dc&mcu | the pitt | smosh | stranger things | off campus
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dividers creds - @chrisssiren
and sometimes @uzmacchiato & @moonstoneandmoonlight
blurb: a rich uptown girl with car issues keeps visiting the small garage off the highway where the owner’s super hot son works.
warnings: fem!reader, fluff, lowk ditzy!reader but not really, yummy mechanic!logan.
Logan heard you before he saw you.
He memorized the sound of those heels clicking against the rough pavement like a second heartbeat. After all, not many girls around this side of town wore vintage Prada pumps to an off-highway garage.
And even if they did, they most certainly did not own a BMW 6er f12 convertible.
Logan’s older brother Jeff was leaning against the workshop desk and sipping on a can of Coke when he saw you strut in. He sighed, “Here comes Lottie.”
The nickname was a running joke between the brothers. Jeff had muttered it under his breath when you first visited the shop and asked a question about diesel gas. He took one look at you and knew you were a clueless, rich girl who shouldn’t be visiting garages such as theirs.
Logan hadn’t entertained the nickname so much. He thought it was unnecessarily mean. Besides, Lottie was always a sweetheart in Princess and the Frog.
Jeff turned on his heels and disappeared into the garage’s office, leaving Logan to deal with you on his own.
Logan put down a spare part he was working on and turned around, leaning back against the counter.
You waved excitedly with a cheerful grin. “Hi, Logan!”
He smiled politely, “Hey…”
“Did you save my girl?” You asked, batting your lashes.
Logan nodded, “She’s all fixed up for you,” he said, walking over to the wall of car keys hung on hooks to retrieve yours.
You clapped your hands, “Yay!”
He chuckled whilst shaking his head. You got happy over the simplest of things. He thought it was endearing.
You walked over to your car. Nebula, as you called her. A fitting name for a sleek, black convertible with dark purple leather upholstery and shiny silver rims.
Logan came over and handed you your keys. “You wanna try her out?”
You nodded and unlocked your car before opening the driver’s side door. No beeping. Perfect.
You beamed at Logan. “You did it!”
He smiled with an easy laugh, feeling proud of his work. In reality, your car issue was a minor one; the door sensor just needed a replacement. Nothing about it required a lick of rocket science, and yet you looked at him as if he hung the stars in your galaxy.
You put your designer bag into your car and bent over to fish out your wallet. Logan stared at your body for a second before he caught himself, clearing his throat and looking away respectfully.
You stood up straight, holding your leather wallet between both hands, looking at him with a doe-eyed expression.
He scratched the back of his neck and gestured for you to follow him to the counter. The gritty sounds of his boots crunching the gravel below and the rhythmic click click click of your heels echoed through the garage.
Logan went around the counter and pulled out a receipt and wrote down the service you needed with the price. He slid the piece of paper to you but you just kept looking at his face with a smile. He blinked before realizing you didn’t care for the price. Right, he thought. Rich girls don’t worry about those things.
“Cash or card?” He asked.
You held up your metal black credit card.
Logan pursed his lips and nodded as he pulled out a card reader. You tapped your card without even glancing at the screen and clapped your hands when the machine beeped in satisfaction.
“Thank you, Logan,” you told him kindly.
He shrugged politely, “It’s no problem.”
You smiled at him. He returned it, “Do you want your recei—“
Before he could even hand you your proof of service, you were walking back to your car. He nodded to himself and stuffed the receipt into the cash register.
He watched as you exited the garage, waving at him enthusiastically as you drove by. He gave a small wave back.
+
A week later, your BMW pulled into the garage whilst Logan was working under a car.
He didn’t hear the sound of your heels this time as he had headphones in, blasting a classic rock song. He felt a shadow looming nearby so he turned and saw your heels appear. He paused and rolled out from under the car, meeting the sight of your broad smile peering down at him.
“Hi, Logan!”
“Hey…” He sounded confused. His eyebrows furrowed and he glanced around, “Didn’t you pick up your car last week?”
You nodded. “Yep. But my AC is broken now…” You pouted.
Hm, Logan thought. He sat up, “Oh, I didn’t see that when I did the diagnostic last week—“
“Must be a new issue, then. These foreign cars are all funny,” you replied, tilting your head.
He cleaned his hands with a rag before standing up. He had oil stains on his shirt and just a little smudge on his face. You thought he looked so ruggedly handsome.
“Let me take a look,” he said and you stepped out the way for him to crank open your hood and inspect the situation.
As he got to work, you leaned against your car and watched. After a moment, you asked, “How was your weekend?”
People don’t usually talk to Logan when he repairs their cars. Especially not pretty, rich girls like you.
“It was good, played hockey, worked here in the shop,” he responded casually.
You nodded along even though he couldn’t see you.
“Did you win?” You asked.
He laughed, an amused sound. “Yeah…yeah, we won.”
You clapped your hands, “Yay!”
Logan laughed again. It was cute, he thought, how you always clapped at good news.
“You like hockey?” He asked, looking over your hood to meet your eyes.
You hummed, “I only recently got into it. My family prefers watching polo, golf, or tennis.”
Rich people sports, he wanted to say. That made sense.
“Recently, huh?” He said instead, ducking his head to keep working. “Who should I thank for putting you onto hockey?” He joked.
You smiled shyly and said, “You…”
His hand paused. The parts of your car suddenly looking like alphabet soup moving in jumbled letters. He lifted his head to meet your gaze again. But before he could manage a reply, you changed the subject. “Is it broken beyond repair?” You asked, turning your attention to your car parts.
He snapped out of his daze and shook his head. “Uhh, no. No, you just need AC coolant.”
“Is that an easy fix?” You asked.
He nodded, “Yeah, the easiest.” He said.
You smiled in relief. “Thank goodness I have you fixing my car,” you told him.
He smiled at that.
He fixed your car, you chirped out a “Thank you, Logan!”, you paid without looking at the bill, and waved goodbye as you left.
“That the BMW girl again?” Logan’s dad asked as he stepped out the office.
“Yeah,” Logan replied, wiping his hands.
“Lottie back again so soon?” Jeff teased. Logan rolled his eyes at the jab.
“You overcharge her?” His dad asked.
Logan looked at him, “Why would I do that?”
His dad shrugged, “Luxurious car fee?”
Logan squinted his eyes, “We don’t do that.”
Jeff piped in, “We could. She doesn’t even check her receipts.”
Logan looked between his dad and brother, “So what? We charge her fair and square.”
His dad shared a looked with Jeff before he went back inside the office.
+
Week after week, you came by to the garage. First it was an oil change, then a rim replacement, then a loose window ribbon, then a tire with low air, and so on.
By week 7, Logan had had enough. It’s not that he didn’t like seeing you, no. Far from it. He actually enjoyed your company. He often looked forward to when you’d come by and say Hi, Logan! in that sing-song voice of yours, your joyful smile, and innocent questions.
But now he was noticing a pattern.
So when you rolled in that Thursday night like clockwork, he didn’t go up to you. He stayed by the workshop desk and watched you with his arms crossed over his chest.
“Hi, Logan!” You beamed with a gleeful wave.
But upon meeting his stern expression, your smile faltered and your hand slowly dropped back to your side. You looked around the empty garage before walking over to him in hesitant steps. The sound of your heels filled the space between the two of you. You stopped in front of him and flattened down your skirt, a nervous tic of yours that you never noticed before.
“Y/n,” he said, his tone serious. “This is the seventh time you’ve come to the garage.”
You nodded, “Nebula keeps acting up—“
“No, she doesn’t.”
You looked at your feet. No smile, no lively clapping.
His arms uncrossed and he stepped closer. He wasn’t angry. No, it wasn’t that. Logan isn’t an idiot. He knew. He knew you had a crush on him, knew the only reason you showed up time and time again was just to spend time with him. Why else would you come? He knew families like yours had their own repairmen at fancy dealerships who could fix any problem. You didn’t need to come into his family’s garage.
Yet, you did.
Logan figured it out by week 4. But truth be told, he never mentioned it because a part of him liked being around you too. He liked hearing your upbeat voice, the familiar tap of your heels, the sound of your laugh. So he stayed quiet, he fixed your tires, and refilled your car’s oil. He went along with it. Because he liked your company just as much as you liked his.
Unable to lie to him, you lifted your head and met his eyes. “I did those things to my car on purpose.” You confessed quietly.
Logan blinked. His stance eased at your admission and he looked at you with soft eyes.
“I watched a YouTube video on how to drain AC coolant,” you added. “And drove around until my tires lost some of its pressure, and—”
“Y/n,” he held your chin with his hand. “You didn’t have to do all that to see me.”
Your eyes widened as you stared at him. He smiled gently, “I…like seeing you. With or without Nebula.”
“You do?” You asked.
He nodded, “I do.”
He leaned in slowly, giving you the chance to pull away. But you stayed. His lips met yours in a gentle kiss. Not hungry or desperate, just a soft sealing; a mutual understanding—I like you and you like me.
