Inspired by [this] lovely post by @on-a-lucky-tide
Thinking about ghost who, since you moved in together, has always had a preferred side of the bed.
He doesn't like sleeping next to the wall, as you've come to learn. The fist few nights he would grumble and push you further onto the bed before snuggling up to your back with a "my spot now, love. Comes with the relationship."
Not that you mind, of course. You like how it almost feels like he envelops you, tucked between the wall and simon.
It's not until you two stay at a hotel this unofficial rule you've decided ghost lives by is brought into question.
You don't think much of the bed being in the center of the space, it's a standard layout. So you pick a side arbitrarily, exhausted and wanted to pass out. Only to peek your eye's open to ghost looming over you, frowning "yer in the wrong spot. I go there."
Which....makes no sense. There's no wall, no nice space to hide in. The thought ghost had a designated place without the presence of a wall makes you question the entire rule itself!
Every place after that, you start taking greater note, until it huts you.
Ghost always sleeps on the side closest to the door.
In fact....ghost is always closest to the door. Manhandling you into a different seat at restaurants, or climbing over you on the sofa to claim "his spot".
A physical barrier between you and the entrance.
Ghost has been protecting you this whole time without you even realizing. He's been enveloping you in his form of safety. If someone were to enter with bad intentions, they'd reach him before you.
Ghost huffs in confusion when you cuddle him much tighter than usual that night, but indulges either way. He's just happy to keep one of the few good things in his life safe.
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simon riley who quits smoking for you without a second thought
it was a nasty habit he's had since his teens, his way of dying a little bit with each lit cigarette. he never expected to last this long, with all the packs he goes through, bullets dodged, and the battles he's barely survived. he never thought to quit, always itching for a stick between his fingers to ease his anxiety and shaky hands.
before he met you, he never had a reason to. now that he has you, tucked into his side and leeching off his warmth, he knew he had to change. the little looks of disappointment every time he went for a smoke gutted him, or when you'd grimace every time you had to swallow his cum made him grit his teeth. or simply the idea that his smoking could kill your pretty lungs.
he quit cold turkey, like an idiot. it was the hardest thing he's been through, even if he wouldn't admit it, and he's been shot, stabbed and many other questionable things.
but it'd be easy in comparison if it meant keeping you healthy, giving you the live you deserved with him.
sure, he was as grumpy as ever and itched to put his lighter to good use, his hands shaking at his sides with restraint. he needed something to do, something to take his mind off the bad thing he craves.
and there's nothing more he craves than you. lips wrapped around your clit as he feasts on your puddy. tongue laving over the swollen flesh with half lidded eyes, murmuring excuses of, "jus' need m'lips 'n 'ands busy, luv." plunging thick fingers into your plushy cunt, slick and soaked with arousal as you let him. you're so proud of him for quitting, letting him overstimulate your pussy if it meant he never picked up another pack.
so instead of smoking ten a day, he'd eat you out ten times more instead.
"Hey, baby, you gotta wake up." Robby coos as he rubs your hip under the blanket. "If you're not up by the time Jack gets home, you know he'll be mad."
"Noo, I'm so tired." You groan, burying your face into the pillow when Robby peels open your blackout curtains.
"Well, did you stay up all night watching Korean convenience store videos again?" He teases as he cradles you in his arms, lifting you up to carry you to the bathroom.
"No... Was watching restaurant videos." You mumble, whining a little when he sets you on the bathroom counter. "I want to go back to bed. It's five in the morning." You huff as robby nudges your mouth open with your toothbrush.
"Aww, is my poor baby tired?" He mocks softly as he throughly brushes your teeth for you. "Well, I'm sure Jack will let you take a nap with him after you work out."
You loved your boyfriends, but you sometimes hated how strict of a schedule they kept you on. Sure, you felt better than ever before, but something about it didn't seem fair.
"If you're really good, maybe you can have your favorite bunny shaped waffles." Robby coos, groping your ass when you bend over the counter to spit out the toothpaste. "Be good and start the coffee pot for me."
Summary: Somehow you find yourself co-parenting with the biggest manwhore in all of Briar U.
⋆˚࿔ tina's note 𝜗𝜚˚⋆ welcome to the series that will hopefully become something! taglist is open!
College Baby masterlist
Hockey house - Thursday afternoon.
"Yo, whoever flushed the blue package baby wipes when they clearly say do not flush next time you're the one's unclogging the toilet" Logan wipes his sweat covered forehead with his forearm and points at his two teammates sitting in the living room "And where the hell is Dean?"
"Seb emergency" Garrett answers without looking up from his textbook "Apparently he lost his ducky and wouldn't stop crying"
"I will never get over you saying the word ducky" Tucker snickers.
"Dude, you've been singing the itsy bitsy spider for days" Garrett shoots back.
"She's a ver determined spider" The curly haired guy almost looks offended at the quip.
"I'll take the itsy bitsy spider over baby shark any day" Logan's putting his toolbox away in the cabinet under the sink when he notices the bright yellow plush he's all too familiar with "Hey I found ducky!" He lifts it up with a triumphant smile.
The baby's cries are loud against his ear when he calls Dean "Fuck you want?" The clearly stressed dad answers the phone, in the background Logan can hear you yelling at him for swearing in front of the baby.
"Now, that's no way to talk to your savior" Logan frowns.
"I stopped going to church when I was 12" Dean snaps back "But maybe I need to take this kid in for an exorcism"
"Stop talking about our son like that!" You complain, probably taking the crying baby out of his arms because Logan notices the cries are more distant now.
"Anyways, I found ducky" Logan says.
"I fucking love you" The blonde sounds so relieved, already moving to get his car keys "Seriously, this weekend, drinks on me and you get first dibs"
When you, Dean and Seb show up at the house a little while later you look like you've been in combat for weeks. Both your hair desheveled, your clothes crumpled and faces flushed and if it wasn't for the milk stain on your shirt and the crying child in Dean's arms, your friends would be sure that you had been fooling around in Dean's car before walking in.
"Hey bud" Logan regards the squirming kid belting his little heart out "Look what your favorite uncle found for you"
"You're not the favorite shithead" Garrett says from the couch.
"Neither are you" Tucker adds.
Sebastian stops crying when he notices the yellow duck plushie in Logan's hands, instead of loud wails he just hiccups with big wet blue eyes as he's handed the stuffed animal.
"I would so get mad at you for cursing in front of him but I'm too tired for that" You tell Garrett already on your way upstairs to Dean's room, probably for a well deserved nap.
"Here" Dean plops the now calm child into Tuckers lap ignoring the laptop he was working on "You're the least likely to let him die" And walks away "He's due for a feeding in like an hour"
"So when do you think mom and dad will realize they're soulmates?" Logan asks the sleepy baby over the couch.
Malone's - Saturday morning.
"You know, you could always just bring him in with you" Della offers, you're going over your new job as a waitress.
"That won't be necessary" You tell her "He's going to the campus daycare and Dean's looking after him when he's free, but thank you so much"
"Of course hon, just know the option is there if you ever need it. As long as you do your job I have no problem with the little dude joining you" She sends a smile your way and walks away leaving you at the counter with your breakfast.
"Here you go, sorry for the wait" Hannah, who you've learned you're going to be sharing many shifts with places a glass of orange juice in front of you.
"Thanks" You say back.
The bell on top of the door dings and you hear the rowdy hockey players that have become your baby's family and therefore your family walk in.
"Hey mama" Dean plops down next to you, Seb strapped into that ridiculously expensive baby carrier he insisted on buying "What are you doing here so early?" He steals your glass of juice and drinks it whole in one big gulp, you give him an annoyed look.
"I was coordinating everything with Della" He looks confused "The job? As a waitress? I told you about it last night when I dropped Seb off?"
"I was half dead by the time you dropped by" He admits "I woke up at 4 am for the roadie and didn't get to nap at all in the bus, sorry" He then waves Hannah over "Can I get the big daddy breakfast with extra sausages and another orange juice please? Oh and a coffee, one cream two sugars"
"You got it" Hannah mumbles.
Dean turns back to you at the same time as he grabs Seb's hands that are outstretching towards the napkins in front of you "Anyways, why the hell are you getting a job?"
"Because I have things to pay?" You deadpan "I also have a meeting with the financial advisor in 40 minutes, the school agreed to let me hold onto my scholarship but even then, the rest of the money is still a little too much and I don't want to drain all my savings like that so… job" You motion to the place.
"Thanks" He tells Hannah when she places the three big plates, orange juice and coffee cup in front of him "Why didn't you tell me you needed money?"
"Because I don't need money from you" You shrug "Don't worry, Seb's getting all he needs, this is just for my stuff"
"You know I've gotchu whatever you need" He says, your mom reflexes save his breakfast from Sebastian's curious hands smashing into it.
"Thanks but I'm good" He doesn't like this, but he knows he's not going to win the argument so he just hums already planning how he's going to increment the money he sends you for Sebastian in a way that you won't instantly notice "Hand him over so you can eat before he faceplants into the eggs"
Your apartment - Monday night
"So I was thinking" Dean starts, he's on the floor doing tummy time with Sebastian.
