighs tingle where he had gripped you and you’re sore all over, but with midterms around the corner, your brain isn’t quiet enough to sleep yet.

You admit this aloud.

Garrett Graham almost pouts, immediately hates himself for it, and rubs his hands against his face to hide a side of himself he’s not quite ready to make public yet. “You can’t go running in the middle of the night, baby.”

He admittedly stares at your ass as you pull your leggings over it and momentarily forgets why he’s worried in the first place.

“It’s not even 10,” you chide gently. “I won’t be gone for more than an hour.”

“An hour?” Garrett frowns. “Just come sit on my face. I’ll take care of it.”

You laugh sweetly - even though he’s not joking - and continue looking for one of his shirts that will be suitable enough for the October weather. He doesn’t ask why you’re in his closet or complain that you’re taking another part of his wardrobe; you have already won every part of him.

You land on a gray henley that you tuck into the sides of your pants to fit better. Garrett just about drags you back to the edge of the bed when he sees you in it, but keeps his hands gentle at your waist.

“Okay,” he murmurs, grazing his mouth over yours once. “Give me two minutes.”

“For what?”

Garrett ignores you and slides out of bed himself, snagging his shorts off the ground. A shirt and a pair of socks follow after, quietly paired with a beanie that will do little to cover his wayward curls from your incessant tugging. When he secures his running shoes in one hand, you breeze through an internal monologue that begs the question if you can feel guilty while still melting into a puddle at his feet.

“You just started the season,” you object quietly. “I’m not asking you to do this.”

Garrett shrugs while tightening his laces. “Okay, but you’re not asking me. I want to.”

“Coach is going to kill you if anything happens to you,” you try.

Something soft and vulnerable passes across his face before he can stop it. “And what do you think I’m going to do if anything happens to you?”

Your mouth closes on your next protest.

Garrett lets himself smile at that, chuckling softly. “Exactly.” He places a kiss against the side of your head and then taps your ass on his way out. “At least let me eat something first.”

Garrett descends the stairs with you in tow. Dean lounges across the sofa with his hands behind his head, presumably unwinding for the night, but he turns his head at your entrance, grimacing down at the two pairs of sneakers and running gear.

“Honey.” He whistles slowly, shaking his head at you. “When he barks orders, they’re at us, not at you - you know that, right?”

Garrett grumbles while you laugh. You leave the two of them to grab your boyfriend a banana or protein bar or anything that will make him considerably less grumpy.

“What’s going on, Cap?” Dean asks, looking at Garrett now. “Are you having another crisis?”

Garrett rolls his eyes but nudges his head fondly at where you’re in the other room. “She wants to go running.”

“Oh.” Dean pats his thighs and stands. “Why didn’t you just say so? Let me grab my shoes.”

“Dude, what the fuck?”

Tucker gets wind of this and calls from the staircase landing, “I’m in!”

Logan appears in the living room like a ghost. “I’m game. Is this an official NCAA-mandated workout?”

“This isn’t an anything,” Garrett stresses. “None of you are coming.”

Dean rests his hands on his hips. “Our girl doesn’t leave this house without her guard dogs.”

“Serious question, D,” Logan pipes in. “Were you dropped on your head as a child?”

“I resent that.”

Tucker ambles down the stairs, now fully dressed and seemingly prepared for war instead of basic cardio. “She’s not our girl,” he adds, much to Garrett’s relief. “She’s Garrett’s girl. And Garrett is going to bite your ankles.”

Dean and Logan laugh. Garrett plans out just how much bodily harm he can do to them before you walk back into the living room. Tucker frowns throughout all of this, something you quietly thank him for when you return.

“She’s her own girl, too,” you murmur, handing Garrett a granola bar without looking at him, but your hip bumps into his. He burns where you brush your fingers against his open palm.

Dean sobers. “That’s right. Girl power.” He holds out his hand for a high five, which you ignore.

Garrett scowls. “I’m being a good boyfriend. You all invited yourselves.”

Logan has already tugged on his shoes, stretching at the front door. “Actually, a run just sounded nice.”

“That’s what I said!” You beam at him. Garrett wishes he could direct it back to himself.

Garrett looks at all of his friends and the girl who has changed his life in a short period of time beside him. He thinks of his bed, where he would much rather be with you safely tucked into it, and how very few people have been able to get him out of it as quickly as you got him to tonight.

“Okay,” he appeases everyone, rolling his neck. “We can do this, but she calls the shots.”

Behind his back, where no one else can see it, you slip your fingers beneath the hem of his shirt. He feels it everywhere.

The guys start calling you “captain” that night. It sticks forever. Dean goads you constantly, picking up his pace before he suddenly slows and idles next to you again, laughing. Logan listens to his headphones and stays steady on your left, but offers you approving smiles when you leave Dean in the dust. Tucker never falters in his stride and never loses his breath, not even when he shares enough embarrassing stories about all of them.