When he pulled away, he rested his forehead against yours. You looked at him with a honeyed, dazed expression. He smiled down at you and pecked your lips once more. You weren’t a spoiled, rich girl to him. Not clueless or ditzy. You were just…you. A sweetheart with a crush on a cute guy who would do anything to see him. You were Lottie.
He glanced behind you at your car. He pulled away with a reluctant sigh, “What did you do to her this time?”
You smiled sheepishly, “I jammed my gearshift…”
He chuckled softly, both amused and fondly exasperated by you. “Okay…let me take a look.” He said, lacing his hand with yours and bringing it up to his lips to press a kiss.
warnings - 18+, suggestive, mentions of cheating, mentions of drinking, tucker being such a cutie i loge him, she/her pronouns, not proofread bc i just wanted to get this out so ignore the fact that like nothing is in caps
tags (if orange, that means i cant tag you!) : off campus tags - @antisirkbitch , @ethanthequeefqueen , @zophiathefirst , @dooubleooseven , @virgoalert123 , @harls-sturn | series tags - @ethelcainlxver , @mariiibash , @thecraziestcrayon , @cutiesinthecosmos , @bearymuchso
breaking the rules series list
Standing in a bar on one of the rare Saturdays you actually had off was not part of your plan.
You had purposely bought your favorite ice cream and snacks so you could spend the night binge watching a new series that had just come out. those plans, however, were immediately crushed when jenna and allie, the party girls they were at heart, burst into your room and begged you to ho out with them.
You had met Allie through Jenna, and through Allie, you met Hannah. Theatre kids became close ridiculously fast. it was one of the first things you'd thought when they told you they'd only recently met.
Eventually, they wore you down.
Was this the peer pressure adults always warned you about as a kid? Maybe.
Realistically, though? probably not, because if you had genuinely not wanted to go, they would've dropped it.
So now you were standing at the bar, laughing as jenna butchered drunk karaoke while hannah nursed a drink and talked to garrett. allie was... somewhere around.
after a few drinks, you were a little tipsy. not drunk by any means, just enough to giggle at things that really wereny all that funny
your eyes drifted toward one of the larger tables, where a crowd of girls had gathered around the hockey team, which included tucker.
apparently, he'd already been looking at you because the second your eyes met his, he looked away. Then, after a moment, he glanced back overat you and gave a sheepish smile.
You laughed softly and gave him a small wave before looking away.
Not long after, someone stepped up beside you at the bar and ordered another drink.
you glanced toward the familiar voice and found tucker standing there.
"hey, you."
he looked over, smiling when he heard your voice. it was obvious he hadn't wanted to be the one to approach first after what had happened over text.
"hi." he rubbed the back of his neck. "how... how are you?"
he thanked the bartender as his drink was set down before remaining beside you.
"a little tipsy," you admitted with a smile. "but i'm okay. how are you?"
"well..." he chuckled. "a pretty girl rejected me last week, so the ego's not doing too well. but other than that, i'm fine."
a beat of silence followed.
not awkward.
just... unfamiliar.
"so..." you nodded toward the table of hockey players, all doing a terrible job pretending they weren't watching. "you here with your team?"
"yeah." he glanced over his shoulder before shaking his head. "sorry about them. they can—"
"be nosey?" you finished, which made him laugh. "exactly."
you pointed toward your own friends. "Well if it makes you feel better, the people that im with are staring too and they're nkt even sitting at the same table, so.."
that earned another laugh from him, and some of the tension visibly left his shoulders.
after that, the conversation flowed naturally.
you talked about whatever came to mind. classes. mutual friends. random stories.
it was easy.
surprisingly easy.
"you, um..." tucker hesitated, staring down into his drink. "i know you kinda shrugged it off over text the other day, and feel free to slap me if i'm crossing a line here, but..."
he looked back at you.
"why don't you go for athletes?"
maybe it was because you were tipsy.
maybe it was because, deep down, you really did like him.
or maybe it was because his being an athlete had never actually been the thing keeping you away.
And for whatever reason, you told him.
You told him about your dad. About how everyone loved him. how he was famous. admired. and how he cheated on your mom.
you told him how your father filed for full custody and how your weekends became the only time you got to see your mom.
how you were expected to smile and play happy family with your new stepmother.
how the second you turned eighteen, you left.
throughout the conversation, the two of you slowly drifted closer.
inch by inch.
neither of you noticed until suddenly you did.
and apparently, so did he.
your heart started beating a little faster, judging by the look on tucker's face, his was too.
your lips parted slightly when you noticed his gaze drop to them.
then back to your eyes.
then your lips again.
the next thing that happened?
you weren't exactyl proud of.
you kissed him.
your fingers tangled in his curls while his hands settled firmly on your waist.
"maybe we shouldn't." the words were barely more than a whisper against your lips.
"i want this. please." your voice came out quiet. "i'm not— i'm barely tipsy. more sober than i am tipsy, i want this." And to reassure hom, you kissed him again.
That seemed to shut him up.
Not long after, the two of you were climbing into his car and heading back to the house he shared with his teammates.
you didn't even stop to think about the fact you'd be waking up in a house full of athletes.
that was tomorrow-yous problem.
the second you got inside, you were kissing again.
stumbling through the front door, up the stairs, and toward his room.
clothes disappeared somewhere along the way.
the rest of the night was pretty self-explanatory.
the next morning, you woke to muffled voices downstairs.
Tucker's arm was wrapped securely around your waist as he slept beside you.
is anyone else having trouble with like pasting the color faded text on here? i usually use patorjk and copy the html, go to tumblr on desktop, do the post as html and paste from there but when i paste it the color doesnt show up
WILDEST DREAMS || DEAN DI LAURENTIS X GRAHAM!READER
“no one has to know what we do.. his hands are in my hair, his clothes are in my room” 𐔌❤︎ ͡𐦯
໑ৎ ׁ ׅ♡ PAIRING: graham!reader x brothersbsf!dean
໑ৎ ׁ ׅ♡ BLURB: Dean Di Laurentis was never supposed to want her.
Not when she’s Garrett Graham’s little sister. Not when crossing that line could cost him one of the most important friendships he’s ever had.
But some people become impossible to resist. Hidden away in whispered moments and carefully kept secrets, what exists between them grows into something neither of them knows how to name. Something real.
The only problem is that Dean can’t give her what she truly wants. And no matter how desperately they reach for one another, some things were never meant to be held without breaking.
໑ৎ ׁ ׅ♡ CONTAINS: swearing, arguing, angst, mentions of sexual acts and drinking, garrett graham’s sister, abuse, violence
AUTHOR NOTE: first off campus fic! i hope i did the characters justice.. but pleaaase feel free to request anything & everything!!!
- also written mainly for mai&sami <3 also sami i took pins from u to make this.. sorry i love u
Dean Di Laurentis should have known Garrett Graham was up to something the second he walked into the hockey house kitchen and found his friend waiting for him with folded arms.
“Uh-oh,” Dean said, reaching into the fridge for a beer. “That look usually means I clogged the shower with a condom again.”
He winked at a puck bunny who was in his bed a couple hours prior to the party.
Garrett didn’t smile. That should’ve been the first warning sign.
The second came when Garrett followed him out onto the back deck, where Beau Maxwell was currently arguing with several teammates about whether birthday shots counted if he had taken some the day before as well.
The house was already packed. Music rattled the walls. People streamed through the front door in clusters, carrying cases of beer and cheap liquor. Tonight was Dean and Beau’s shared birthday party, which meant the entire campus had apparently received an invitation.
Dean twisted the cap off his beer. “What the hell is going on?”
“Okay, and why are you telling me that like it’s a fucking threat?”
Garrett stared at him.
Dean sighed.
“Oh. Jesus Christ.”
“Yeah. Exactly.”
Dean lifted his hands. “G, I have no interest in your sister.”
The statement came easily enough. Mostly because it was true. At least for now.
Dean had a slight idea of what Garrett’s sister looked like based on how he would describe her. But his little sister existed firmly inside the category labeled Absolutely Not.
The same category that included dating teammates’ exes and sleeping with professors.
Garrett didn’t look reassured.
“If I hear you even looked at her—”
Dean barked out a laugh. “You cannot be fucking serious.”
“I’m serious.”
“You mean I can’t even look at her?”
“That’s exactly what I mean.”
“That’s psychotic, man.”
Suddenly Dean wasn’t laughing anymore.
Because underneath the irritation in Garrett’s voice sat something else. Something sharper.
The expression crossed Garrett’s face so quickly Dean almost missed it.
“She’s been through enough,” Garrett said quietly.
Dean frowned.
Garrett wasn’t usually the overprotective brother type. Annoying? Yes. Bossy? Absolutely. But this felt different.
This felt personal.