"Oh no"
"Shut up" He shakes his head "I was thinking, if we make it to the frozen four this year, this little guy will be old enough to come see daddy play"
You make a face "I don't know"
"Oh come on, we can get him those huge earmuffs and get the puck bunnies to bodyguard" See, the thing about the puck bunnies is you shouldn't like them, but you can't help it. Sure, they are known for sleeping with the hockey players, but if you really think about it, they have a type and a limited dating pool in the school but they really don't harm anyone and they are nice once you get to know you. Oh and they love your kid because he is Dean's kid so really, you have no problem with them.
"How about this" You sit next to him with a yogurt cup that will most likely be stolen from your hands in just a few seconds "If you make it to the finals and the trip is not too long we'll make it"
"Great, going to order the ear muffs now" You know he's being truthful because he's already pulling up Amazon on his phone, the season is barely halfway through.
The Hockey House - Tuesday afternoon
"Dean if you don't pick your shit up I will throw it away" Tucker's yelling up the stairs when you walk into the house with Seb in your arms "Oh hey guys!"
"Hey Tuck" You give him a tired smile, at only six months old, Seb's decided that sleep is no longer something he's interested in.
"You look like you're about two seconds from collapsing" He frowns taking both the baby and baby bag from you.
"Feel like it too, he's decided he's allergic to sleeping more than 20 minutes at a time" You drop onto the couch with a sigh.
"I can watch him for a bit if you wanna nap" You throw up a thumbs up, your eyes already closed "Okay bud, today you're learning how to make a peach cobbler"
A while later you wake up to find Tuck cleaning the kitchen whit the baby strapped into his chest while humming a country song you don't recognize, the surprising thing? Seb's totally asleep, mouth open, little snores, drooling all over Tucker's chest asleep.
"Holy shit" You whisper making your way to the kitchen "You are magical Tuck"
"Huh?" He looks confused, then notices your gaze on the baby "Oh! He's been asleep for a while, I was explaining how to pick the perfect peaches to him and he just conked out" He shrugs as if it's nothing.
"John Tucker I think I might be in love with you" Of course that's the moment your baby's father decides to walk into the room, furrowed brows in annoyance at your words because although you two are not together he's not sure how he feels about you saying those words to one of his best friends.
"What the fuc-" He doesn't get to finish his sentence though because you practically throw yourself into him to cover his mouth, he catches you by your waist pressing you flush against him, frown still present in his face.
"Shut up" You whisper shout at him "I've been trying to get him to sleep for forever and he wouldn't settle now look at him"
Econ 201 - Wednesday morning
"Dude I have a problem" Dean's sitting next to his new friend, Beau, in class.
"You have a lot of those" Beau keeps taking notes of the board "It's the reason you're a hockey player"
"This is serious" Dean insists.
"What level of serious?"
"Camille tried sexting me last night and I didn't text back" Beau's pen basically drops from his hand and suddenly he's not into class at all becuase his buddy needs serious help if this problem is stopping him from sexting Camille freaking Green back.
"You have my undivided attention" The brunette says, his whole body turned to the blonde.
When your name comes out of Dean's mouth Beau gasps, yes, this is very clearly a serious problem if you're involved.
"Yesterday she told Tuck she was in love with him" Beau's eyes go impossibly wide at Dean's words "And it's been bugging me ever since"
"No bro like that's totally valid" Beau nods "If my baby mama said she was in love with my best friend I would go crazy too. So what happened next?"
"She told me to shut up because the baby was sleeping" Dean continues with his story "And then the other guys got home and we had dinner and then she left so we didn't get to talk but-"
"Gentlemen" The professor called, the class eerily quiet around them, all their classmates staring at the two "Anything to share with the class?"
Malone's - Wednesday night
"So" Garret plops down next to Tucker in the booth, throwing his arm around him "How's it feel to be a step dad?"
"Fuck you talking 'bout?" Tucker asks confused.
"It's all everyone on campus is talking about, John Tucker, the dad that stepped up" Logan says teasingly sitting on the other side of the booth, Tucker's still confused.
"Word on the street is that you'r dating Dean's baby mama" Garrett finally explains making the curly haired guy choke on his water.
"Where the hell is that coming from?" He asks "Wait, is that why everyone's been giving me weird looks?"
Dean arrives then with Beau by his side, the quarterback dapping him up before joining his own teammates leaving Dean to find his roommates.
"Why do you two look like you've pulled the prank of the year?" He asks Logan and Garrett who can't help but to cackle.
"Hey Tuck, I can give you a baby of your own if you want" A girl walking by winks at the Texan who gives his friends a mortified look.
Dean gives the table a questioning look "Apparently someone's been saying Tuck's dating your baby mama and has become" Garret starts, Logan joins with a big smile and at the same time they both say "The dad that stepped up"
"Wait… what?"
"Dean!" You barrell towards their table "What the hell did you do?"
"I didn't do anything" The blonde raises his hands.
"Then why is the whole campus thinking I'm in love with Tuck?" That's when it dawns on Dean.
"Beau you motherfucker!" The named looks up with confusion and then fear when he sees you by his friend's side "I'm going to break both your legs!"
The faint sound of waves filled your ears, mixed with the wet sound of Rafe's lips on your neck.
He was on top of you, pressing you slightly against the white pillows of the kingsized bed which had been untouched for months.
He rarely slept in his yacht, he invited girls there even less often.
However you were an exception, he'd do anything for you. And when you asked him to spend the weekend away alone in his yacht? How could he possibly say no.
The window was slightly ajar, enough for the sound of the waves to sneak in, but not enough for the sound of your moans to slip out. You thought so atleast.
Didn’t bother closing it.
– "I love you so much" he murmured against your mouth, hand tracing your thighs with slow, steady movements. "Fuck baby you looked so pretty today, you always do"
You smiled, deepening the kiss, it was slower now, more intimate and Rafe's hands slid beneath the hem of your blouse. His fingers brushing your bare skin in a way that made you shiver.
He groaned, – "You're wearing too many clothes baby" he kissed your collarbone. "Take them off before I go insane."
You giggled but let out a soft moan when his hands moved to the waistband of your skirt, pulling it off with practiced ease.
Your blouse followed, leaving you only in your lace underwear which you specifically wore for him and him only.
He took off his own shirt, tossing it somewhere on the floor beneath the bed. Your hands roamed his chest, your manicured nails travelling over his muscle.
He grinned, – "You like that don't you?"
You sighed, kissing him again for an answer. Your fingers curled around the hem of his underwear. Earning a low groan and some soft muttering from him.
Your panties landed on the floor, his boxers followed seconds after.
You tangled your fingers in his hair, arching into him with a moan as he finally pressed into you. He groaned, forehead pressing into yours as your hips rolled up to meet his, creating a beautiful rhythm between the two of you.
Your hands traced down his back, nails scratching slightly drawing sighs and moans from his lips as he moved inside you with precision, hitting your sweet spot over and over again.
His mouth found yours, tongue slipping inside, earning a soft moan from you as the tension grew tighter and tighter in your stomach.
– "You close yet?" He murmured against your mouth, hips moving just slightly faster.
You nodded, too caught up in the moment to be able to speak. His hand slid between you, fingers finding your clit and you came with a cry, hips bucking as he kept moving through your climax, searching for his own release.
When he came he kissed your neck, sucking gently on the skin as his hips still moved. – "Oh fuck you feel so good baby" he groaned.
– "Mmph I love you" you murmured, finally being able to form a whole sentence again.
✎ 𝐀𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: What do we think of this then? I can't decide if it's good or bad or something in between like wtf? Once again THANK YOU for all the love i've gotten on my recent posts it means the world to me !!
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Now imagine reader gets hit with some sort of experimental aphrodisiac on an op, a confirmed substance the team had been attempting to avoid.
Preliminary trials show subjects unable to stop themselves from seeking pleasure, overwhelmed with their libido. The entire ride back to base is tense, you sat in the back, overwhelmed and panting and—
Wait. No.
You seem....completely unaffected? Well, not totally, you're snuggling up to ghost a bit, but other than that you seem fine.
"What?" You finally huff when price glances at you for the fourth time in a minute, "yes, the drug is still in affect, I know what you're thinking."
"Well then shouldn't you be..." gaz trails off, face heated.
"Honestly? I don't see the big deal." You hunker down further against ghost, most of your kit having been discarded on the floor to avoid overheating "this feels like normal ovulation to me. Seems like a skill issue."
....no one mentions the fact price got hit with a much smaller dosage a few weeks prior and literally had to be sedated so he didn't do anything stupid before getting to a secure location.
They regard you with a....newfound flavor of respect after that.
Summary: Lounging around the pool at Smurf's house leads to something Andrew never expected
WC: ~1.6k
Warnings: always... creepy Pope and needy Pope and obsessed Pope
gif cred: @wesandresons
-
Lounging by the Cody’s pool was the perfect way to spend a lazy Sunday. Nothing to do except enjoy the sun and a cocktail or two. If your orbit crossed a Cody’s, it wasn’t a bad set up. Smurf would allow trusted people in her kitchen. They hosted parties all the time. But only extremely trusted individuals were given the front gate keypad code.