Garrett trails a small distance behind you, always watching your next step.

That’s when you realize you may love him more than anyone you have ever loved before.

One After

Logan bends over and laughs so hard he almost throws up. Dean flattens his mouth into a scowl.

"They're calling it Blowjob Gate," Logan wheezes. Tucker snickers and high fives him. "A national crisis."

"I fucking hate both of you," Dean replies sweetly. "Where's Garrett?"

Logan wipes his eyes, still coughing enough that Dean takes a quick look around the backyard to locate any equipment he can ream at his head.

"Oh." Logan suddenly sobers after a moment. "He's in the garage."

"Okay." Dean thinks he may be missing a point. "And why does that make you look guilty?"

"We're, ah, going across the street to mount a TV. She said it was an emergency."

"What the fuck?" Dean wonders if he's allowed to feel offended. "Why didn't she ask me?"

Tucker stops pulling from his Gatorade to shoot Dean a disbelieving frown. "Probably because she's afraid to hear slurping every time she calls you."

Dean ignores that. "I can mount a TV."

Logan and Tucker share another sneaky glance.

"I don't just mount women, you dicks," Dean stresses when he catches the mischievous glint in their eyes.

Tucker is the first to break. Dean flashes them both his middle finger and stalks around the side of the house until he finds Garrett exactly where Logan said he would be.

Garrett doesn't look up from the toolbox. "Hey, D."

"You know I can mount a TV, right?"

Garrett furrows his eyebrows at Dean. "Yeah, man, I know you can mount a TV."

"Great, so why didn't she ask me to?"

Garrett thinks about Hannah and how she regulates him so much he rarely gets these sort of hot flashes anymore, but he understands enough about why Dean might be seething.

Garrett nods placatingly. "I see." A smirk spasms its way onto his face.

Dean throws his hands into the air. "What the hell is everyone's problem today?"

"You want to mount her a TV?" Garrett shrugs. "Go ahead. Logan and I can hang back."

"It's the principle," Dean affirms, steamrolling past his best friend's appeasement. "You call me, I'm busy, I still manage to get sugar over to your house, but now I'm not good enough or helpful enough to install something so basic? Does she think I'm a moron?"

Garrett is still smiling, not saying anything, and it's downright displacing.

"Whatever." Dean huffs. "Where's the drill bits?"

You are absolutely not expecting blonde hair when it knocks impatiently half an hour later.

"You said this was an emergency," he grumbles in lieu of a greeting, emotionless. "Do you have the mount, or do I need to buy that, too?"

"It's girls' night," you explain pathetically.

Dean struggles to not roll his eyes in your face. "How is that an emergency?"

You step back when he enters over the threshold and starts moving towards the living room like he's studied the floorplans online. He locates the mount you did indeed already purchase, but it's propped up against a bunch of unhung girlish streamers that bleed pink and deposit glitter everywhere.

You try to smile; it might come out like a grimace. "Because I'm throwing a Love Island watch party, and we can't watch it if there's no TV?"

Dean glares at you in disbelief.

When you add, "And I made a themed dinner menu," quietly followed by, "I invited Hannah because I thought Garrett was going to be the one helping," Dean clenches his jaw so tight his eyes twitch.

"You should've called me."

"Oh." You frown. "I didn't think you would want to be bothered."

Dean despises that statement more than having his orgasm interrupted. "Well, I'm not bothered."

"Okay," you murmur, shy.

"Okay," he says, final.

You look to where he's unpacking various items you wouldn't be able to label with a gun to your head. His hands, massive and veiny, make everything else look so small.

So you can't entirely blame just yourself when your brain short-circuits and you ask, "Do you want some lemonade while you work?"

Dean pauses for a moment, a bolt trapped inbetween his teeth. "Sure," he says slowly. "That'd be nice."

Dean mounts your TV shirtless that day, sweat dripping down his back in a suggestive way that makes you want to lick something else off of him. You walk into the wall and stub your toe at some point, distracted. Later, you will whisper this to Hannah and gulp down your tropical cocktail while she asks what he smelled like and what his hands looked like to you and if you'll text him next time.

You will answer with: faintly of cedar cologne and something coconut - maybe deodorant - and then citrus later in the afternoon; strong and in control, clearly experienced with more than just home projects; and maybe, if he'll answer.

Unfortunately, the alcohol doesn't flush him out of your system.

-

Two After

Dean hears your scream before anyone else. He nearly topples over Tucker getting to the front door.

"Dean!" Logan calls after him, paces behind. "Don't be an idiot!"

Dean stumbles through your front door, which is already unlocked, a fact that both freezes his lungs with fear and also makes him angry enough to scold you about the importance of neighborhood safety later, when you are presumably fine.

He calls your name, elongating his stride when he doesn't see you anywhere on the bottom floor. He takes two stairs at a time, rounding the corner with zero weapons and zero conception of what is happening or who is in your house - only deeply troubled and enraged by a singular shriek.