The problem was that Garrett’s expression made it abundantly clear that further questions would not be welcome.
“Fine. I’ll stay away from her.”
“Fine?”
“Yeah, fine. I said I’d stay away from her. I swear on my incredible fucking good looks.”
“No fuckin’ jokes.”
“Garrett, come on.”
“Dean.” Then he walked away.
Leaving Dean standing on the deck with a beer in his hand and a strange feeling lodged somewhere beneath his ribs.
Because Garrett hadn’t sounded protective. He’d sounded afraid.
And Dean couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen Garrett Graham afraid of anything.
—
Y/N Graham hated college parties.
Not because she disliked people.
Not because she disliked drinking.
And definitely not because she disliked fun.
She hated them because they reminded her that everyone else seemed to understand how to exist effortlessly.
Meanwhile, she spent most of her life feeling like she was constantly waiting for something bad to happen.
Old habits died hard. Especially the ones carved into you during childhood.
The thought surfaced uninvited as she climbed the porch steps of the hockey house.
Music blasted from inside and laughter spilled through open windows.
Some drunk idiot was already butchering a song at the top of his lungs.
Tonight was about Garrett.
Her brother had been pestering her for weeks to attend the birthday party.
His exact words had been: You spend too much time hiding in your apartment.
She’d informed him that reading books and avoiding idiots wasn’t hiding.
He’d called her antisocial.
She’d called him obnoxious as hell.
The argument had ended with Garrett threatening to physically carry her to the party.
Which, unfortunately, sounded like something he’d actually do.
The front door opened before she could reach for the handle.
“Holy shit,” a guy exclaimed.
Y/N recognized him instantly.
Beau Maxwell. Birthday boy number two.
“Garrett’s sister?”
She laughed. “Is that my official title now?”
“Pretty much. I don’t think anybody knows your actual name.”
“Good to know?” She says playfully.
Beau stepped aside dramatically. “Welcome to the party. Try not to die.”
“I’ll do my best.”
The music intensified the second she stepped inside. Bodies crowded every available inch of space.
People danced.
Shouted.
Laughed.
Someone nearly ran into her carrying a bottle of vodka. A familiar hand landed on her shoulder.
“There you are.”
She smiled immediately.
Garrett.
“Happy now?” she asked.
His answering grin was quick.
“Ecstatic. I was about five minutes away from sending out a search party.”
“You’re ridiculous.”
“So I’ve been told.”
His gaze swept over her.
Checking. Making sure she was okay.
Y/N pretended not to notice.
“I’m fine,” she said softly. “You can stop looking at me like I’m about to get attacked. He’s not here, G.
Garrett’s expression shifted. Just slightly.
“Yeah,” he replied. “Good.”
Before Y/N could respond, somebody shouted Garrett’s name from across the room.
His teammates.
Garrett groaned.
“Duty calls.”
“Go.”
“You sure?”
She snorted.
“I’m twenty years old, Garrett. I think I can survive a damn party.”
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
Y/N rolled her eyes. “Yes, I’m sure.”
Then he disappeared into the crowd.
And from across the room, Dean Di Laurentis looked up from the girl that was currently kissing down his neck.
Their eyes met. Only for a second.
Meaningless.
But not to him.
Dean immediately looked away and immediately turned back towards the puck bunny.
Because he remembered exactly what he’d promised Garrett.
The problem was that he found himself looking back.
Just once. Or maybe twice. He’s lost count by the end of the night.
—
That was just the beginning.
A few weeks became a month.
A month became two.
And somehow, despite every reason they had to stay away from each other, neither of them ever did.
The deception grew easier with time.
Or perhaps they simply grew accustomed to carrying it, letting the weight of the lie settle onto their shoulders until it felt like something they could no longer put down.
There were countless nights spent in Dean’s room, hidden from the rest of the world. Times where they’d both attend a party and spend the entire time wishing they were alone together rather than pretending to hate one another.
Nights filled with laughter, arguments over ridiculous movies, and conversations that stretched far beyond midnight. Moments that felt perilously close to normal, close enough that they could almost pretend none of the complications existed.
Normal people didn’t have to pretend they hated each other in public.
Normal people didn’t have to carefully monitor every glance across a crowded room.
Normal people certainly didn’t have to worry about one of their closest friends discovering a secret capable of detonating their entire lives.
“Y/N, could you help with table six? I’ve got my hands full!” Hannah asks, holding three plates.
Y/N is pulled out of her thoughts immediately. She nods toward Hannah and begins to help clean up table six.
The bell of Malone’s door dings.
She looks up and her eyes meet another pair that she has recently begun to memorize.
Dean pulls his phone out and without hesitation, Y/N does as well. She already knew he was about to send her a text.
Mr. Six Flags: want me 2 tell the guys to sit at one of ur tables?
Y/N: im cleaning table six. come sit here and i’ll serve u guys in a second!
Mr. Six Flags: got it, babydoll. come over tonight? u don’t need to sneak in since the guys are gonna stay out late tonight ;)
Y/N: can’t wait <3
After Y/N sends her text, they both look up and make eye contact. She catches herself before smiling.
She walks over to the table she had secretly told Dean to sit at.
“Hey guys, how was the game?”
She tries her hardest not to glance at Dean, who is doing an awful job at pretending he hates her. She can feel his gaze burning into her skin.
“We won! You should’ve been there, Graham!” Logan exclaims.
She laughs softly. “Next time, I guess. I can’t miss any more of my brother’s wins or else he’ll murder my ass.”
After taking their order, she walks over to put it in, but she pauses when she notices her phone vibrating.
Dad.
She hangs up immediately, but that doesn’t stop him from texting.
Dad: you can’t ignore me forever, Y/N.
Her face drops and she puts her phone on silent. Her breathing becomes heavier as she can feel panic seeping through her bones.
Out of instinct, her eyes try to find Dean’s immediately.
Of course, his were already on her, but his expression was now covered by worry.
Dean was aware of her past with her dad before moving out for college, but she never told him details. He knew she could come to him whenever she was ready.
In only two months, Y/N had become his number one priority. She’d become under his radar 24/7. She was under his protection now whether he wanted it or not. But he knew he wanted it.
His eyes furrowed before sending her another text.
Mr. Six Flags: you ok?? you need me?? we can go outside
The hardest part wasn’t fooling her brother.
For her, it was fooling Dean. It was pretending that she was alright with only hooking up.
For the first time in a while, there had been one person in her life that truly understood what was underneath the act she put up for everyone else. He saw the true nature of her.
Because somewhere along the way, Y/N Graham had ceased being Garrett's little sister.
She had eventually became his favorite part of his day and the realization should’ve terrified him.
Instead, it ruined him in ways he hadn't anticipated, unraveling carefully guarded pieces of himself he had spent years keeping under control.
Dean had spent years constructing his life around certainty. Hockey. His future. Everything existed in neat, manageable compartments.
Y/N obliterated every single one.
She slipped beneath his defenses with alarming ease, settling herself into places he hadn't realized were empty until she occupied them.
The sound of her laugh lingered in his thoughts long after she'd gone home.
And God help him, he was beginning to crave her presence with a dependence that bordered on pathetic.
Dean Di Laurentis, Briar U’s well-known fuck-boy had officially been tied down by one girl who hadn’t even been his girlfriend yet.
The problem was that none of it changed reality.
No matter how badly he wanted her, no matter how much of himself seemed to belong to her now, reality remained stubbornly unchanged.
He knew what she truly wanted. What she truly needed.
The only problem? He also knew he couldn’t give her it.
Every time that thought surfaced, a bitter taste settled in the back of his throat.
Because for the first time in his life, Dean wasn't entirely sure he wanted to be the guy who walked away first.
But the idea of losing the girl he now couldn’t imagine his life without or one of his best friends is what terrified him.
—
Y/n’s fingers traced along Dean’s bicep. Lately, it didn’t take sex to get them to spend time together. Hookups turned into hangouts, but she had no complaints.
She'd spent years building walls sturdy enough to survive anything life threw at her. Years teaching herself that dependence was dangerous and expectations were even worse.
Then Dean Di Laurentis looked at her like she was something worth protecting.
Like she was worth choosing.
“Will you come to the game again tomorrow?”
She smiled softly. “I can’t wear your jersey number again. Garrett almost caught us last time.”
Dean groaned. “Too bad. You looked fuckin’ marvelous in it. I can’t imagine you wearing anyone else’s.”
“Not the point! He spent ten minutes interrogating me!”
“Well.. what did you say?”
“That your jersey was comfortable and I found it in his laundry”
“It is comfortable.”
“Whatever. Moral of the story, I can’t go tomorrow.”
He lifts a brow. “What, because you can’t wear my number? Come anyway. You know I always play better when you’re there, baby.”
A blush creeps onto her cheeks. “I guess, but you can’t point at me after scoring again. You have the survive instincts of a rock.”