You had your towel, your coverup, and a book as you walked up to the keypad to punch in the code, the gate opening to you to enter in. You didn’t know if anyone was home but Smurf had assured you she didn’t mind you coming in to enjoy yourself at any time of the day or night. You were trusted by her. You wouldn’t invite anyone over. You wouldn’t make a mess. You wouldn’t steal or snoop around too much. You were the perfect innocent guest she liked having around for both public and personal reasons. No trouble was ever going to come from trusting you in her home.
It was about noon as you settled into the lounge chair. You didn’t know that anyone was around because you didn’t see anyone for about fifteen minutes. But then you thought a cocktail sounded nice so you went inside into the kitchen to fix yourself a drink (Smurf had shown you her extensive liquor collection).
“What’re you doing here?” A low voice from behind you asked.
The shot glass almost slipped from your hand. You’d whipped around. “Jesus, Andrew. You startled me.”
His eyebrows furrowed. “You’re in my house.”
“I’ve been outside for fifteen minutes.”
“Why’re you in the kitchen?”
“I’m making myself a cocktail.” You gestured to the shot glass, shaker, glass, and bottles.
“I would’ve made it for you.”
“I didn’t know you were home.”
“You could’ve called out.”
“I can make it myself.” You pointed out.
“You don’t have to, though.”
“I like to make them.”
Andrew didn’t say anything else. He just stood there and watched you. He watched you a lot when you were here.
“Can I get you anything?” You offered.
“No.”
“O… kay, then.” You were pretty used to Andrew Cody’s uniqueness by now.
His eyes followed you as you went back out to the lounge chair. Pope stood at the sliding door, looking out, staring at you. You laid there with your drink and your book, towel and coverup not on your body so he could see every inch of your exposed skin.
He wanted to memorize your body. He wanted to know every inch of it. He didn’t have the self awareness to realize he was staring out at you like a fucking creep.
You glanced over at him and just gave him a slow smile and wave. He did not react and just kept staring. You did not know if you wanted to cover up from him or take your swimsuit off and get in the pool. You weren’t even sure if either of these things was going to get a reaction out of him.
You tried for a while to focus on reading but he just stood there staring. Whether you were reading, drinking, or looking at him, he was just staring right at you. You know you should probably be unsettled by him. But you were simply curious as to what he found so fascinating about you.
You sighed and set your book down, rising from the chair. You didn’t put your coverup on before approaching him. He made no move away from the door. He didn’t open it either. You opened the door. And he barely moved out of your way.
“Do I have something on me?” You asked him point blank.
“What?” He asked dumbly.
“You keep staring at me.” You state. “Is there something on my face or leg or something?”
He looked at your face, then down the length of your body, then back up into your eyes. “No.”
“So why are you staring?”
“I’m not staring. I’m observing.” He argued.
You weren’t buying it. “Yeah… right.”
“What? You don’t believe me?”
“No. Because you were definitely staring.”
“Are you uncomfortable?”
“I-I don’t… know…”
“No? You’re a very shy person.”
“So?”
“You can’t look me in the eyes for more than a second. My staring bothers you.”
“It affects me.” You countered. “That’s different.”
He frowned slightly. “But you don’t like it.”
“Does any woman like it when a man stares?”
“Some might think it’s flattering.”
“No woman thinks what you do is flattering, Andrew.” You spoke before you thought better of it.
His frown deepened. “No, they usually don't, do they?”
He brushed past you to go outside to the garage. You sighed and followed him.
“Andrew, I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. You’re right. I freak women out. I make them uncomfortable.” He started tinkering with something.
“But you don’t really make me uncomfortable.” You defended yourself.
He turned to face you suddenly. “Yes, I do. I can see it in your face and your body language.”
“I’m like that with everyone.” You defended again.
“No.” He took a step towards you. “You’re not. You’re not as uncomfortable around Deran as you are around me. You’re not as uncomfortable around Craig as you are around me.”
“Because Deran is gay and Craig is a manwhore.”
“So my staring makes you uncomfortable but Craig doesn’t?”
You shrugged. “Craig doesn’t hit on me.”
“Neither do I.” He argued.
“No,” you agreed, “you just stare. You don’t do anything else. You don’t even speak a lot of the time.”
He furrowed his eyebrows. “You actually want me to speak to you?”
“I told you that you didn’t make me uncomfortable, Andrew.” You took a step toward him.
He shook his head and took a step back. “No, I do. I know I do.”
“Are you trying to make me uncomfortable?”
“That’s not the point.”
“Do you actively try to make me uncomfortable?” You asked again, not accepting his answer.
He shook his head. “No, I don’t.”
“I know you don’t.” You assured him.
He observed you for a few seconds. He took a cautious step towards you. “You’re really not scared of me, are you?”
“No,” you told him, your voice soft, but steady, “I’m not.”
“No…” he advanced on you, “you’re not.”
He stood in front of you and just observed you curiously again. You stood before him, unafraid. But he ultimately didn’t want you to be afraid of him. He was glad you hadn’t disappeared from his life yet. He was always happy to see you. And you always seemed happy to see him, which obviously also made him happy.
“Andrew?” You asked softly.
He didn’t look up from your lips. “Yeah?”
“Are you gonna kiss me now or just keep staring at my lips?”
He glanced at your eyes. “You want me to kiss you?”
“I want that very much actually.” You affirmed.
“I wouldn’t want to make you uncomfortable.” He murmured lowly.
You sighed. “Andrew, shut up and kiss me.”
He smiled. “Alright.” He agreed, then cupped your face and tugged your lips to his firmly.
You don’t know why you expected the kiss to be brief. It wasn’t. Or soft. It wasn’t that either. It became very clear very quickly just how little or how often Pope Cody had kissed women before. Not a lot and not often at all. His intimate encounters had been few and far between. It was fairly forceful and not very coordinated.
You pulled away but he pulled you back to him by the hands that were still cupping your face. You had to put your hands on his chest to push him a bit. He pulled away a bit, then (reluctantly).
“I thought that was what you wanted.” He murmured softly. And he seemed disappointed.
“It was. It was just a bit… well I honestly just wasn’t expecting it to be so much right off the bat.”
“I can go slower.”
“Can you?”
“Yeah, I can. What, you don’t believe me?”
“You were kissing me pretty hard. You think you can be gentle?”
“With you, I know I can be if that’s what you want.”
“Okay.” You agreed. “Why don’t we try that again?”
You both leant in again until your lips connected to his again. You could tell how hard he was trying to rein himself in. He tried to let you lead but that proved too intense too.
He pulled away only a few inches. “I-I can’t… it’s too much.” He whispered softly.
“Oh, I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologize. It’s not your fault. I just don’t often do this. I don’t really know… what to do.”
“Do whatever you feel like doing.” You offered.
He scoffed lightly. “I feel like you consume me. I feel like I want to…” he paused. “Would it be weird if I asked to hug you?”
You chuckled softly. “Hug me? Um… not… necessarily, no. You can hug me if you’d like.”
His hands carefully and slowly grasped your hips. They slid to your back and tugged you to him. He slotted himself against you, resting his chin on your shoulder.
“You feel so fucking good.” He murmured into your neck.
“Do I?”
“You feel like comfort and safety.” He whispered.
“I do?”
“Yeah… you do. You feel like home. I don’t ever wanna let you go.”
“I’m not going anywhere.” You promised him.
“Don’t.” He pleaded. “Please.”
“I won’t.” You promised again.
“You can’t.” His voice cracked.
“I won’t.” You repeated.
He pulled back from you and looked deeply into your eyes. “You can’t.”
You and Aang touching each other after you fuck. Fingers all sticky and messy from the mix of your cum, sensitive and twitchy from fucking but so insatiable you can’t stop even for a moment of reprieve. His hips are bucking up into your palm, abdomen slick with sweat as he flexes taut with each shallow rut of his cock, tip blushing madly. He’s got his fingers pumping in and out of your sopping cunt, lewd wet slapping sounds accompany your heavy pants each time his palm bumps your aching clit, hips writhing to escape the overstimulation but he just shoves his wrist further between your pinched thighs so you squeeze the base of his cock, thumb swiping over the slit to hear him wince, “Oh—god, dont—don’t do that, I’m—ah! It’s sensitive—I’m sorry, I’m sorry just, oh god, keep going,” his chest heaves when you tug faster, head thrown back while his forearm flexes over your stomach, fingers bullying up into your cunt.
۶ৎ only bought this dress so you could take it off. | s. riley
welcome to the dollhouse, dear reader!
summary: there were rules about professionalism, conduct, and fraternization—and you knew every single one of them by heart. unfortunately, none of those rules seemed capable of stopping you from falling for your commanding officer.
pairing: simon riley x reader
word count: 4.1k
warnings: military setting, superior officer/subordinate tension, mutual pining, slow burn, jealousy, alcohol consumption, drunken confessions, first kiss, unresolved sexual tension, emotional repression, yearning, flirting, bathtub scene, simon being emotionally constipated, excessive eye contact, let me know if i missed any!
all characters in this story are adults.
english is not my first language, so please forgive me for any errors.
a/n: i fear this may be the most self-indulgent thing i've ever written. apparently all it takes is one (1) emotionally unavailable british lieutenant and a taylor swift song to completely derail my productivity, because all i did last night was sit at my desk with a glass of wine and write this.
what's kai listening to: dress by taylor swift | guilty as sin? by taylor swift
18+; mdni.