He finds you and your roommates huddled outside a closed door; something within him collapses so suddenly when he sees all of you standing upright. He delicately pushes the three of you back, enclosing one hand around the doorknob and pulling tight like it might prevent whoever is on the other side from getting out, the other coming up to your face.

Logan pulls up the rear, breathing heavy. "You fast motherfucker," he pants.

You start to say something, but nothing will come out.

"What, honey?" Dean urges.

You're not sure which one of you he's asking, but all of you sort of melt anyway.

"Snake," one of your roommates whisper when you can't, "from the ceiling."

Logan straightens to his full height. "What?"

Dean just finds himself sagging forward with relief, temporarily curling his fingers against your face where he was seconds away from squeezing until they bit hard enough into your skin that you spoke.

"A snake fell from the vent when I was getting ready to shower," you whisper miserably, shuffling closer to Dean as if he's the sole proprietor of comfort in this household.

Finally past his fog, Dean's eyes snap down to where you are only covered in a flimsy towel. Another snake roars to life.

Annoying, but he can work with that. It's better than the alternative that had him sprinting over here.

"Okay," he murmurs, allowing himself one last touch of your cheek before he pulls away completely. "Jesus, fuck. But okay."

Logan puts both of his hands on top of his head, still panting. "What do we do?"

Dean tries to hide his satisfaction when you idle closer again despite him pulling away. He takes his hand off the doorknob and settles it against your lower back instead, hoping to center you, which seems braver than taking on a reptile himself. He sears you through the towel by touch alone.

He looks at you and your friends. His fingers catch against where they're soothing strokes against your hip.

"Come back to ours," he offers kindly, and your eyebrows shoot up. "We'll order pizza. We'll call animal control. We'll burn your whole house down after."

Your roommates laugh, completely dissolved of stress when him and Logan are around. You can't help but agree, even if it also plagues you with envy for a blink before it's gone.

Dean dips his chin down to you. "No more screaming," he says quietly, only to you. "Kind of broke my fucking heart for a second."

You hold the towel tighter around you. "It was an emergency."

-

Three After

It's an uncharacteristically hot, sweaty late September afternoon, and you can't sit still. Your bedsheets start sticking to you like a second skin.

You let out a frustrated grunt and kick your legs out further. The hum of your vibrator pulses where it's shoved firmly between your lips, motoring strongly and yet still not enough to replace the blonde head you keep envisioning between your thighs.

When your hips meet the humid air at the thought of him digging his fingers into the soft skin there, the vibrator gives one last lackluster push, stalls, and then flat out dies.

"Fuck," you whimper. "Fuck, fuck, fuck."

You reach into your bedside drawer to find nothing but unused condoms. You slide your panties back up unsteady legs and tiptoe to the hallway, checking to make sure your roommates are still gone. You rush down the stairs, frenzied and unsatisfied, opening and closing drawers you didn't know existed but must surely have batteries.

There are none.

You consider removing the ones in the remote for the TV Dean mounted only a few weeks ago, but then you get caught on his name in your head, and the flash that rocks through you is worse than the last. You press your legs together and stifle a moan.

Before you realize what you're doing, you're fumbling with your keyboard.

Hi, you type. Emergency. Do you have any AAA batteries?

In the other house, Dean sets the weights he was lifting back onto the bench. His mouth twitches at your name and the DO NOT ENTER sign emoji.

hi :), he types, then deletes, then retypes. hey. how many do you need?

You could cry. Two, please. I can come pick them up.

Dean has already made his way down to the kitchen by the time your text comes in. He's responding with two batteries in his other hand, already out the door and crossing the street without looking both ways, about to send a text that he'll bring them to you. Muscle memory kicks in - he shoulders through your front door without knocking because, surely, you're in the midst of breaking something important and he really should intervene for everyone's sake.

When his head comes up, his thumb is on the send button, and you're standing in the middle of the house in only a white shirt and small panties he can clearly see beneath, phone in one hand, a bright pink dildo in the other.

Dean's phone falls from his fingers and clambers to the floor. You remain stuck in place.

He should say sorry - he means to. He does feel awful about infringing on your privacy. He feels less of that when your traitorous body swoons at his presence and hardens your nipples. His mouth snaps shut when he notices.

"Don't," you breathe. You barely move your jaw to speak like that'll help any of this be less real. "Please... do not."

Dean doesn't know what he is or is not doing. Dean doesn't know what day it is. Dean now only knows the form you take when you're so horny it might kill you, and perhaps finally what your favorite color is.

The batteries feel much heavier in his hand than they did before. "Are these..." he tries. "Oh, fuck."

You stammer, "It's - well - yes - also - no -"

Each word is punctuated by a step Dean takes closer to you. Both of you are acutely aware that you don't retreat. You may actually lead yourself to him first, because how else would you find yourselves in the living room with the back of your knees folding into the couch while he stands above you?