He scoffs, but still grinning widely. He pushes the hair out of her face slowly and grips her face with both hands, then placing a kiss on her forehead.
“I have the best survival instincts, for your information.”
She roll my eyes playfully. “You’re secretly dating Garrett Graham’s little sister. He’d beat your ass”
Dean was smiling until he realized what she had said. “Dating?”
The idea of dating her warms his soul more than he’d like to admit, but the more he feels himself fall for her, the more he thinks about Garrett. Girlfriends are a distraction from his future. They never work out and he always ends up accidentally hurting their feelings.
What’s worse than Garrett finding out that Dean’s hooking up with his sister? Garrett finding out he had hurt his sister. He can’t risk that because it would hurt his own heart more than a physical punch from her brother would.
“Are we not?” She smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. Her nervousness is shown through her eyes instead.
“I spend more nights in your bed than my own, Dean. I know you’re opposed to telling Garrett, but—“
“You.. you know I don’t have much I can offer right now, Y/N”
“Well, yeah. I genuinely like you, Dean. I just thought maybe—“
recently made some of these for my fics and wanted to share some colour variations
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Pairing: Music Producer!Walter "Keys" McKey x Pop Star!Reader
Summary: You're struggling with your next album, so you decide to switch things up.
Word Count: 2.1k
Warnings: drinking, mentions of intoxication, kissing
A/N: I love the current Keysurgance. He's such a cutie and I love writing for him!
Inbox
You need a change. Since your debut album, things have gone downhill for you creatively. Everyone expects your sophomore record to be bigger and better than your first. Maybe it’s the pressure of it all, maybe you’ve lost your spark, maybe you were never that talented in the first place. No matter what you try, the songs just come out wrong. Awkward lyrics backed by an awkward sound.
One night, all of it vanishes. You’re a little drunk, okay more than a little, and your notebook is calling your name. With a dying pen, you write as if your life depends on it, pouring every ache that’s been plaguing you onto the page. Things become fuzzy after that. You wake up at your piano, a forgotten glass of wine balanced on top, notebook still in your lap.
The lyrics you wrote are on replay in your mind as you clean up the remnants of the previous night. This could be it. You can already picture the song as your lead single, ideas for the album that follow almost overwhelm you. Your hand begins to cramp as you scribble your thoughts down. It’s a complete overhaul, from the way your lyrics are written to the style of production, but it feels more like you than anything else you’ve done before.
During a quick break, you come across an article about Walter “Keys” McKey, a producer who’s finally broken into mainstream success after years of working in the indie scene. The process he describes to the interviewer is methodical, there isn’t a missed detail in any of his work. His depth and care are exactly what you need for this project.
You extend your break to look through his social media profiles. He mostly posts about music, pictures of him in the studio, promotion for songs he’s worked on. Further back, there are a few photos of him with a one-eyed tabby cat. Keys follows you on every platform he has which makes reaching out to him less daunting.
: hi
It takes less than a minute for Keys to respond
keysmckey: Holy shit is this real??
: why wouldn’t it be
keysmckey: Because you’re you
: am i talking to keys the fanboy or keys the producer
keysmckey: Whatever version you want me to be. Though I’m assuming you want Keys the producer?
: i need keys the producer
keysmckey: Producer Keys at your service
: i have a new song and i need… a fresh perspective. someone like you. we can book a studio session and i can show you.
keysmckey: What about my home studio?
keysmckey: Promise I’m not a creep.
: i’ll bring my pepper spray just in case
keysmckey laughed at your message
…
It turns out that the home studio Keys invited you to is a spare bedroom in his apartment. The walls are padded with charcoal gray soundproofing. A simple keyboard is positioned under the window; an acoustic guitar is propped up on one side of the keyboard, a navy blue electric guitar on the other. His desk looks more like a gamer’s setup than a musician’s, complete with a high-powered computer and ergonomic chair in a similar shade of blue to his guitar.
“My friend Millie used to live with me,” Keys explains. “I made it into my office when she moved out.”
He pulls out the seat in front of the keyboard for you. The view from the window is a plain brick wall with a faded advertisement for a bread company that you’re almost certain went out of business years ago.
“It’s not much to look at but it helps me think,” He sits down in his desk chair, spinning it around to face you.
You raise an eyebrow, “Seriously?” Your eyes move between the window and Keys.
“I like to be alone with my thoughts,” Keys smiles bashfully. “We can swap spots if you don’t like it.”
“No. This whole thing is about trying something new. Sitting in your slightly depressing workspace is new.”
Keys chuckles, “Glad I could help,” He pauses, turning around to open software that looks more experimental than anything you’ve seen your usual producers use. You don’t know what you expected, the article mentioned that he created his own producing platform using his tech background.
“Now tell me what the song is about.”
“A lot of things, my ex–”
“Not the tabloid answer. Go deeper,” Keys urges, he adjusts his glasses. “I can’t make something based on your ex. I mean, I could, but it wouldn’t be right.”
“The song is about… you know when you want something so badly that you’re willing to ignore all of your instincts? Like it’s actively causing you pain, but it’s somehow part of you… It’s inescapable.”
Something you can’t quite read flickers in his expression, “Yeah. I get that.”
Voicing your thoughts makes what you’ve been chasing clear. The reaction you got from Keys is exactly what you want. Your first album connected with people. You could see it on tour every night as fans screamed their hearts out to your lyrics. But you want to pull emotion out of them, something deeper than ‘I’m sad because I got dumped.’
“Do you want me to play it for you?”
“Well, I can’t really produce a song I’ve never heard. Actually–”
You interrupt him, “You can because you can produce anything but ‘it wouldn’t be right.’”
Keys flushes, “Play the song, please.”
You turn to the keyboard, ignoring the expanse of brick in your eyeline. What if he hates it? Worse, what if he hates it and doesn’t say anything? The team around you has fallen into that habit. It’s almost impossible to get genuine feedback on your new work.
Keys is quiet as you sing, only humming along to the melody as he gets the hang of it. The fear washes away, the song is good, you’ve known it since you read over it with a sober mind this morning.
When you’re done, Keys claps. You wonder if he’s one of those people who claps when the airplane lands. Your eyes drift down to his hands. Slender fingers, precisely clipped nails, smooth skin unmarred by scars or callouses. You force yourself to look back at his face. His expression is purely analytical, already building a sound around your rough draft.
Keys gets up, moving to sit beside you on the seat. His thigh brushes against yours. Hands ghosting the keyboard over your own. Up close, Keys smells clean, like laundry detergent and 2-in-1.
“Build,” he adjusts a setting and plays a string of notes, fiddling with things until it sounds the way he wants it to. “The listener should feel the pressure you're describing. If the song builds as you sing, then drops off just before the end,” Keys demonstrates, guiding your hands to copy the rhythm. “It'll be like you’re weighing them down, not letting up until it’s too late. By then, the song is done and they’re chasing relief. The next track on the album can give them that… this is for an album, right?”
“It is. I was thinking this would be the lead single. I still have to talk it over with my team but it’s what I want.”
“Yes! Okay, that’s perfect,” Keys runs a hand through his hair, pushing loose strands out of his face just for them to fall back down. “Lead single. Lead single. I don’t know what the rest of the record is like, but this needs to be the lead. It’s strong, which is what you need for your big follow up.”
You grin, “I was thinking the same thing.”
“Great minds think alike,” Keys jokes before refocusing on the task at hand.
“We need to include that pressure in the mix,” he hops up and returns to his desk, leaving a void beside you. The distance is unnatural, every fiber of your being wants to be close to him again. That’s where you were supposed to be. Jesus, you just met the guy.
“Lower vocals, slight delay,” he muses. “Can you sing into the mic attached to the board? I need to test the levels first.”
You sing the ABCs as Keys clicks away on his desktop, back slouched forward.
“Your posture is awful,” you laugh.
Keys attempts to straighten his back but goes back to position almost immediately, “So I’ve been told.”
You sit in a slightly uncomfortable silence while Keys messes with his software. Finally, you decide to get up and stand by his chair. His body tenses as you lean into his shoulder.
“Is something wrong?”
He shakes his head, “There’s a glitch in the software. Shouldn’t take too long to fix.”
“I can record vocals while you work on that. Maybe try to refine the melody, too. I was drunk when I wrote all of it.”
Keys stares at you, “That’s what you come up with when you’re drunk?”
“It’s my preferred creative state.”
“Guess I should get drunk more often,” His eyes flicker down to your lips for a split second. Keys coughs. “The software is almost ready, you should start on vocals. Warm up, drink from a flask, whatever helps.”
“Very funny.”
…
The rest of your session goes well after the software hiccup. Once Keys is done, the song sounds exactly how you imagined it. The growth from your past work is evident. It feels right, just like Keys said.
He disappears into another room and comes back with a bottle of wine and two glasses. You’re lying on the floor now, exhaustion threatening to overtake your body. Keys sits down next to you, legs criss-crossed.