There were rules.
Rules about professionalism, about conduct, about fraternization. And you, a Sergeant with 141, knew every single one of them by heart. You knew every comma, every full stop in the Code of Conduct.
That was the problem.
Because every time Simon fucking Riley stepped into the room, you found yourself mentally reciting them like a prayer. Not because you intended to break them—God, no. You hadn't worked your ass off to get here just to be dishonorably discharged because you couldn't keep it in your pants.
But something about the way Simon's heady scent of gunpowder and smoke filled the room as he stood in the shadowy corner of the room made you desperately wish you'd never read the damned Code in the first place.
"Eyes up front, Sergeant," Captain Price's voice snapped, filling the briefing room like a crack of thunder.
Fuck.
Heat flooded your face as you snapped your attention back to the large screen at the front of the room, stomach dropping as you tried not to focus on the way the corner of Soap's mouth twitched or how fascinating Gaz suddenly seemed to find the floor, and Ghost—
Ghost simply continued standing by next to the screen, a few feet away from Price, as if he hadn't been holding your gaze the whole time.
I. You Made Your Mark On Me; A Golden Tattoo.
The crush began innocently enough—or at least, as innocently as a crush on Simon Riley could possibly begin.
At first, it was admiration. He was a good leader. Calm under pressure, reliable, capable. The kind of man that could walk into an active zone and make you feel like none of the bullets flying would ever graze your skin.
Then came the respect.
For the way he was capable of keeping his Sergeants in line. Anyone who was able to deal with Soap and Gaz without losing their temper was already nothing short of a saint in your eyes, but add to that the long list of military accolades he was decorated with, and suddenly, you found that you looked up to him more than you'd ever admit to anyone, even yourself.
Then, trust.
You weren't used to anyone having your six. You were a one-person army, capable of taking down just about any target by yourself. But then, when Simon interceded and risked his own safety by stepping between you and the terrorist in Ukraine who tried to blow your head off while your back was turned, you realized that maybe you did want him on your team.
And then, somewhere between all of this, between Ukraine and the Kingfish op and hunting for Rojas, you made the catastrophic mistake of noticing things about him—the way his voice dropped when explaining the logistics of an op, or the way he always positioned himself between you and any signs of danger. The way his hand landed on the small of your back that one time as he guided you out of the briefing room. The way he remembered how you liked your coffee. The way he looked at you.
No.
Not looked. Most days, you weren't sure if you'd imagined it—imagined the way you caught him staring for half a second too long. A lingering glance, loaded silence, tension that neither of you acknowledged.
And every time, every damn time it happened, you went home feeling like you were losing your fucking mind.
II. All Of The Silence And Patience; Pining And Anticipation.
Simon had always thought of himself as a patient man.
The service had a way of forcing the quality of forbearance into a person. Long nights spent waiting for intel, endless hours lying motionless in the trenches, missions that required absolute stillness despite every instinct screaming to move.
Patience—it was discipline. It kept people alive.
It was not supposed to involve you.
And yet, somehow, despite his best efforts, that was exactly what it had become.
At first, you were just another soldier under his command. You were competent, reliable, capable. The kind of Sergeant every Lieutenant hoped to have under their command. You followed orders without question, but were unafraid to challenge him when there was a better way, a more elegant solution—a trait Simon should have, by all accounts, found most irritating.
Instead, he found himself respecting it. And soon, that respect turned to admiration.
And eventually, he found himself watching you. Not in the field, and never because he doubted your abilities.
On the contrary, he found himself watching you because he trusted you. Because whenever his attention landed on you, you were exactly where you were supposed to be, doing exactly what you were supposed to be doing.
Because you were good, too good. Dangerously good.
The kind of good that made him start to notice things he shouldn't, the kind of good that made him begin memorizing details—like how you always stole the first cup of coffee in the mess hall, always with milk and sugar. How you tapped your fingers on the briefing room table when you were thinking. How you rolled your eyes whenever Soap began too talk to much, or how you smiled differently depending on who you were talking to.
God, your smile. He could tell how you felt about someone just by the way you smiled at them. It was his training, he convinced himself, the military-honed ability to read people. Not because he spent far too much time looking at you.
Most people got polite smiles. Price got respectful ones. Gaz's were always amused, Soap's always exasperated. And Simon—
Simon tried very, very hard not to think about the smile you reserved for him, because that way lay madness.
And Simon Riley preferred sanity—or at least something resembling it.
You, unfortunately, kept making it increasingly difficult. Especially when you laughed
Fuck.
He could ignore the attraction, the temptation, the persistent awareness that settled beneath his skin whenever you were nearby. He could ignore the unfair urge to throw himself between you and any possibility of oncoming danger, of shielding you with his own body whenever a threat arose.
He could ignore all of it—but that laugh.
That laugh slipped past every defense, every wall, every barbed wire fence he's erected around his heart. It was warm, bright, unrestrained in a way that simply did not make sense to him. It was sound that never failed to make him look up, no matter how focused he was, no matter where he was or what he was doing.
It was a sound he'd unconsciously begun to seek out, a sound he missed when you weren't around.
And that was completely, utterly pathetic.
He was a grown-ass man for God's sake. A Lieutenant, a decorated soldier. Not some fucking lovesick teenager.
And yet, there he was, standing in briefing rooms, pretending not to notice when you walked in, listening to conversations while tracking your voice automatically, or finding reasons to assign himself to missions that included you, or finding reasons to assign himself to missions that included you. Watching you leave. Watching you arrive.
Watching, always watching, but never acting.
Because acting wasn't an option. You were a Sergeant under his command, and that should've been the end of it. It should've killed whatever this thing was before it had a chance to grow.
Instead, it seemed to make it worse, like forbidden things often did, and Simon knew about that better than most.
And so he kept his distance—or at least he tried. Tried not to stand too close, tried not to let his eyes linger, tried not to think about how naturally you fit beside him.
Sometimes he succeeded, but more often, he failed. Like the night after Ukraine.
The team had been exhausted. Everyone crowded into the safehouse, running on adrenaline and caffeine. You'd fallen asleep on the couch halfway through Price's debrief—one minute you'd been listening, and the next, you were knocked out unconscious.
Simon spotted Soap reaching for his phone, and the words left Simon's mouth before he'd even thought about it. "Don't."
Soap froze. Gaz stared. Price raised an eyebrow. And Simon knew immediately that he'd made a mistake—because now, everyone was looking at him, then at you, and then, right back at him.
And he could see the realization dawning on their faces in stages—slow, horrifying stages. He could picture it, even now, could almost see Soap's grin nearly splitting his face in half. Simon still remembered considering leaving him behind in Ukraine for it.
The memory made him grimace—because that had been ages ago, and whatever this was hadn't disappeared. If anything, it had only become more unbearable, taking root deeper and deeper until it metastasized into something more, something dangerous.
Because you trusted him.
And that was the worst part. You trusted him completely, looked at him and saw your Lieutenant, your CO, the man responsible for getting you home safe and alive. You didn't see the thoughts he buried, didn't see the way his jaw tightened whenever another soldier got too friendly. Didn't see the how quickly jealousy reared its ugly head, spreading viscous and green, curling around his ribs.
You didn't see how much effort it took to remain exactly what you needed him to be—professional, reliable, safe.
And Simon intended to keep it that way, because some things were selfish, and some desires were better buried. Some lines existed for a reason.
But he couldn't help but wonder, every time you looked at him, what would it feel like if you looked at him differently? Not as your Lieutenant, not as Ghost, but as Simon.
Just Simon.
Just a man who had spent far too long cultivating silence, a man who had mastered patience.
A man who was beginning to fear neither would be enough.
III. Say My Name And Everything Just Stops.
There was a fundamental problem with having a crush on Simon Riley.
Actually, there were several. The first was that he was your Lieutenant. The second was that he was Simon Riley.
The third—and perhaps the worst—was that he knew your name. Not Sergeant, not your callsign, but your name.
And somehow, despite the fact that he only used it sparingly, every single time he did, it was like a shot to the chest.
Because most people called you Sergeant—Price, Gaz, Roach. Soap rarely called you anything at all except some variation of "mate."
But Simon... he saved your name for moments that mattered. And every time—every fucking time—the cursed syllables left his mouth, your stupid heart immediately started acting up.
Exhibit A—right now.
You nearly dropped the stack of reports in your hands as the sound of your name echoed through the otherwise empty corridor, low and rough and unmistakably his.
You turned, spotting Simon standing at the far end of the hallway. His arms were crossed over his chest, brow furrowed, completely, blissfully unaware of the fact that he was currently responsible for shortening your lifespan. "Sir."
His gaze flickered to the papers balanced in the crook of your arm, as he said, "Got a minute?"
You didn't. You had precisely zero minutes, zero seconds, zero amount of time was safe.
Unfortunately, your mouth had already betrayed you, the words coming out entirely too quickly. "Of course."
Simon nodded once. "Walk with me."
And just like that, your evening was ruined.
It was unfair. There was simply no other way of describing it. Simon had mastered the art of existing in your vicinity without doing anything technically flirtatious while simultaneously making you lose your mind. He never crossed lines, never lingered, never said anything inappropriate.