He silently takes in your frazzled hair, heaving chest, and perspired skin. He stores all of it into long-term memory for a rainy day. He keeps looking down at your full breasts that are pointing directly at him in a way that is not subtle at all, and he opens his mouth to start apologizing again.

You drop each object into the couch and fist the locks at the back of his neck, pulling him down into you. His own hands land unceremoniously on either side of you before he rediscovers the control panel to his functioning and slides one hand against your back beneath your shirt.

You mewl something into his mouth. He curses another word into yours.

You are sloppy, a little uncoordinated, and he does not mind one bit. He meets every impatient thrust of your tongue with his own, pulling back on the fabric of your shirt when he needs to catch his breath and think clearly.

"Slow down," he rumbles. He deserves a peace prize for composing himself enough to be an adult when he wants to stay suctioned to your mouth forever. "Wait a minute. Let's talk about this."

"No," you plead against his lips, catching him at his cupid's bow and each corner and chin. "I need..."

Dean grips your lower jaw in his other hand and stops your fussing. He bites back a groan when you jut yourself against his clothed knee.

"What do you need, baby?" he rasps.

"Fuck," you whimper beneath his palm when your hips grind against him again, and that's enough of an answer.

He looks away for the one moment he needs to unscrew the bottom of your vibrator and impatiently shakes the dead batteries out. You might save them forever - knowing they are what got you into this predicament - if he doesn't get to them first.

Dean tightens his fingers imperceptibly against your face when the fresh set is in. "This what you need? Were you fucking yourself before I got here?"

You nod dumbly.

"Yeah?" He presses his forehead to yours and lets out a low chuckle he's not sure is real, especially if he's caught in some daydream and still truly back at his own house. "You got frustrated and had to call me over, didn't you, hmm? Wanted me to find you all needy like this and help fuck it out of you?"

You nod once more. Your pussy gets wetter; he feels the heat of it against his leg.

Dean doesn't break eye contact with you when he flicks the machine back to life and barely drags it against the outside of your thigh. "This okay?"

You know he won't accept a nod this time, so you whisper, "Yes."

"Your roommates home?"

"No. Please."

Dean's stare darkens. The tip of the dildo gets closer to where you desperately want him instead. He steadily moves a strand of hair away from your face at the same moment he fixes the pulse at the apex of your thighs. He carefully adjusts himself against the couch, still hovering above you, not quite allowing anything to touch you yet.

You hook an ankle at the small of his back. He bites the tip of your nose. Every atom charges between you when the first vibration finds your covered sex.

Dean holds it there, watching in quiet wonder as you slouch against the back of the couch and widen your knees for him. He pushes further into the space and crowds you, dropping his mouth to your throat.

He looks down and struggles to breathe as the silicone is drawn into your cunt, your smaller hand pulling back on your panties to create a naked space. Your other stills against his chest, steadying the rest of you. He needs something to ground himself too, so he finds the crease above your waist with the hand that doesn't begin twisting the toy.

Your eyes go wide, an attempt of his name flying past your lips. You can only pay attention to his breath against your ear and the way his strong wrist contracts with every turn. The white-hot flame stokes itself inside your tummy. You physically push down on it.

Dean catches the movement. "Fuck," he growls. "Yeah, baby, just like that. You feel it deep there?"

You nod frantically, still stupid. Dean takes quiet pride in that but does not goad you with it. You may finally find a sentence or two when you notice him start to slide to the floor, his hand connecting you still.

“What are you doing?” you stutter.

Dean shushes you against your swollen clit. He licks a broad stroke from the bud down however far he can get until he tastes your leftover juice on the tail end of the pink that is almost completely inside of you. He relaxes his grip at the bottom of the toy, but then twists up once more, stretching you full.

Both of your hands fly to the top of his head, your own falling against the furniture roughly enough that you wince. Dean would have padded the force with his hand if he wasn’t busy lapping at you like it’s his job.

It’s either that or he might die if he stops.

You feel his stubble everywhere. His spit mixes in with your own slick, which is now pebbling down your thighs and into the upholstery, something you deem a later problem as the dildo taps against your g-spot each time he fucks you with it.

And every time he speaks, rough and sure against your clit, you vibrate there, too.

“That’s it,” he keeps cooing. “So fuckin’ wet, it’s all I can hear. You gonna come for me? Come all on my tongue, sweet girl. Use me.”

You clench and he notices. He looks up at you, eyelashes unfairly long, lips sodden. "You like that," he identifies softly. "Making up emergencies just to get me over here and work you open."

He doesn't wait for your wrecked answer - he latches his mouth onto you once more. You do as you're told; you use him, and then you come at the very moment he clicks to one speed higher on the vibrator and lightly grazes his teeth against your clit.

Dean helps you through it, crooning things that are part approving and sympathetic, another half condescending and ribbing. You let it all float over you until your skin is cool and your brain isn't as loud as it was before he walked into your mess.