“Thought we could use some creative inspiration after the work we did today.”
You snort, watching Keys carefully pour wine into both glasses before handing one to you.
“But seriously, today was incredible. That song, your voice, I mean, this is a hit. No wonder you’re so successful.”
“It wouldn’t be the same without your production. You just… understood everything I was thinking and feeling, then put it into the music.”
Keys shrugs, “Just doing my job.”
“You’re great at it.”
He avoids your gaze, heat rising to his cheeks at your praise. Keys takes a long sip of his wine.
You continue, because he deserves it and to see how flustered he’ll get, “I’ve worked with a lot of producers, but you’re unique. They don’t see things the way you do. Working with you—
“Stop,” his face is bright red now. “You don’t have to compliment me.”
“I mean it, Keys. You’re amazing. I don’t understand all the technical shit you do, you’re like a wizard with it. And you’re a spectacular musician,” you drink out of your glass, watching him over the brim.
Keys gulps down more wine, “I was scared to meet you, you know? Like, actually terrified.”
“Why?” You don’t think that you’re a particularly scary person, yet your fame and stage presence can unnerve people in a way that you don’t fully get.
“You’re a global sensation. Everyone loves you and your music. I thought I was going to mess it up or make things awkward. You’re talented and effortless and beautiful,” Keys freezes, still sober enough to realize what he let slip. “I mean, objectively, you’re all those things. I’m not trying to make a move.”
“I wouldn’t mind if you were.”
Keys sputters, eyes widening behind his glasses. When he regains some sort of composure, he slides closer to you. His large hand cradles your cheek, tilting your head to look directly at him.
“Kiss me,” you murmur.
“Getting involved with a collaborator is a bad idea. It never ends well, trust me,” yet, Keys leans in, nose brushing against your skin.
“We’re not officially collaborators."
“We will be,” Keys whispers. “I like working with you.”
“I like it too. One kiss won’t ruin it.”
The wheels in his brain turn, deciding between his options. It doesn’t take long from his lips to make contact. Keys is hesitant, analyzing the situation, eyes finally fluttering closed as he gives himself over to you. His hand lingering on your cheek. Warmth runs through your body, you deepen the kiss, pushing yourself as close to him as you can. Your hand finds the hair at the nape of his neck, you comb through the silky strands, gently tugging on them when Keys tries to pull away. The fresh smell from earlier has been replaced by the wine you’ve both been nursing.
His lips are softer than any man’s should be, they move with a level of experience you didn’t expect from him. Your heart skips a beat when Keys pushes you down to the carpet, steadying himself on top of you. His weight envelopes you.
“This is the dumbest thing I’ve ever done,” he mutters against your lips.
★ summary: who knew taking your little brother to his baseball practices would be the best decision you’ve ever made?
★ pairing: steve harrington x reader
★ warnings: 18+ mdni, smut, semi-public sex, unprotected sex, oral f receiving, fingering, dirty talk, cream pie, praise kink, size kink, steve harrington big dick canon
★ word count: 7.2k words
★ notes: loosely based off of THIS post by @valentine-night!! i’ve had this in the drafts since january lmaoo who up missing steve harrington
Being the oldest sister was a blessing, getting to watch them grow up. From holding them in the hospital, to watching them grow into their own person. Being the eldest sister was horrible when your demonic little brother was kicking your seat so hard you were about to pull over and let him fend for himself on the side of the highway.
“Coach Steve is going to be so mad I’m late.” He wailed, for the umpteenth time in the ten-minute car ride. The shrill tone of his prepubescent voice made your jaw clench with every incessant whine he felt the need to let out.
“I can’t control mom had to work late, and didn’t tell me about it until the last minute.” You spoke through gritted teeth.
Your words did little to quell his anger, and his little feet pressed themselves into your seat again with all the strength he could muster, as if that would somehow make the car drive itself faster. When he opened his mouth again to scream, you turned around, bracing your arm on the headrest.
“You scream one more time, I’m driving all the way there just to tell Coach Steve that you’re grounded.” You seethed, watching his feet fall lax. “Kick my seat again, I dare you.”
They don’t tell you that when your parents decide to have another kid later in life, your mid-20s will be spent feeling like you’re a single mom of a 12-year-old. A free babysitter and a glorified chauffeur at the expense of being born first. The rest of the drive was spent in minimal silence; you let him get away with the under-the-breath grumbling long enough for you to pull into the Hawkin’s middle parking lot.
Y/b/n was already sprinting out of the car the moment you put it into park, his baseball gear still seated in the passenger seat.
“Am I supposed to lug this like your personal butler now?” You yelled at him, practically speaking to yourself as he was halfway to the field by now.
“This is ridiculous.” You grumbled, slamming the door shut after grabbing his sweaty duffel bag and bat. “No don’t worry, I’ll just do everything for you that’s fine.”
You took your time leisurely walking over to the field, silently begging your brother to say something so you could embarrass him in front of all of his friends for leaving you to carry his things. Tiny voices echoed the closer you got to the fence. A gaggle of 12-year-olds all in matching practice uniforms following around the coach like a herd of ducklings. This must be the infamous Coach Steve you’ve been cursing in your head the last few miles.
What your mother neglected to tell you when she put you up for this errand, was that his coach was around your age. When you got closer your jaw fell, eyes widening once you made out his features. She also didn't mention that Coach Steve was actually Steve Harrington. The prior King of Hawkin’s High himself.
It was hard not to know about him during your high school days, he graduated a year before you. His popularity,and his ego lingered in the halls long after his departure. You didn’t know he was still in Hawkins, let alone coaching. You also didn’t know someone would look so good in khakis. He filled them out so well, the fabric tight on his thighs in all the right places.
“Hi! Are you here to drop equipment off?” A voice shook you from your staring, realizing it was the man himself. You rocked on your feet, pretending to look around to ignore your shock.
“Oh, yeah. Sorry! Little brother ran away from me before he could grab his things.” You laughed, suddenly feeling the Indiana summer heat clinging to your skin in a way that wasn’t before.
“Typical. Which one’s yours?” Steve asked, a dopey smile on his face as his eyes not so subtly sized you up. You were sure your cheeks were on fire, hoping he’d blame the Indiana heat.
You stared lazily into the crowd of kids before your brother’s head popped out, his wad bobbing through them. “The one barreling towards me on a mission.” You managed to get out before he slammed into your legs, snatching the gear from your hands.
“You’re welcome.” You yelled, watching him side-eye you and Steve before running back towards his group of friends.
“Ungrateful little shits aren't they?” Steve whispered so only you could hear, making an ugly laugh pour out of your chest.
“The worst.” You smiled, eyebrows softening at the man you realized you never even talked to in school. He was untouchable, like a mythical figure. An ideal in the heads of every teenager in Hawkins in 85. But here he was standing in front of you. nothing like the image you conjured up in your mind of him.
“You gonna stay for practice?” He couldn’t help but ask, his hands awkwardly fumbling around in the gaudy blue coach jacket.
You leaned on your heels, “Uh, I wasn’t planning on it.” You admitted, watching his face fall. Before you could think of anything else you spoke again, “But I can! Yeah, I would love to see if these kids suck or not.”
He gave you the brightest dopiest smile, making your stomach turn in delight. “Yeah, I mean that’d be great-“
“Stop flirting with y/b/n’s Sister,” Derek yelled, slamming his bat down on home plate, “Mom’s making lasagna tonight and I won’t be missing it.”
“Oh geez, these fucking kids,” Steve mumbled under his breath, apologizing quickly before jogging over to them. You ignored your brother’s squinted eyelids while you found a home on the chilled metal of the bleachers. You didn’t know what you were doing, sitting here watching him corral the kids into a huddle.
Before you knew it, this was becoming a pattern. An unhealthy slippery slope. You were rearranging your entire schedule just to catch a glimpse of Steve rolling his sleeves up, sweat dripping down his infamous locks into his face. Even on a rare occasion he’d use the bottom of his shirt to wipe his face, the tiniest sliver of tummy, and his ever present happy trail was enough to keep your fantasies fed for weeks.
Maybe you did your hair a little more, and took your time reapplying lip gloss, pretending not to notice him watching. Maybe you did find every excuse in the world to walk into the dugout, just to talk to him before your brother dragged you out by your hair.
Today was different, what was supposed to be a normal pickup turned into your brother tagging along with one of his friends. Leaving you alone to linger about the field as you pleased. When the last mom drove out of the lot, you let your feet take you to the oh so familiar equipment room.
“Do you need some help?” You stepped around the darkened room, watching Steve rummage through old crates. He looked startled to see you, looking at the space behind you.
You watched his eyesight and gave him a small smile, answering for him before he even asked. “My brother decided to go home with his friend, so I was left here alone. Figured I’d come help you clean up.”
His brows furrowed for a millisecond, before a smile crept up his lips. “You don’t have to do that. You do enough by helping me pass out snacks to these kids.”