And still, somehow, he always ended up standing just a little too close. Looking at you just a little too long, making your name sound like something precious.
You hated it. You hated him. You hated yourself.
Mostly yourself.
Especially at the training exercise two weeks later. It was supposed to be a routine operation, really, nothing special. Or at least, that was the idea—but your body had other plans.
One poorly placed step on a patch of loose, uneven ground, and you stumbled. Not enough to fall—just enough for Simon's hand to shoot out and catch your arm, steadying you.
The movement seemed instinctive, almost involuntary, as though his body reacted to you before his brain even fully processed what was happening.
Your eyes met his, and suddenly, the world went strangely quiet. Everything—the training ground, the team, Price's watchful gaze, all of it disappeared. There was only Simon, only his large hand wrapped around your bicep. only the sound of his voice, an octave softer than usual as he said, "Careful."
"I know," you said, your pulse loud enough you were sure he could hear it. God, he was simply holding your arm—a touch casual enough that no one would think twice about it.
So why wasn't he letting go?
A second passed, then another. Far too long—enough to notice, enough that when Simon let you go, the absence of his touch felt startling. "Eyes up, Sergeant."
And just like that, the moment dissipated.
But you lay awake that night, staring at the ceiling, replaying every interaction you'd had from the past six months—every touch, every glance, every conversation. Every time he'd said your name in that deep, gravelly voice of his. It was honestly pathetic.
And yet, your mind kept drifting back to the same thought, the same impossible question—what if he felt it too? What if it wasn't all in your head.
The sheer idea kept you up till sunrise, because for the first time, it felt like a question worth asking.
IV. I Don't Want You Like A Best Friend
The realization came slowly.
Which was unfortunate, because really, Simon would've preferred a gunshot, or an explosion. Something quick, something he could identify, contain and deal with.
Instead, the truth crept up on him over a span of months, settling underneath his skin, until finally, one day, he found himself unable to pretend it wasn't there.
The problem wasn't that he cared about you—he'd accepted a long time ago that he cared about all his people. That wasn't unusual, wasn't dangerous.
The problem was that somewhere along the way, you'd stopped fitting into the same category as everyone else, and Simon hadn't noticed until it was far too late.
It started with your laugh.
Again.
He was beginning to resent the amount of power that sound seemed to have over him. The team had been sitting around the common room of a safehouse after a mission. Soap was telling some ridiculous story. Gaz was fiddling with his phone; Price was pretending not to listen.
And you—you were laughing, head tilted back, eyes bright, laughing so hard you nearly spilled your drink.
Simon found himself staring, which was not unusual. He'd been doing that for months. What was unusual was the thought that followed.
The sudden, overwhelming certainty that he would happily spend the rest of the evening simply listening to that laugh. Just to hear it, just because it came from you.
The realization hit him hard enough to make his stomach sink.
After that, he started noticing things he wished he'd remained ignorant of, like how easily he could identify your footsteps, or how quickly his attention found you in crowded rooms, or how he always looked for you after missions.
The final nail in the coffin arrived during a routine briefing. A visiting officer had joined the task force temporarily—nothing remarkable, nothing worth remembering. That was, at least, not until Simon noticed the man talking to you afterward, standing a little too close, making you laugh.
And suddenly Simon discovered that he was in a terrible mood—the kind of mood that made him want to drag the officer away by the back of his collar.
It was absurd. You were allowed to talk to whoever you wanted. Allowed to exist independently of him. He had no say in what you did outside of work hours.
So why did the sight leave such a bitter taste in his mouth?
The worst part was, he already knew the answer: Simon Riley was jealous.
The realization was horrifying. For several days, several weeks, several months, he attempted to ignore it, but none of it worked, because every piece of evidence pointed toward the same conclusion.
He liked talking to you, liked hearing your opinions. Liked the way you challenged him, the way you never seemed intimidated by him, the way your eyes lit up whenever you got excited about something. He liked the way you said his name.
God.
That was perhaps the worst discovery of all, because he had spent months watching himself react whenever someone else got your attention.
Meanwhile, all it took was hearing his own name leave your lips to ruin his entire day—because there there was the truth, plain as day: he didn't want you as a friend, didn't want you as merely another member of the task force, didn't want you as just a trusted sergeant under his command.
He wanted more.
And maybe that was the cruelest part—knowing that every glance, every touch, every moment of tension suddenly made perfect sense, and knowing that none of it changed a damn thing.
Because you were still his sergeant, and he was still your lieutenant.
And Simon Riley had spent his entire life learning how to live with things he couldn't have, even if, for the first time in a very long time, he found himself wishing he didn't have to.
V. I'm Spilling Wine In The Bathtub; You Kiss My Face & We're Both Drunk.
The dress was a mistake.
You realized that approximately three seconds after stepping into the ballroom. A catastrophic, humiliating, entirely self-inflicted mistake that you realized the moment you caught your reflection in one of the floor-to-ceiling windows, and remembered exactly why you'd bought it.
Not because you liked it, not because it was practical, and definitly not because it was appropriate for the annual military gala.
You'd bought it because of Simon, and that was pathetic, deeply pathetic. The kind of pathetic that would get you mocked relentlessly if Soap ever found out.
It was a good thing you supposed that the the dress fit perfectly. The dark fabric hugged your waist before falling elegantly to the floor, simple, beautiful, dangerous. The kind of dress that made people look twice, the kind of dress you'd subconsciously hoped Simon Riley might notice.
Not that it mattered, because Simon barely looked at you all evening.
At first, you told yourself he was busy. It was the military gala after all, and he had to shoulder his duties as a Lieutenant, talking to Price, speaking with senior officers, handling whatever mysterious lieutenant things he always seemed occupied with.
An hour passed, then two, and eventually you spotted him across the ballroom.
Your stomach dropped immediately—because Simon wasn't alone. A woman stood beside him, beautiful, confident, laughing at something he'd said, her manicured hand resting on his bicep.
And Simon—he was laughing too.
Something unpleasant twisted in your chest as you watched Simon lean down slightly to hear whatever she was saying.
Suddenly the room felt too warm, too crowded, too loud.
Simon wasn't yours—he'd never been yours. The man could talk to whoever he pleased. But even the rational, ever-reasonable part of your brain couldn't stop the disappointment from settling heavily in your chest.
And it definitly did not stop you from accepting another glass of wine. And then another. And another.
By midnight, you had reached two important conclusions: first, that military galas were terrible.
The second: that wine was a fantastic coping mechanism. The ballroom blurred pleasantly around the edges, music drifted through the air.
You stepped out of the ballroom, stumbling down the hallway—because if you had to watch Simon smile at that woman for one more second, you were fairly certain you'd throw your drink directly at his head.
You wandered through the venue until you found a quieter section of the hotel, and into a suite someone had clearly left unlocked.
Perfect.
Slipping past the doorway, you immediately discovered a large bathroom. With an enormous, wonderful bathtub.
Five minutes later, you were sitting fully clothed inside it, glass of wine in hand, staring dramatically at the ceiling, replaying the way he was smiling at that woman.
You were drunk—too drunk to notice that the sound of the door opening, of footsteps approaching, until it was too late, until a familiar voice broke the silence. "What are you doing?"
Fuck.
You closed your eyes. "Go away, Simon."
Silence. Then, "No."
You groaned. A moment later, Simon appeared above you, looking entirely too good in formal wear. That dark suit should have been illegal, and the way his black hair fell messily onto his forehead, grazing the edge of his whiskey-brown eyes was lethal.
"You left." His voice was calm.
"Did I?" You took a swig of your wine. "I hadn't noticed."
Simon sighed, and you took another sip of wine. He sat down on the edge of the bathtub. Your hands shook, nearly spilling your drink. "Careful."
"Stop saying that," you grumbled.
"Then stop almost injuring yourself."
"That's not how bathtubs work."
"It is when you're involved."
You glared at him. Simon stared back, and suddenly the room felt much smaller.
"You look beautiful." His voice was soft, so soft that for a second, you wondered if you'd imagined them. But then... Then he repeated himself. "You really do."
Your heart stumbled, but you schooled your face into the most neautral expression the copious amounts of wine in your system would let you muster. "Didn't stop you."
Simon's brow furrowed. "What?"
"The woman." The confession slipped out before you could stop it. All that alcohol had apparently murdered your self-preservation instincts. "The one you've been talking to all night."
Understanding flashed across his face, followed by something else—something you couldn't quite identify.
And then, Simon laughed—actually laughed.
You narrowed your eyes. "Oh, that's nice."
"No." His smile lingered. "You thought I was flirting."
"You were."
"I wasn't."
"You smiled at her."
Simon stared at you for a long moment, shaking his head, disbelief written across every line of his face. "Christ."
"What?"
"You're jealous."
You pointed at him, immediately regretting the movement when the room tilted slightly. "Don't."
"You're jealous," he repeated, his grin widening, transforming his face into something so beautiful, so gut-wrenchingly stunning that your breath caught in your throat.
You swallowed. "And you were flirting."
"I wasn't." The certainty in his voice made you pause. Simon was looking at you now—really looking.
And suddenly, all the things neither of you had been saying, all the months spent pretending, all the tension, all the waiting, all of it became impossible to ignore.