The vibrator slows, still inside of you, and Dean edges it out slowly until it comes back glossy. He falls back onto his haunches, stares at it in his hand, and doesn't react to anything at all until you brush your fingers through the hair at his forehead and start laughing.

It's a breathy thing, sweet and marginally uncertain. It makes Dean smile until his cheeks hurt, and then you're both laughing, him holding your vibrator, you delicately brushing your thumb against his skin like you might want to remember the feeling forever.

It's oddly domestic. It's ruined when your phone, which had fallen beneath you into the cracks of the cushion, buzzes from a text that certainly has not been sent from Dean.

But from a Connor, Dean sees when the screen flashes bright in the median, reading: I'll pick you up at 8 tomorrow. ;)

It's not a difficult message to pick apart while you lay there, partially naked, Dean's throat now bobbing with something green and ugly.

"Dean," you start quietly. Your legs close as you sit up, your shirt covering enough of you that he can finally look away, breaking himself from the spell.

"Right," he drawls instead of acknowledging you. Something insecure ticks at him for the first time in a long time, and he's mean before he can filter himself. "You only come running when you need something from me."

"No," you emphatically interject. "It's not like that. I was thinking about you all day. Please believe me, I -"

He nods sharply enough that you stop speaking. He stands to his full height. He can hardly look at you when he bites out, "Next time you need a favor, call Logan. Call Garrett. Call Tucker. Call Connor. Don't fucking call me."

He picks his phone up from where he left it on the floor and leaves without looking back.

He doesn’t come out of his room for dinner that night.

-

Four After (& an actual emergency)

Dean has been watching the clock on his laptop for the last hour and a half, getting absolutely nowhere with the essay that's due Monday morning. Even if the pre-law jargon isn't funneling correctly into his brain, he knows he's not an absolute idiot; he knows the procrastination has everything to do with your date tonight. He can't stop thinking about it.

He wonders what you're wearing. He wonders if your lips are that soft shade of strawberry. He wonders if you smell faintly like vanilla custard or tart raspberries today. He wonders if you're nervously wringing your hands in front of you, decides he hates thinking about you feeling anything other than joy, and then wonders if your hands are elsewhere, but preferably not on the asshole sitting across from you. He wonders what will happen to him and life itself if he finds out you kissed someone else. He then wonders if your kiss will be different than the one you gave him, whether better or worse.

He wonders what noises you will make for someone who is not him.

He backspaces on an entire paragraph that ends up straying from high-frequency trading practices to threats of bodily harm.

He might fall asleep at some point, tangled in his headphones at his desk, hands in fists. He's really not sure. All he knows is that a familiar vibration - one that is now different from all his other contacts - yanks him out of it when the clock reads 11:32PM.

Dean will never, ever forget the little hitch your lungs make when he answers.

"Dean?" you whisper before he's even said anything. "Can you come pick me up, please? I'm at Malone's. My phone is about to die, and - I really want to go home."

Your breath catches on the last word. That's when he hears the tears. That's when everything goes red.

His fingers are already closing around his keys, voice deathly quiet. "Are you safe?"

There are so many other questions he wants to ask (what did he do, which hand, where does he live?), but that one comes out quicker than the rest.

You grip your own phone tighter in your hand, back pressed against one of the stall doors. "Yes. I think."

Dean would curse if he wasn't handling a fragile situation. "You think?"

The leather interior is cool beneath his legs. He guns his car into start without releasing the call wedged between his shoulder and his ear.

Chin quivering, you nod even though he can't see you. "I'm - in the bathroom."

"Good girl," comes out gently before he can stop it. You both hold your breath on either end of the line. "Stay there. Don't come out for anyone, not even if your phone dies, okay? I'll come get you."

You pull your phone away from your wet face to see the low battery warning. All you can manage is, "Dean, I'm - I'm really sorry for calling."

His eyebrows pull low while he maneuvers throughout the dark streets. "Why are you sorry?" he demands, but it's not angry as much as it is panicked. "You did the right thing by calling me. I'll always come fix it, baby. Just -"

The call drops.

Dean lets go of the bellow he's been holding in since he saw your name flash on his screen. "Dammit!”

He jerks his wheel into the bar's parking lot like an actual emergency vehicle would, barely twisting his keys out of the ignition by the time he's haphazardly parked across three spots ten minutes later.

Once he storms in, he almost stops and asks the general vicinity which one of them made you cry, but he spots the smugness on one particular face so quickly he just about snaps his neck.

He flexes his fingers once, so restrained he might be proud of himself later. "What the fuck did you do to her?"

The prick just shrugs once and looks at Dean over the top of his beer bottle. "Who, the frigid bitch?"

Dean goes still. Conversations halt around him. Stools scrape into action to get a better look. Another him would fidget in agitation; all he can think about is you crying, alone, hiding somewhere he isn't already. He straightens slowly.