You shrugged, “I have nothing better to do.” Which wasn’t a total lie, but wasn’t the truth fully either.
“Right.” He said, not convinced at all. “Friday night and a pretty girl like you has nothing to do but help me put away smelly baseball gear?”
He didn’t miss the blush creeping up your neck at his words, watching you stumble around the stuffy room. “I’m right where I wanna be, Steve Harrington.” You said, giving him a toothy grin.
He made a noise, letting the stack of kneepads drop into the box. “Really Y/n Y/l/n?” He asks, copying your grin.
“Yup,” You grabbed an empty net bag, holding it up. “Where do you need me?”
He does end up letting you help, but barely. You hold the bag while he scurries around, collecting stray jerseys and balls from around the field. The sun is setting, the sky a mix of orange and pinks. Fireflies are buzzing around the fences, and the street lights flickering on.
The equipment room smells like cut grass and dirt and old leather gloves baking in the heat all day. Outside, cicadas scream so loud it almost drowns out the tinny music drifting from someone’s truck radio in the parking lot. Summer in Hawkins always felt sticky and endless.
Steve leans against the doorway watching you attempt to untangle a mess of practice jerseys from each other, amusement dancing all over his stupidly handsome face. “You know,” he starts, arms crossing over his chest, “most girls would’ve found an excuse to run away by now.”
You snort softly, tugging harder at a sleeve twisted inside out. “Most girls probably have standards.”
”Ouch.” He presses a hand dramatically over his chest. “You wound me.”
“I think you’ll survive.” You scoffed, throwing down your sorted pile of jerseys to be laundered.
“Barely.”
Your eyes flick up toward him and immediately regret it because he’s already looking at you like that again. Warm and lingering heavy on your face. Like he can’t quite figure you out but desperately wants to.
”You know,” you say carefully, leaning against the metal shelves beside him, “I still can’t believe you coach middle school baseball.”
Steve laughs under his breath. “Why’s that?”
“I don’t know. Thought King Steve Harrington would’ve moved to Chicago or something. Become a millionaire businessman like his father.”
He groans immediately. “Please never call me King Steve again.”
“But that’s what everyone called you.” You laughed out, cheeks burning with how hard you were smiling.
“Yeah well everyone in high school was annoying.”
You grin. “You included?”
“Especially me.” He shakes his head, throwing the last of the gloves into an old dusty crate. “Trust me sweetheart, eighteen-year-old me was a complete asshole.”
Sweetheart.
The word settles warm in your chest before you can stop it. Steve doesn’t even seem to realize he said it, too busy crouching beside another bin collecting stray baseballs. His coach hat is turned backwards tonight, curls damp from sweat around the edges. There’s dirt smeared across one of his knees and his tan forearms flex every time he reaches forward. All this high school talk has you feeling seventeen again, the way you’re fawning over this man like a schoolgirl.
“Well, thank god it’s not high school anymore,” You hummed, pushing yourself off the shelves you were leaning against.
Steve made a noise of amusement, “Yeah, thank god for that.” He said a little under his breath as he came back up. When he stood up he was a little closer to you than he was before, a stupid smirk falling on his lips before he could help it.
He cleared his throat awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Uh, so next weekend is kind of a big game.”
You raised an eyebrow immediately, fighting the smile threatening your lips. “A big middle school baseball game?”
“Hey.” He pointed at you. “These kids are very passionate about this.”
“I’m sure they are.”
“And,” he continued dramatically, “if we beat Roosevelt, we move onto regionals.”
You gasped quietly, pressing a hand over your chest in mock shock. “Regionals?”
Steve rolled his eyes so hard you thought they might stick. “You’re cruel.”
He laughed despite himself, warm and boyish and so pretty it made something ache inside your ribs. “Anyway,” he said, rocking back on his heels, “I was wondering if maybe you were gonna be there.”
You pretended to think about it, lips pursing while your eyes drifted toward the ceiling. As if you hadn’t already moved shifts around at work the second your brother mentioned the game earlier that week. As if your entire Saturday wasn’t already embarrassingly clear just for the chance to sit on those shitty metal bleachers and watch Steve pace the dugout in fitted khakis.
“I don’t know,” you teased lightly. “I am pretty busy.”
Steve stared at you flatly. “Busy doing what exactly?”
You squinted your eyes at him playfully, “Okay, I have things to do.”
“Yeah?” He challenged, letting his shoulder hit the back of the shelf as he leaned back, “Like what?”
There was tense silence for a minute, his golden brown eyes locked on yours before you caved. Shaking your head in laughter you admitted defeat, “Okay, fine. Yeah of course I’ll be there.”
His eyes lit up just a fraction, giving you a curt nod. “Yeah, awesome.”
Before you could say anything else, words began pouring out of his mouth. “Do you maybe have plans after the game? In your super busy schedule?”
Your stomach flipped immediately, the apples of your cheeks burning. “Nope.”
Steve blinked once like he wasn’t expecting your answer to come that easily. “Oh.”
“Oh?” You repeated, amused.
“No, I just-” He stumbled over the words with a nervous laugh. “Okay, so I was thinking maybe after the game we could go get dinner or something.”
Steve kept talking before you could answer, words tumbling out in a rush now. “Not like a team dinner obviously because that would be weird since they’re twelve and honestly I don’t even know if half of them are allowed out past nine but I meant like you and me.”
You bit the inside of your cheek hard enough to stop yourself from smiling too big.
Steve pointed vaguely between the two of you. “Together.”
“I got that part, Steve.” You giggled, rocking on the heels of your feet.
“Right.” He winced immediately. “Jesus Christ.”
You laughed softly, watching the tips of his ears turn pink. Steve Harrington was blushing. Steve Harrington was nervous asking you to dinner.
“So,” he continued, clearing his throat again, “it’s a date.”
Your eyebrows lifted in amusement.
Steve’s eyes widened instantly after hearing himself. “I mean-not a date if you don’t want it to be a date.”
You grinned. “Steve-”
“Because it can totally just be dinner.” He was talking so fast now that it was almost impossible not to laugh. “Like a casual dinner. Friendly dinner. Super platonic dinner. I mean, it’s so okay maybe we could go out with the team a super casual team dinner with a whole bunch of stinky boys-“
“Steve.”
“Although I do think I’d prefer if it were a date but there’s obviously no pressure there because-”
“Steve Harrington.” You laughed, grabbing his forearms gently in your hands.
At the contact, he stopped rambling immediately, a dopey smile on his lips. “Yeah?”
“I’d love to go out on a date with you.”
“Oh,” He breathed out, “Sick.”
Then it was written in stone, you had a date with Steve Harrington.
It was a realization you could not shake off no matter how hard you tried, the week went by in a blur. At work, you were in a dreamy haze, unable to shake the smile off your face no matter what the week threw at you. Co-workers were concerned, and your brother was annoyed. So annoyed he was currently all but kicking down your door the night of the game.
“Are you seriously changing again?” He shouted through your bedroom door for what had to be the fifth time that evening.
You yanked your closet open harder. “No.”
“That’s literally a lie because I heard hangers moving!”
You rolled your eyes toward the ceiling, tossing another rejected dress onto your bed. The room looked like a tornado had ripped through it. Shoes kicked near the vanity. Lip glosses scattered everywhere. Three different sundresses were abandoned because suddenly every single item of clothing you owned looked ugly the second you put it on.
“You’re being dramatic,” you called back.
“I’m being dramatic?” Your brother’s voice cracked halfway through the sentence. “Coach Steve said we have to be there early and you’ve been curling your hair for like four hours because you’re trying to date him.”
”Remind me why I let you in my house again?” You yelled, slipping on the final dress for the night. It would have to do.
Another bang on the door, “Because mom said so!”
“Jesus Christ." You grumbled, shoving earrings in your ears and grabbing your purse. “We’re going! We’re going!”
When you yanked open the door he was mid-pounding, his hands hitting the air as you glared down at him.
The little traitor narrowed his eyes at you before finally huffing dramatically. “All that time for you just to look the same you always do.”
”Rude.” You frowned, dangling your keys in front of him. “Is that how you talk about your ride?”
“Yeah, you look pretty, whatever.” He groaned like the compliment physically pained him. “Can we go now?”
The ride went without incident, helping him gather his gear before he ran off to the dugout. When you stepped out of the car, you smoothed your hair and dress down anxiously. The humid summer air wrapped around you instantly, warm and sticky against your skin. Somewhere nearby a radio played old Springsteen while parents shouted over one another from the stands.
He stood near the fence talking animatedly with one of the dads, baseball cap backwards again, clipboard tucked beneath one arm. His fitted navy shirt clung to him from the heat already, sleeves tight around his biceps while sunlight caught against the sweat dampening the curls at the back of his neck. God.
Like he sensed you staring, Steve glanced up suddenly, a beaming smile on his lips.