"You really wore this dress hoping I'd notice?" he asked, his voice soft, almost as if he was afraid of what you'd say.
Your pulse stopped as you stared at him, mortified. Because the answer was so fucking obvious, and you knew, deep in your bones, that Simon knew it too. "Maybe."
The admission came out barely above a whisper.
Simon's gaze dropped briefly, scanning the way the dress molded against the curves of your body, then back to your face, like he was trying to memorize the sight before his eyes.
And for the first time since you'd met him, Simon looked uncertain. He was not Ghost, not Lieutenant Riley.
Just Simon—just a man standing at the edge of something terrifying. "You don't make this easy."
For a moment neither of you moved, the distance between you suddenly feeling impossibly small.
Then, Simon reached out, his hand settling lightly against your cheek, warm, careful, like you might disappear. You leaned into it before you could stop yourself. The look on his face nearly broke your heart. It was relief, affection, wanting, all laid bare, all at once.
"I noticed," he admitted quietly.
You closed your eyes. "Oh."
"I noticed the dress." His thumb brushed your cheek. "I noticed you."
And just like that, every wall you'd built around yourself came crashing down.
When Simon kissed you, it wasn't rushed, wasn't desperate. It was slow, tentative, like neither of you quite believed it was happening. The kind of kiss born from months of stolen glances and unsaid words. The kind that felt long overdue.
His forehead rested against yours when you finally pulled apart, both of you breathing a little harder, but neither of you willing to move away.
For the first time in months, the silence between you didn't feel painful.
And sitting fully clothed in a bathtub with a half-finished glass of wine, you couldn't help thinking it was probably the best mistake you'd ever made.
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The line between a harmless night out and total, unadulterated chaos was usually measured in fluid ounces.
When you had officially called time of death on your most recent casual fling earlier that afternoon, you had full intentions of handling the rejection like a mature, well-adjusted university student. You were going to go to your room, listen to a melancholy playlist, and perhaps treat yourself to a massive iced matcha. But a broken heart apparently did not care about rational blueprints. By the time the clock struck nine in the evening, your roommates had successfully dragged you to Blackout, the absolute loudest, most suffocatingly crowded basement bar near the Briar University campus.
The bass was rattling the cheap neon signs on the brick walls, the air smelled heavily of spilled vodka and sticky floors, and you were currently nursing your third glass of what the bartender called the house special juice. It was a neon pink concoction that tasted exactly like melted popsicles and pure octane, and it had completely erased your ability to make sound executive decisions.
A girl who knew her liquor was almost always a girl who had just been dumped. As you sat in a cramped booth while your friends tore up the crowded dance floor, you pulled your phone out of your pocket. The whole week had been brutal. You were entirely done sitting around waiting for a text back from a guy who couldn't commit, and a sudden, manic wave of liquid courage told you that it was time to find a distraction. You weren't trying to go to a club or wait for a party invitation. You were quite literally just drinking to call someone.
Your thumb hovered over your contact list, your vision doubling slightly as the pink juice did its work. Ain't nobody safe when you were a little bit drunk. It could be John, it could be Larry, gosh, who was to say? Or maybe you were feeling a little bit toxic, ready to scroll straight down to the names that caused a little bit of trouble.
You clicked on the first name that made your chest twist with a familiar, dangerous thrill: Dean Di Laurentis.
Your previous arrangement with Dean had been a masterclass in sharp wit and heavy friction, a whirlwind of late-night visits and intense soccer-style banter that had ended entirely because both of you were too stubborn to admit you were falling. You pressed the call button, leaning your head back against the sticky vinyl cushion of the booth, waiting.
"Hello?" Dean’s voice cut through the line after two rings, instantly sounding sharp, alert, and thoroughly suspicious. He was clearly sitting in his quiet off-campus house. "Why are you calling me at eleven on a Friday? Are you okay?"
"Deany," you cooed into the microphone, a giant, sloppy smile spreading across your face. "How have you been? What's up? I miss you and I think about you every single minute. Do you still love me?"
There was a long, stunned pause on the other end of the line, followed by the distinct sound of Dean sitting up fast in his bed, the sheets rustling loudly. "Are you slurring your words? Where the hell are you right now? It sounds like you're standing inside a jet engine."
"I am sipping on my go go juice, Dean, I cannot be blamed," you giggled, waving a hand in the air to an invisible audience. "Should we hook up? If you are still disinterested in me, well, whatever. I am just having some good old-fashioned fun to numb the pain."
"Give me your exact location right now," Dean demanded, his voice dropping into that lower, commanding register that usually made your knees weak. "I am coming to get you."
"No way, Deany!" you laughed, already scrolling through your contacts with a blurry thumb. "I am a free bird. Bye!"
Before he could protest, you hung up the phone and immediately tapped the next name that promised a beautiful distraction: Beau Maxwell. Beau was the star quarterback of the Briar football team, a towering force on the field who had been Dean's absolute best friend since their childhood days growing up together in Connecticut. He briefly turned your life upside down last semester with his easy, athletic charm and a fiercely protective streak that ran just as deep as his loyalty to Dean.
You pressed call, bouncing on the vinyl seat as the phone rang.
"What's going on?" Beau’s deep, confident voice echoed through the speaker, instantly recognizable. "Who is this?"
"Beau baby!" you cheered, leaning into the microphone with a conspiratorial whisper. "Answer me, baby, are you in town? I miss you. You're the best quarterback in the country, and I just think we should hook up again. What do you think?"
"Are you drunk?" Beau asked, his tone shifting instantly from relaxed to heavily alert. He could clearly hear the booming bass of the bar through the line. "Where are you? Who are you with?"
"I am at Blackout, sipping on the juice," you told him proudly. "But don't worry about it. I am just trying different numbers, didn't think that you'd pick up."
"Stay exactly where you are," Beau snapped, the sound of his car keys jingling loudly over the speaker as he clearly bolted out the door. "I am ten minutes away. I am coming to get you right now."
"Absolutely not!" you shouted cheerfully. "You guys are entirely too bossy."
A stroke of absolute drunk genius suddenly hit your brain. Instead of letting them come after you separately, you decided it was time for a masterclass in efficiency. You pulled the phone away from your face, hit the button to add a call, and successfully initiated a three-way group call, patching Dean directly back into the line with Beau.
"What is happening now?" Dean’s sharp voice cut back in, his tone instantly dropping into an icy, competitive register the second he recognized the line was active again. "Who else is on this call?"
"Di Laurentis?" Beau barked, his confusion instantly softening into an easy, synchronized understanding as he realized exactly who was on the line. "What are you doing on her phone? Is she with you?"
"No, she's at Blackout," Dean intercepted quickly, completely bypassing any hesitation. They both knew your history, and quite frankly, neither of them minded sharing your attention when it came to the other guy. "She's completely hammered, Beau. I am already out the door. I know exactly what bar she's at."
"Alright, I am already heading down the street," Beau shot back, the sound of his engine roaring to life over the speaker. "I will meet you at the entrance. Don't let her wander off."
"Listen to me," you said, suddenly feeling very brave as you held the phone up high. "I said no. Both of you are being way too serious. I don't need a babysitter, I need to dance. Bye, it's me, love you, hang up!"
You slammed the red button on your screen, cutting off the coordinated instructions of both boys, and slid the phone securely into your back pocket. If Dean and Beau thought they could just swoop in and ruin your night of self-medication, they were entirely mistaken. You finished the last sugary drop of your neon pink drink, stood up from the booth with a slightly wobbly posture, and marched straight onto the packed dance floor.
The crowd was a shifting, sweating mass of bodies moving to a heavy electronic beat. You pushed your way into the center, throwing your hands in the air, letting the music wash over your thoughts until the lingering ache of your recent breakup was entirely buried under the noise.
But the safety of the crowd vanished a few minutes later.
You were moving to the rhythm, your eyes closed, when you suddenly felt a heavy, unwanted pair of hands grip your hips from behind. You snapped your eyes open, stumbling slightly as a guy you had never seen before pulled himself flush against your back, his breath smelling heavily of stale beer as he leaned down toward your ear.
"You're dancing all by yourself, beautiful," he muttered, his grip tightening on your waist as he tried to force you to move with him. "Why don't we get out of here and find somewhere quieter?"
"No, thank you," you said, your drunk brain suddenly flooded with a sharp wave of discomfort. You tried to pull away, but the dance floor was too packed, and his hands remained firmly locked onto your hips, anchoring you in place. "Let go of me, please."
"Come on, don't be like that," the guy smirked, entirely ignoring your protest as he pulled you closer, his posture aggressive and entirely too suffocating. "You were having a good time a second ago."
Before you could scream over the music or push him away with your full weight, the atmosphere on the dance floor completely fractured.
A massive, leather-jacketed arm materialized out of the neon fog, grabbing the creepy guy by the front of his shirt and violently ripping him backward away from you. The guy stumbled over his own feet, crashing into a group of nearby students as Dean Di Laurentis stepped into the clearance, his broad shoulders squared, his face twisted into an expression of absolute, terrifying rage. His dark eyes were burning, a dangerous, volatile energy radiating off his frame as he stood guard directly in front of you.