"Do not mistake me walking away as letting that go," he warns, jaw tight.

Before he can decipher the look that flashes across the other man's face or even let his body win the fight against his brain, he turns to the direction of the bathroom.

Two other girls are blocking the entrance, but shuffle out of his way when he approaches with enough stiffness in his shoulders that he screams everything but sexually deviant.

He spots your Mary Janes in the crack of one of the doors. If this wasn't an emergency, he would snark about how impractical of a shoe that is for a sticky bar just to get a reaction out of you.

Alternatively, he murmurs your name and raps his knuckles against the chipping paint. He practices patience. He gets the wind knocked out of him once you fumble the clasp open and all but throw yourself into his arms.

They find your upper body instantly, hauling you against him as tightly as you fall into him. One of his big hands go up to cup the back of your head, muffling your snivels into his chest.

"Okay," he murmurs, more to himself than to you at first. Then, softer, "Hey. I'm here. You're okay."

Your fingers shake where they clutch his shirt; he calculates that as another punch in the mouth, or dick, or throat, or wherever he can get to first when he walks out of here with you safely in tow.

"What happened, sweetheart?" he asks carefully, protectively turning you at an angle when someone else walks in and tries getting past. He hides your face from anyone else.

"So stupid," you croak, and he makes a small sound at that because it absolutely is not. "He was just - just a little handsy, and didn't like it when I moved my legs, and then - and then made a comment about being my ride and leaving me here if I wasn't going to - to - put out.”

Dean's fingers close around the base of your neck. He can't speak for a moment, swallowing past his rage.

Which is fine, because then you admit in the tiniest of whispers, something so real and hushed against him, "And I just wanted you."

Dean finally closes his eyes against the top of your head, letting most of the anger disappear in one final exhale.

"Good," is all he says back.

When you pull away from him a few moments after he's splayed open his whole heart with just one word, he sweeps both of his thumbs at the drying bits of mascara underneath your eyes. You smile weakly at him while he traces the rest of you with his gaze like he's looking for anything else to be out of place. He fixes a part of your sleeve that slouches too far off your shoulder.

"Let's get you home," he murmurs. He's not sure if he means his place or yours, but it's sure as hell not here. "You gonna be okay if we go out there?"

You wrinkle your nose, maybe to stop a fresh wave of tears. Dean lets you take another minute to gather yourself until you're nodding and interlacing your fingers with his.

Dean composes himself, too, and then he starts out of the bathroom with you positioned behind him, your hands linked and unbreakable. He keeps his stare straight ahead while you count the divots in the old floor. No one breathes too loudly as you pass. No one says anything. You're not sure if Connor is still there because you don't look above the way Dean's shoulder blades furiously contract with each step ahead of you, but Dean keeps track of him the whole time.

When you're close enough to the exit, he maneuvers you in front of him by the tangle of your hands. He blocks the view behind him with his broad body when you come to a stop. He takes his car keys out of his pocket and releases your fingers to fold them into your palm, dipping down slightly to your height.

"Do me a favor," he whispers, forcing a smile he hopes is comforting and warm. "Go sit in my car. Turn on whatever station you want. Don't unlock it 'til I come get you."

Dean smooths the frown that appears between your eyebrows with his mouth. Your protest ends there. You nod, squeezing his fingers hard enough with a silent threat that they better be in tact when he comes back to you. He fights a grin.

Dean waits until the doors close fully behind you. He doesn't move until he hears the unmistakable beep of his car unlocking through the dirty glass. And then, with the awareness of a predator stalking its prey or possibly just an incredibly pissed off hockey player who can skate backwards and find his target any time of day, he whirls and connects his fist with Connor's jaw.

The bartenders, some theater girls who have always been nice to you, look away and pretend they never see the first punch - or the following two - land.

He's rubbing his mouth with his thumb, chuckling darkly to himself, completely unharmed and totally in one piece, when he finds you in the dark.

You unlock the car for him. He slides into the driver's seat and takes one good look at you, your face a little less crumpling now. He leans over the console and presses the tenderest of kisses against your cheek, right below your last tear's streak.

"I'm sorry," you repeat while he stays there, attached to you. "I'm so sorry. About yesterday. About tonight. You're not - I don't see you as just a fixer, Dean, I promise."

Dean nods lightly against where his stubble scratches your jaw. You sniffle and turn into him better, nudging your nose unsurely against his.

"I know," he murmurs. "But if we're both being honest, you did use me for an actual emergency tonight, and I'm not mad at you, baby."

"You're not mad?"

"Not mad." He brushes his lips against your temple. “It’s nice, to be needed.”

Your heart flutters. "Wanted," you correct quietly.

"Right." Dean smiles properly now, knowing you're telling the truth with your entire being. "Wanted... and needed. You're fucking terrifying when your batteries run out."