He excused himself from the conversation immediately, jogging over with easy confidence despite the nervous excitement flickering behind his eyes. “Hey.”
“Hey yourself.”
Steve’s gaze flicked over you once before quickly darting back up to your face, but not before you caught it lingering on the sundress. His ears pinked slightly. “You look…” He cleared his throat. “Really pretty.”
You bit back your smile. “Thanks.”
Before Steve could say anything else your brother appeared between you both like an angry little guard dog. “Coach, Derek said if we lose it’s because Tyler sucks at shortstop.”
Steve blinked once. “Okay?”
“And Tyler said Derek smells weird.”
Steve sighed deeply toward the heavens. “Alright-“
Two more helmet-clad heads ran over, talking over each other immediately.
“I never said that, but he does smell weird-“ The one that must have been Tyler said.
Derek came back, his voice loud. “Shut your mouth dipshit, your mom smells weird-“
“Whoa,” Steve yelled, clapping his hands once in warning, “Language. Jeez.”
They silenced a little, guilty little eyes staring up at their coach. You snorted while Steve pointed dramatically toward the field. “Go warm up before I make you run laps. Now.”
Your brother squinted suspiciously between the two of you before finally running off. “No flirting during the game!” he yelled, “Or you’ll get pregnant.”
Steve looked horrified. “Oh my god.”
You laughed so hard you had to grip the fence beside you. “How’s that sex-ed going, Harrington?”
”Shut it.” He sighed playfully.
A whistle blowing across the field took his attention away.
“That’s your cue.” You smiled, “Break a leg.”
The game itself passed in a blur of shouting parents, stolen bases, and Steve pacing the dugout like his life depended on it. You spent most of the time pretending not to stare at him every thirty seconds. Which became increasingly difficult as the night wore on and the heat and humidity settled heavier over the field. By the final inning, his shirt clung to his chest damp with sweat, curls sticking wildly to his forehead while dirt smeared along one cheekbone.
When your brother hit the winning run the entire field erupted. Kids poured out of the dugout screaming while parents cheered from the stands. Your brother tackled Steve around the waist so hard he nearly fell over, the man laughing breathlessly while ruffling everyone’s sweaty heads at once.
It was Derek who opened up a bottle of Gatorade and began squeezing it directly on top of their coach's head. The rest of the boys followed suit, coating Steve in various colors of the sports drink while he ran away from them.
You found yourself smiling so hard your cheeks hurt. Your parents picked your brother up and spun him around, celebrating his win. The celebration lasted nearly twenty minutes before the first crack of thunder rolled overhead. Everyone collectively glanced toward the sky at once. Dark clouds had swallowed half the sunset already, heavy and blue against the remaining streaks of pink light.
Steve finally spotted you again once the crowd died down, hair damp and cheeks flushed from the game. He jogged over still grinning, looking entirely too handsome for someone covered in dirt and Gatorade.
”We won!” He yelled, his hands thrown up in celebration.
“Really?” You teased, “I just thought the blue raspberry stench was your cologne."
He looked down at his sticky skin, shaking his head. “Okay, I need like ten minutes before our date because I cannot show up to a diner smelling like a sticky twelve-year-old.”
You looked him up and down dramatically. “You mean this isn’t the outfit?”
Steve gasped. “Excuse you, this is vintage athletic couture.” He tugged at the soaked navy shirt sticking to his chest.
“Right, go shower. I’ll be waiting.” You laughed, letting him jog off to the locker rooms that were in the athletic building. You lingered in the foyer, listening to the rain slowly start to patter against the metal rooftop.
Steve stepped out rubbing a towel through his damp hair, curls messier now from the shower. He’d changed into dark jeans and a faded gray t-shirt that stretched nicely across his shoulders, the fabric still slightly damp near the collarbone. Clean soap replaced the sticky sweetness of Gatorade now, fresh and warm beneath the humid summer air.
Rain hammered harder against the pavement around you now, loud enough to fill the silence settling between you both. Steve smelled ridiculously good fresh out of the shower, hair still damp enough that droplets slid slowly down the side of his neck. You had the sudden overwhelming urge to reach out and wipe away the water.
You blinked softly, hoping it didn’t look like you were ogling him, despite that being exactly what you were doing. He was also too busy watching the way your dress clung to your curves, the new chill in the air bringing goosebumps to your skin.
Steve cleared his throat softly. “Ready?”
You nodded. “Lead the way, Harrington.”
His grin returned immediately. “Okay, so there’s this little restaurant about five minutes away.”
“The new fancy one near the movie theater?”
“Fancy is generous,” he laughed. “But yeah.”
“That’s very sweet, I would have been fine anywhere.”
“Yeah, but I wanted it to be romantic,” He smiled back.
Then the sky opened up and the rain came crashing down violently all at once, pounding against the awning hard enough to splash water onto your legs. Wind whipped through the parking lot sending leaves skidding across flooded asphalt while thunder cracked overhead.
Steve stared out at the storm in horror. “Oh, you have got to be kidding me.”
You laughed quietly beside him. “Good old summer storm.”
“God, I don’t want this to ruin the date.” He gestured helplessly toward the monsoon happening three feet away. “I had an actual plan for once. I have flowers for you in my car, dessert planned, and everything.”
Your heart ached in your chest with affection for him, “Steve.” You bumped your shoulder gently against his. “It’s just rain.”
“But I was gonna walk you there all smooth and gentleman-like.”
“You? Smooth?” You teased.
“Okay, rude.”
You laughed again and Steve visibly softened hearing it. God, he loved making you laugh.
Another flash of lightning lit the parking lot bright white for a second. Steve sighed dramatically before suddenly pointing toward his BMW across the lot. “Okay. New plan.”
”I’m following.”
“We book it,” He said, his eyes set on the path.
You blinked at the torrential rain. “Steve, we’re gonna get soaked.”
“So?” He smiled crookedly. “Might be fun.”
And maybe it was stupid. Maybe both of you were entirely too old to be sprinting through a thunderstorm like teenagers. But the look on his face made you nod anyway.
Steve grabbed your hand before you could think too hard about it. Warm fingers sliding between yours naturally as they belonged there.
“Ready?” he asked.
You squeezed his hand once. “Go.”
The two of you took off laughing immediately
Rain drenched you within seconds. Your dress clung to your skin while water splashed around your ankles through giant puddles. Steve was laughing beside you loud and breathless, with his soaked curls falling into his eyes while he kept tugging you forward through the storm.
By the time you both reached the car, you were absolutely drenched head to toe.
Steve bent over trying to catch his breath, rainwater dripping from the end of his nose while you laughed uncontrollably beside him. “Oh my god,” he wheezed. “Okay, maybe this was a bad idea.”
”You don’t say.” You cried out, already hurting from wheezing with laughter.
Steve’s hands were fumbling around with his pockets frantically while you tried to wipe the incoming rain from your face.
“Oh my god,” His jaw went slack, “I left the fucking keys in my shorts.”
For one full second neither of you spoke. Rain poured around you in violent sheets while Steve stared at the locked car like it was the end of the world.
Then you burst into laughter so hard your stomach hurt.
Steve groaned dramatically, throwing his head back toward the storm. “This is awful.”
“It’s kinda funny.”
“No, it’s horrible.” He laughed helplessly despite himself, his soaked shirt plastered to his chest while rain ran down his jaw. “You’re never gonna let me live this down.”
“Absolutely not.”
Steve dragged both hands through his wet hair before looking at you again, smile softening around the edges. “I’m sorry,” he said quieter this time. “This is probably the worst first date ever.”
Your laughter faded slowly while you looked at him standing there in the rain. Completely drenched. Smiling at you anyway. Nervous despite all the flirting and teasing because he genuinely wanted tonight to be good for you.
”No,” You frowned, walking around to his side of the car wrapping your soaked arms around his neck. “Not at all, because I’m with you.”
Steve’s hands tightened at your waist as he pulled you flush against him, kissing you hard enough to steal the breath right from your lungs. Rain soaked through both of your clothes completely now, your dress plastered to your skin while his t-shirt clung damply against his chest beneath your fingertips. Everything about him felt warm despite the storm.
His lips slotted against yours, kissing you hungrily. Rainwater fell between your mouths with each frantic open-mouthed kiss, making both of you giggle against the other’s lips. If it were up to you, you would have stayed there in his arms forever, but a large strike of lightning in the distance had you jumping apart.
“We should-“ He started.
“Go inside-“ You finished each other's thoughts, his arms pulling you through the wet field and right back to where you started.
By the time you reached the building both of you were absolutely soaked through, dripping onto the linoleum floors beneath the buzzing fluorescent lights.
You bent over laughing trying to catch your breath while Steve shoved wet hair back from his face.
“We look insane,” you managed between laughs.
Steve glanced down at the puddle forming beneath both of you. “Robin is never gonna let me live this down.”