"She told you to let go of her," Dean growled, his voice carrying over the booming bass with a lethal clarity that made the surrounding crowd immediately back away to create a wide circle.
Before the creepy guy could even recover his balance or mount a defense, Beau Maxwell materialized from the opposite side of the crowd. Beau’s massive football frame completely blocked the guy's exit path, his jaw set in a hard, dangerous scowl as he stepped up right beside his childhood best friend, looking down at the stranger like he was a minor inconvenience on the field.
"If you even look in her direction again, I am going to personally throw you through that brick wall," Beau muttered, his deep voice entirely devoid of warmth.
The creepy guy took one look at the two towering varsity athletes flanking him, turned completely pale, and instantly vanished into the shadows of the exit corridor without saying a single word.
The immediate danger was gone, but the heavy, protective tension in the air didn't dissipate. Dean turned around slowly, his chest rising and falling with heavy, ragged breaths as his dark eyes locked onto your face. The unbothered, arrogant mask he usually wore for the campus was entirely gone, replaced by a raw, furious worry that made him look completely unhinged.
"Are you out of your mind?" Dean demanded, stepping right into your personal space, his large hands coming out of his pockets to firmly grasp your elbows. He pulled you up against his chest, checking you over for any signs of harm with a frantic, desperate intensity. "We told you on the phone we were coming to get you. Why the hell did you walk onto the dance floor alone?"
"Deany," you mumbled, your adrenaline suddenly fading and leaving your knees feeling like absolute jelly. You slid right against his chest, your hands automatically tangling in the fabric of his jacket for balance. "And Beau. You both made it. You look so handsome when you're playing the hero."
"Relax, Dean, she's alright now," Beau said smoothly, stepping in close and wrapping a large, comforting hand around the nape of your neck, his thumb caressing your skin with total ease. He didn't care at all that you were flush against Dean; in fact, the shared proximity felt incredibly natural for both of them. "Come here, sweet girl. Let's get you out of this crowd."
"She is an absolute menace when she's like this," Dean muttered, though the anger completely bled out of his voice, replaced by a rare, soft warmth as he looked down at your messy hair. He effortlessly slotted his fingers through yours, anchoring you between his chest and Beau's massive frame.
"Wait, wait," you giggled, your head swinging back and forth between them like you were watching a movie. The go go juice was still swirling in your system, making the entire dramatic rescue feel incredibly funny. You reached out with a shaky finger, poking Beau directly in the center of his chest. "Beau is the quarterback. He has a very big arm. We should all go together. We can get more juice."
"Absolutely not," both boys murmured in unison, though this time it was accompanied by a pair of fond, knowing smiles.
"See? You're bonding," you cheered, completely entertained by the sheer comfort of the situation. You leaned your full weight back against Dean’s sturdy frame, your fingers idly messing with the collar of his jacket, while your other hand remained securely held in Beau's broad palm. "You both care about my safety so much. I love it."
Beau let out a low, breathless laugh, sharing a lingering, amused look with his best friend over your head. "We're taking her back to your place, right?"
"Yeah," Dean nodded, his chest vibrating against your back as he adjusted his hold. Without a single hint of hesitation, he easily swept his broad arms under your knees and lifted you entirely off the ground in a classic bridal carry.
You let out a loud, delighted shriek, instantly wrapping your arms tightly around his neck as he held you against his chest. "I am flying!"
"I've got her phone and her keys," Beau said easily, grabbing your dropped plastic cup to toss it in a nearby bin before falling into step right beside Dean. He kept a protective hand resting on your lower back as Dean carried you toward the heavy exit doors, ensuring the crowded bar parted for the three of you like the Red Sea.
"You're not going to puke on me, right, baby?" Dean asked, looking down at you with a sudden, worried squint as he pushed through the exit doors into the cool night air.
"I am going to sing," you announced proudly, burying your face in the crook of his neck, completely safe and content.
As the cool wind hit your face, you let out a long, happy sigh. The heartbreak from earlier that afternoon was entirely gone, completely numbed by some good old-fashioned fun and the chaotic, fierce, and entirely united protection of the two best guys from Connecticut. You turned your head slightly, kissing Dean’s jawline lazily, before looking up to flash Beau a bright, sleepy smile.
"You're both so vain," you mumbled into Dean's skin, your eyes finally fluttering shut as the go go juice victory lap came to a peaceful end. "You probably think this night is about you."
Dean just shook his head, a real, breathless laugh leaving his chest as Beau opened the passenger side door of the car for him. "Just go to sleep, you absolute lunatic."
Notes - Heyy I have more Beau stuff coming soon I swear!! Anyways I hope you enjoy 💖💖
Beau is the life of every room, but with you he dials it back into something warmer and more focused. He’s got that golden-boy quarterback swagger, easy smile, quick wit, always the one cracking jokes, but when you’re around, his attention locks on you like you’re the only play that matters. He’ll sling an arm around your shoulders in public, pull you into his side, and murmur something teasing just for you.
He’s ridiculously affectionate in a playful way. Loves picking you up and spinning you after a win, or tossing you over his shoulder when you’re being “difficult” (his favorite excuse to get his hands on you). He’s the guy who shows up at your dorm with coffee and that smirk, knowing exactly how to make you laugh even when you’re stressed.
Game days are electric. Beau thrives under pressure, and having you in the stands fuels him. Afterward, whether it’s a blowout win or a hard-fought battle, he seeks you out immediately, sweaty, adrenaline-pumped, and grinning as he kisses you like he’s been waiting all game just for that moment. He’ll tell you the win feels better because you were there.
He notices the little things, even if he plays it cool. Remembers how you take your coffee, your favorite study spot in the library, or when you need a distraction from exams. He’ll drag you out for late-night drives in his truck, windows down, music loud, just talking about everything and nothing. Or he’ll show up with takeout from your favorite place when he knows you’ve been buried in books.
Beau’s surprisingly thoughtful beneath the charm. He grew up with expectations as the star QB, but with you he lets the mask slip. Quiet nights in his place (or sneaking you into the football house) where he cooks something simple (he’s decent, learned from his mom and sister), or the two of you sprawled on the couch watching movies. He loves when you wear his jersey or hoodies; he’ll tug you into his lap and wrap those strong arms around you.
He calls you “baby” with that smooth, confident drawl that makes your knees weak. When he’s feeling extra, it’s “sweetheart” or “my girl,” especially when he’s pulling you close and looking at you like you’re his favorite victory.
Handsy in the best way. Always touching , fingers laced with yours, hand on your thigh while driving, or tracing lazy patterns on your skin when you’re cuddling. In private he’s even more so: pulling you against him, kissing along your neck, making you feel wanted and adored.
Spicy side: Beau is fun, cocky, and attentive in bed. He loves the tease, drawing things out with that charming grin, whispering filthy praise against your ear (“Look at you, taking me so well, baby”), and making you laugh even in the heat of it. He’s got stamina from all that training and loves being in control, but he’s just as happy letting you take the lead and watching you unravel. Expect lots of eye contact, that signature smirk, and him making sure you know exactly how crazy you make him. Possessive in a playful way, love bites, hands gripping your hips, and that low voice telling you you’re his.
Future vibes: Beau talks about the NFL with that easy confidence, but he always includes you in those plans. He’s the type who’d pull you close after a perfect night and say something like, “Can’t wait to show you off when I’m playing on Sundays.” He’s grounded by you, the one person who sees past the quarterback hype to the real him.
short summary: where dean is stressed about an upcoming game, and you, being the wonderful girlfriend that you are, offer to help him relax. inspired by THAT scene from off campus.
pairing: boyfriend!dean di laurentis x fem!reader
word count: 666 (dean would be proud)
warnings: porn with almost no plot, explicit sexual content, oral sex (f!receiving), established relationship, dean being obsessed with reader, stress relief taken very literally, praise, excessive use of "baby", mild swearing, teasing, possessive language, body worship, dean di laurentis treating your orgasm like a personal achievement, lots of kissing, lots of touching, emotional intimacy disguised as horny behavior, let me know if i missed any!
all characters in this story are adults.
english is not my first language, so please forgive me for any errors.
a/n: i couldn't get this idea out of my head for days, dean has me so consumed. i don't make the rules. also, i firmly believe he would use the phrase "stress-eating" in this context and think he's the funniest person alive.
what's kai listening to: juno by sabrina carpenter.
18+; mdni.
You didn't think, when you walked into Hawks House an hour ago, that you'd end up in this position.
You were on Dean's desk chair, one leg hooked over the armrest, the other digging between his shoulder blades as he knelt between your legs. your panties had long since been tossed to some unknown corner—another one in the graveyard of underwear you'd lost in Dean's room.
There had been signs for days—the fact that he'd been hunched over game footage with Logan almost every night at Malone's, the way he'd been spending every free moment at the rink with Garrett. The lack of his usual Dean-ness. Your boyfriend, you knew, was stressed, and apparently, completely determined to shoulder all of it alone.
But not on your watch.
When you headed up to his room and found him hunched over his laptop, rewatching footage from the St. Anthony's game, you immediately offered to help in any way you could.
Which is how you ended up here, with Dean's fingers parting your folds once more, his mouth closing around your clit. Your back arched, thighs tightening around his head. He'd been at this for God knew how long—you'd lost track after the third time you came.