You wipe at your eyes despite your own laugh. He places his forearm along the back of your seat, reversing his car from the terrible park job and the one guy he wouldn't mind getting suspended - or arrested - for.

"Tomorrow," he supplies carefully when you're back on the main road, "we'll talk about it more."

With one hand on the wheel, he leaves his other balanced open, hoping you'll take it into your lap.

You do, and all of Dean's doubt fades away.

You want him. You need him. He considers it all a win.

The first clue should have been the water damage on the ceiling in the lobby. The second was likely when the agent texted that she was running late to the showing. A nonnegotiable of “easily accessible via stairs” was mentioned once or twice early on but clearly had been ignored based on the luxury complex’s penthouse, which would have counted as strike number three if you and Garrett weren’t so damn excited to start your own life in Boston together.

Garrett looks down at his phone for guidance. “We can take…” His brows furrow. “...thirty-three flights of stairs.”

You look down at his calves, which you know are still fatigued from the Bruins’ conditioning sessions based on the miniscule limp he’s been sporting for the past few days. You also know he won’t ever admit it.

Garrett catches where you’re staring and scowls. “I feel like you’re going to say something deeply offensive about my manhood.”

“Let’s just take the elevator,” you offer coolly.

“I’m not asking my claustrophobic fiancé to get into a metal deathtrap for a lease we’re not going to sign,” he deadpans.

You roll your eyes, but your hand finds his forearm where he’s warm and safe; nothing bad ever happens to you there. “You take elevators every day.”

He softens underneath your touch. “Have you ever asked me to go home for Thanksgiving?”

“No.”

“Same thing.”

A resident takes that moment to brush past you two in the hallway, headed towards the elevator that undoubtedly only accepts one of those keycards that cost $150 to replace.

You purse your lips and try to sound confident. “What if the rooftop is really pretty? It’s better than waiting in the car at the next stop. Two elevator rides won’t kill me.”

Garrett’s eyes have slanted over to the rapidly retreating back. You start steering his arm in that direction.

“Come on,” you coax gently. “I know you want to see it.”

A small smile plays at his lips, and you know you’ve won him over like you always do. “Two rides,” he repeats. “Rooftop. We make out. We leave this place forever.”

“Who said anything about making out?”

“Are you in or not?”

You’re laughing by the time Garrett’s long strides catch the sliding doors. He slots his hand into the opening and greets the disgruntled occupant who smells stronger than cigarettes and fixes his sunken eyes onto you immediately.

“Rooftop, please,” you beam, although the first bead of sweat has started forming at your temple.

The man bares his yellowing teeth at you. Without looking away, he pushes the floor button with one long fingernail.

“Jesus,” Garrett huffs underneath his breath. He quietly fixes himself to your back and locks a protective arm around your waist. He stays that way - chin above your head, hand flexed at your hip, glare trained on the other man - until the doors open a few stops above the ground floor.

When it’s just you two again, you murmur, “See, this isn’t so bad,” while Garrett starts grumbling about firing the agent as soon as you're back in his Jeep.

The fourth red flag should have been the grating sound the doors made when they closed after an indefinite pause. The fifth would have been the way the lights flickered at the tenth and eleventh floor, but you’re too busy nervously picking underneath your fingernails while Garrett watches for any signs of distress on your face.

“You’re doing so good,” he praises gently, now facing you with his hands on either side of the railing behind you. The statement would flip your tummy for a very different reason if nausea wasn’t commandeering most of the space already.

His finger just grazes the band of your engagement ring when the elevator gives its first jerk. Before he even stills, the box rattles dramatically, quiets down in that deafening sort of way that makes you hyperaware of life itself, jerks once more, and then freezes completely, leaving you two suspended twenty plus floors midair while encased in metal.

Everything goes dark.

For a moment, all you hear is Garret’s sharp intake of breath - or maybe it’s yours. You can only feel the wetness gathering at the back of your neck. You think you might open your mouth to say something real and concealed by dark humor, but your tongue dries up. You can barely recognize the shapes in front of you when Garrett pulls back to search for the emergency button in the pitch black.

When nothing happens on the first press, he considers pushing it down six more times in frantic succession; instead, his ears perk up at your little whimper, and suddenly he’s the professional athlete who grounds himself through his body and box breathes through his nose.

“Hey.” Strong hands cup your face, so infinitely gentle where they hold you. “Hey, baby. You with me?”

Your chest starts to puff restlessly. You can barely see your own fingers where they grip Garret’s shoulders, let alone his longer ones when they come up to your hair and start pushing clammy tendrils back from your eyes.

“Hey,” he tries again, sounding both patient and panicked as he softens his tone. “Talk to me. I’m right here.”

“Bad,” you gasp out. “This is bad.”

Garrett is shaking his head before you’ve finished that sentence. “This happens,” he lies easily, finger fishing for the button once more when he blocks your view from seeing his silhouette move.

Your voice sounds far away. “Can I… can I sit down?”