You bit your lip, whimpering. "Dean, please—"
He lifted his head, flashing his dimples as he smiled. "You're makin' me feel so much better already, baby."
"This is not—" You gasped as he groaned against your core, your hands instinctively tangling into his blonde hair. "Not exactly what I had in mind when I s-said I'd help you de-stress."
He pulled away for a second, large hands wrapping around your thighs, pulling them farther apart. "This is helping me, baby. Have you ever heard of a little thing called stress-eating?"
You let out a breathy laugh, which quickly morphed into a moan as Dean's tongue flicked against your clit again. You were sticky with sweat, sounds of absolute pleasure escaping your lips, the room filled with the scent of your arousal and Dean's cologne.
His hands snaked up your stomach, fingers toying with your nipples as he slid his tongue past your entrance, making your eyes roll to the back of your head.
A needy, almost pornographic whine escaped you. "Dean."
"One more, baby," Dean begged, his brain foggy with the heady scent of you, the way you tasted making him forget all about the stress he'd been under for the past few days. His voice was low, wrecked. "Please. I need this—need you."
You nodded, your cunt clenching around air at the sound of him begging for you. Dean Di Laurentis, drunk on your pussy, pleading for more.
You could feel another orgasm building, blooming in the pit of your stomach as you reached up to grab one of his hands where he was still rolling your nipples between his fingers. He laced his fingers through yours immediately, thumb brushing over your knuckles.
You made the mistake of glancing downwards, and God. His blonde hair fell messily onto his forehead, and when you reached down to push it back out of his face, you nearly lost your mind then and there at the sight of him, his eyes closed, long blonde lashes resting against his cheeks. "You taste so fuckin' good baby. So fucking good for me."
Your stomach tensed, hips beginning to rock against his mouth almost involuntarily. "Fuck yeah, baby, use me. Take what you need."
You tugged him closer, thighs shaking, vision blurring as your hips bucked against his tongue, your orgasm washing over you, making your toes curl. Dean's muffled voice intercepted the desperate moans of pleasure parting your lips as he murmured from between your legs, "That's it, baby. That's my girl."
Dean finally—finally—sat back, licking the remainder of your juices off his lips. He trailed slow, gentle kisses up your neck, your jaw, your forehead as you slumped back into the chair, spent and exhausted.
"Thank you," he muttered, kissing your lips. You could taste yourself on his tongue. "For always making me feel better, baby."
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! 🤍
you take control in bed and rafe can't handle himself (18+, smut)
"you want to what?" rafe asked, not really paying attention to your words, his eyes still glued to his book. "i-i want to take control in bed rafe" you said, raising your voice from a barely audible whisper to a slightly louder tone.
he doesn't even turn to you at your claim, chuckling softly "that's real funny baby" you huffed, he wasn't taking you seriously at all. you moved quickly so that you were sitting between his legs that were spread out on the bed, staring at him as he didn't even move to look at you.
you wrapped your fingers around the top of his book, pulling it back softly so he had to look up at you. rafe seems to pay attention to you now, watching you with a bored expression. "im being serious rafe, i think id be good at it" you stated as he brought his hand up to your head and tuck a piece of loose hair behind your ear. "good at what baby?"
you rolled your eyes at his question, does he ever listen?
"good at being in charge, you know, all bossy and controlling." you pouted as he raised his eyebrows suggestively "i am not bossy and controlling" rafe answered, clearly not believing the words coming out of his own mouth as he played with the hem of your sundress.
you narrowed your eyes at his claim, causing him to sigh. "please rafe, please, please, please. I promise i'll do good!" once you see him roll his eyes and sigh, you know you've cracked him.
and that's how you ended up straddling his toned shirtless waist, clad only in your panties as you peppered kisses softly down his chest. he stared at you as you got to his v line, his cock standing tall and oozing with pre-cum.
"you ready rafe? remember your safe word alright?" he tried to mask his chuckle at your statement, ticking his jaw to the side. "yes baby, i remember the safe word, think i'm gonna have to use it?"
you shrugged at him, extremely distracted by his massive cock merely inches from your face. you placed a small kiss to the base, leaning your head on his inner thigh as you pumped him up and down slowly.
you heard him inhale sharply, restraining himself from grabbing your head and shoving your throat all the way down his cock until you gag. he watched the thoughts spin in your head as you left one last kiss on the tip of his dick, shifting around so your entrance was now in line with his cock.
he groaned as he entered you, your walls so impossibly tight around him. you lowered down slowly on him, squeezing your eyes shut at how fucking massive he is. you had to brace yourself with your hands on his chest as he bottomed out inside of you, hitting places that made you whine. you lifted your hips up slightly, you knew that neither of you could handle him that deep inside without cumming in two seconds, though he would never admit it.
you looked at rafe with impatience, waiting for the feeling of his death grip on your sides as he helped you ride him, but it never came "rafe, what're doing?" you asked, feeling impossibly full and needing to move. "what do you mean princess? you're moving us. you're in charge."
"o-oh, right." you squeaked, taking a second to breathe and ground yourself before slightly lifting your hips up and slamming back down. you never thought it would be so hard to ride rafe without his hands guiding your body and lifting more than half of your weight above him, but then again, you had never thought you were ever going to be in control.
your thighs burned as you lifted yourself up for the third time, refusing to look at rafe's smirking face at your restlessness. you nearly felt bad for rafe in that moment, you didn't even realise how much hard work went into being in charge.
you don't have nearly as much stamina as rafe does, and it showed through your now shaky thighs and unstable strokes of your hips. "goin' a bit slow baby, are we getting tired already?" you didn't even have to look at him to see the cocky smile on his face. not ready to admit to him that you were wrong, an idea popped in your head.
you felt him twitch inside of you as you sat balls deep on his cock, rocking forward so there was no part of his dick that wasn't buried in you. he snapped his head your way, parting his lips softly and taking a deep breath. you didn't move for what felt like hours, which in reality was only a few seconds, your walls squeezing him nearly out of you.
"oh so you want to play dirty baby?" he asked, moving his hands quickly to your ass and landing a sharp smack to your skin before kneading the area. "i don't know what your talking about" you stated, trying not to show how close you were to moving so you didn't explode from pleasure.
"god, you're such a fucking brat" he spat, taking your wrist in his hand and twisting your arm so it was behind your back, pushing your body so you were now laying on his chest. you let out a moan as he started slamming into you at a ruthless pace, his strokes deep and uncontrolled.
"is this what you wanted baby? for me to lose my fucking mind? hmm?" he asked, knowing in your mushy state that you couldn't give him an answer that wasn't purely unintelligible babbles or moans. he took his free hand and grabbed your chin, lifting your head up so you had to look at his face as he fucks you.
he watched you flutter your eyes shut, biting your lip and going limp in his arms. he knew that face. you were about to cum, hard. "come on baby, give it to me. you got it, i got you" he chanted, his strokes turning sloppy as he was nearly at his breaking point.
"atta girl, that's my pretty girl" he sighed as you came around him, falling into his body as you felt his load empty out into you with a groan. "r-rafe" you whimpered, coming down from your immense high as you both made no move to let his dick slip out of you. "yeah baby?" he answered, wiping your hair away from your face softly.
"i love you" you spoke. he smiled down at you, god you were just so sweet, especially after he just destroyed you on his cock. "I love you too princess. did so good for me, always do" letting out a content sight as he kissed the crown of your head, you heard his voice again.
"hey baby?" he asked, running his hands up and down your back with a soft touch. you hummed at his question, inviting him to speak.
"never fucking ask to be in charge again, or you won't like what'll happen next."
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Ghost's favorite position, hands down no argument, is prone bone.
Him on top, of course, one arm nestled under your torso and holding you close. The other slung above his head, forearm resting just above you in a lazy sprawl.
You've learned that this is his go-to position after eating. Something about a fully belly and feeling safe, warm in your presence just makes him too tired for the more ambitious stuff you usually do. Ghost would much rather lie on top of you, squishing you under his massive figure.
"Fuckin hell— hold still, lovie." Ghost groans when you squirm at a particularly harsh thrust. Not like you could actually go anywhere when he completely settles his weight into you and switches from thrusts to grinding.
"W– what–? Si...c'mon, baby you promised...!" You groan, huffs because he had promised to fuck you earlier!
"I'm inside you, ain't i?" He grunts, slinking the other arm under you too for a proper cuddle, the heavy thickness of his cock still deep inside.
"Yeah, but you know thats not what I— uh....simon? Si...? Oh my god—" steady snoring above you.
Of course he decided now was the best time to nap. Fucking food coma again.
...Hopefully he gets a wet dream and you get that fucking you asked for.
69ing with Simon, but that motherfucker is a large fucking geezer, greedy as bloody hell too, and he has you draped on top of his massive body, coaxed you into trusting him with this.
And now he is spreading your ass cheeks in an iron grip, thick fingers digging and bruising your flesh while his relentless tongue laps and slurps at your puffy cunt like a rabid wolf—all while you're too short and wrecked to even touch his rock hard cock, let alone suck it, so you opt to watch it throb and drool precum into his ashy blonde pubes like a leaking faucet.