Garrett’s heart drops to his stomach. “Yeah, baby, ‘course you can. C’mere.”

Carefully and without moving the elevator more, Garrett curls his hands over your shoulders and slowly eases you down. The floor is cool beneath you, a stark contrast to the temperature of your skin. You unsteadily curl your knees to your chest and plop your face into them. Garrett continues standing above you, unsure if he should punch open the electrical box or comfort you, and for a small, silly second, he reverts back to his younger self, helpless and frozen.

Fix it.

Fix it.

Fix it.

Before the fear gets the chance to embed itself in him too, he shakes his head and blinks it all away. He crouches down in front of you, so painstakingly aware of scaring you and the elevator into lurching.

“You’re alright,” he murmurs, mouth somewhere close to where the first bead of sweat was before it fell. “I’m not going anywhere without you.”

Your body tightens. Garrett makes a soft sound, finding your arms where they wrap too tightly around your legs. He rubs his hands along them, trying to loosen you. You don’t budge.

He switches tactics. “Through your nose and out your mouth, baby, come on. That’s it. Deep breaths.”

They wash over your legs in uneven spurts. Garrett grinds his molars but doesn’t squeeze you where he holds you. He clicks the button one more time, grimaces when the elevator rattles again, and uses the distraction to bring himself fully down to your level before he pulls you into his lap.

He tucks his legs on either side of you, cocooning you against his chest. His fingers return to your shoulders, kneading whatever tension lies there. You press your mouth into his throat, inhaling his woodsy scent that always seems to mix in with the fresh laundry of his soft shirt and remnants of this morning’s black coffee and protein shake.

Garrett hopes his breathing pattern convinces yours to do the same. He doesn’t mention the procedure again, now opting for the type of quiet comfort that comes only from being around the person who goes to sleep next to you and wakes up happily with your hair in their mouth.

When the air becomes stale and scary again, he starts to hum.

It’s a melody that’s muted but familiar, something his mom used to sing all the time. It used to annoy him when she didn’t realize she was singing it everywhere; he used to roll his eyes. Looking back on it now, with you tucked closely underneath his chin and your fingers clutching his shirt, it might be his favorite song ever.

Your next breath unfurls quietly into his throat. He breaks from the song momentarily for an encouraging noise, tightening his hand at the back of your neck.

“That’s it,” he murmurs. “Good job, baby.”

When he hums the next verse, each vibration settles against your ear and moves deep into your chest. You try to press even closer to him and frown when you cannot in your current position. He notices, because he always notices, and curls one arm beneath your legs before you’re sideways in his lap, draped over his muscular thighs.

The power flickers above you; neither of you notice.

The song dies down quietly. Garrett repositions you against his shoulder and kisses your forehead, letting his mouth linger there.

“Guess what I learned recently?” he murmurs against the top of your head.

You barely register his new strategy to relax you - you just do so anyway against him like it’s basic nature. You wet your lips and try, “What?”

Garrett smiles into your hair at the first sign of your voice. “Hey, baby,” he says gently. “Good to have you back. I’m going to tell you facts until you tell me to shut up.”

You almost laugh, taken aback. “What?” you ask again, a little stronger this time.

“Yup. Octopuses have three hearts.”

You sit up against his shoulder, sniffling. “Okay…”

“Cows have best friends.”

Your next small laugh is full of water. “Have you been watching National Geographic again?”

He ignores that but rewards you with another kiss to your forehead. “Goats have really weird pupils.”

“That’s nice, honey.”

“Penguins propose with rocks.”

You press your nose into his neck. “You proposed with a rock.”

Garrett lightly taps your knee and then skims his fingers up and down the full length of your leg in a slow, tantalizing rhythm that calms you completely. “Exactly.”

“But you’re a Bruin.”

Garrett mock gasps. “Does Sidney know that?”

You groan into his skin. “You’re ridiculous.”

“You are fully folded up into me right now,” he teases quietly, but he wouldn’t have you any other way.

You tighten for a moment before you relax once more. You turn to weave both of your arms around his neck, pulling him fully into you because the contact has become not enough again.

“You’re okay,” he repeats softly. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Both of you settle into silence at that, knowing he means it. He nuzzles his nose into your hair, moving his head back and forth with it every time he breathes. Your pattern matches his this time.

A few minutes later, the first crackle of the speaker in the elevator comes. “Is anyone in there?”

Garrett tightens his hold on you and tucks your face back into his neck. “Yes!” he calls back impatiently. “I think one of your residents hexed us.”

You giggle while the unknown presence pauses. “Sorry, repeat that?” it muffles through the box.

Garrett mumbles a “Nevermind,” and pats your hair down. “Any day now would be nice.”

You’re sweet even in stressful situations, so he presses his lips together when you shoot him a pointed look.

“So,” you whisper a few minutes later when the lights have come on and the firefighters are somewhere in the building. “Not this one, huh?”

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.