Before you could tease him again, Steve stepped forward suddenly.
His hands slid around your waist fast enough to pull a startled laugh from you before your back hit lightly against the wall beside the doors. Steve looked at you for half a second, soaked curls dripping onto his forehead, chest rising hard beneath the wet gray t-shirt.
You could see now, your light colored dress revealing too much through the top. The cold AC air against your wet skin makes your nipples harden through the fabric.
Then his lips were on yours, hard.
You tangled your fingers into his wet hair immediately, earning a low sound from Steve that nearly made your knees buckle. His mouth softened for a second after that, kissing you slower like he wanted to savor it before deepening again when you tugged him closer.
Suddenly the storm felt so far away. All you could focus on was him. The warmth of his body pressed against yours. The rough scrape of his damp curls between your fingers. The way he kissed you like he was smiling through it, overwhelmed and happy and wanting all at once.
When Steve finally pulled back both of you were breathing hard.
His forehead rested against yours while his thumb brushed slowly across your soaked cheek. He looked completely wrecked. Pink lips swollen from kissing you, chest rising unevenly, eyes dark and soft all at once.
“You are,” he said quietly, still a little breathless, “so fucking beautiful.”
Your fingers gripped his shirt in your hands, shaking your head, “You are so beautiful."
Before he could deny or turn down your compliment, you leaned forward and pressed your lips against the junction between his neck and shoulder. Licking the raindrops there, pressing soft kisses up his ear making his breath hitch.
His hands moved back down to your hips, lower this time squeezing the flesh there gently.
“You’re making it really hard to be a gentleman here.” He groaned, his voice cracking with each gentle suck of his skin between your teeth.
“Who said you had to be?” You asked, your breath hot against his skin. “We should just wait out the storm anyway, that’s the safest thing to do right?”
“Hmm, yeah,” He hummed, knees buckling when you sucked gently, "Definitely the best thing to do.”
He pried your lips off of his neck reluctantly, “Let us get warm, huh?”
He grabbed your hand in his and ushered your dripping bodies back to the equipment room. A few towels courtesy of Hawkins Middle athletic department later, you were sort of dry still in your soaked clothes.
“There’s a,” Steve coughed, “Washer and dryer in here. I could uh, dry our clothes there’s just no spare clothes unless you can fit into a size extra small in kids.”
You were leaning against one of the shelves, towel drying your hair the best you could. “You just trying to get me out of my clothes Stevie?”
He turned to make a teasing remark back, but was stopped in his tracks as he looked at you. He could practically see through your dress, your body almost on display for him. He took a few steps closer, hands pulling at the straps of your dress.
“Well, you are shivering,” Steve whispered, pulling the soaked fabric off your skin. “I don’t want you to get sick.”
“Then you should put our clothes in the dryer and come back and warm me up.”
Steve was nearly tripping over his own feet as he helped pull your dress off of you, his own soiled jeans and shirt coming off just as fast. While he ran to start the dryer, you gathered up a few more towels, making a makeshift pallet on the floor next to a dusty bean bag.
When he walked back into the room you were lying on your side, smiling softly at him. Your bare legs crossed with your hair flowing behind you.
He looked like a god in the orange dim glow of the flood lights, his muscles glistening with rainwater. His hair falling perfectly on his forehead, his eyes full of lust as he watched you with a hunger you could feel in the room.
“Hi, handsome.” You waved softly, beckoning him to come down on the floor with you.
“God.” He breathed out, falling to his knees. He crawled his way over to you, slotting between your legs easily. ”You are so beautiful. The sexiest woman I’ve ever seen.”
You let out a noise between a gasp and a squeal when his cold hands gripped your thighs. “Yeah?”
His hands moved slowly up and down your thighs, spreading them apart just slightly as he watched you settle back. Your eyes watching him. “I really wanted to be a gentleman, I don’t want you to think this is the only reason I asked you out.”
“I know-“
He cut you off with his shy rambling again, “But I do want this, God, I want this, but I really like you.”
“Steve,” You giggled, “I would have let you bend me over behind the bleachers the first day I saw you. I really like you too, which is why I think you should fuck me.”
“I-oh. Oh.” He stuttered, suddenly pulling your legs out from under him to wrap them around his shoulders. “Not before I make you cum on my face.”
“Fuck.” You whispered, your hands finding purchase in his still-damp curls when he pulled your soaked underwear to the side.
His flattened tongue made immediate contact with your heat, licking all the way from your entrance back until he took your clit greedily into his mouth. He ate you out with a passion that bordered on lewd, he devoured you like a man starved. His face was pressed so deeply into you, you didn’t know how he was breathing, and it didn’t seem like he even cared to.
“Oh, oh,” Your hands ran through his curls as you felt a finger slip inside of you, his tongue never once faltering, “N-now I see why you were so popular with the ladies.”
He chuckles against you, but it only makes your back arch at the vibrations. He has to force your legs to stay open with his spare hand, while his other one slips in another finger to stretch you open for him.
“A little to the left-fuck- right there.” You moaned, your hips bucking wildly onto his mouth. He only urged you on, gripping you even tighter.
With each swipe of his tongue and curl of his fingers, you were getting closer and closer to coming apart around him. All it took was for one greedy suckle of his clit into his mouth, for you to come with a shout. Lightning struck outside the walls, enlightening the room in a bright flash at the same time.
Your legs were trembling, trying to push his head away but he relented, coming up for a breath his face covered in your arousal. His fingers are still deep inside of you, fingertips slowly stroking your sweet spot.
“Steve, I need you.”
“I gotta make sure it’ll fit, baby.” He cooed, continuing to spread you apart on his fingers. He could feel your sensitive walls spasming around him, making room for his thick fingers that were scissoring you through your aftershocks.
He waited until you were dripping around him, nearly pulled to another orgasm, and opened up enough before he slowly slid out of you. Pulling his boxers down around his knees.
When his cock fell out of his underwear, you leaned your head back into the bunched-up towels you had been using as a makeshift pillow.
“Oh, fuck.”
Steve looked at you, then back down between his legs, “If you can’t take it all, it’s okay.” He said, his tone so gentle, “Whatever you’re comfortable with. It can be a lot, and I’d never wanna hurt you-“
”No, no,” You shook your head, you could feel your cunt clenching around his fingers as you watched it twitch heavy against his inner thigh, “I can take it, fuck I want it so bad.”
His eyes darkened, curling his fingertips even higher inside you. “Oh?” He cocked his head, “You like what you see? You want me to split you apart?”
He was used to most girls only being able to take half of him, most of them tapping out before he was able to cum. Which was fine by him, he just liked making girls cum, but with the way your eyes were sparkling at his cock, he could feel himself getting harder if that was even possible.
“Yeah,” Your mouth was dry, your hips bucking up into his hand with each gentle stroke of his thumb against your clit. “Please, fuck. Need it.”
“Shhh. You’re gonna get it.”
He kept working thrusting his fingers, until your thighs were shaking and your arousal was thick and dripping into his hands. He slipped them out slowly, positioning himself on top of you. One hand next to your head, the other wrapped heavily around himself, lining it up with your entrance.
”You okay?” He panted, your heavy eyes flicking up to meet his.
“Please,” You nearly sobbed, hooking your calves around his waist.
He cooed soft praises when he pushed himself in slowly, taking your breath away at the sheer size of him. He was long, that much was evident, but he was thick. So thick that your cunt made a sopping sound when his tip settled inside of you.
The stretch had your fingernails digging into his shoulders, urging, begging him not to stop.
“S’good, keep going-“ You slurred, his eyes drinking in every small reaction as he continued pushing into you.
“You sure? You okay?” His jaw was clenched, ticking with each inch of your warm, wet cunt that was wrapped around him.
He stopped to give you a second to catch your breath, his hand cupping your cheek to press hot open-mouthed kisses down your neck, and back up to your lips.
“Hmm, I’m great,” You panted, “You can move now.”
A warm laugh escaped him, hitting the side of your face. “Oh, baby. I’m not even halfway in yet.”
You audibly gulped, adjusting your legs that were pulling him closer to you, “Fuck.”
“You still want it?” He asked, pulling a few inches out before pushing back in slowly, a little more than before. You were on cloud nine, between the sounds of the rain hitting the roof, you could hear your cunt soaking him with each thrust.
“Yeah, yeah.”
“M’gonna give it to you.” He shushed your begging, continuing to add little by little of his cock inside of you with each slow thrust. Your body was on fire, every nerve alive as your body molded to fit him.
“Anddddd, there it is.” He whistled, his hips finally hitting flush with yours. “How’s that baby?”
Your eyes were shut in euphoria, the burn of his size had long turned into pleasure. You could barely speak, could barely get a coherent word out, all you could do was whimper out his name.
He sat up on his knees, holding your hips in his large rough hands to get a better look at his cock sitting deep inside of you. “Oh, I was hoping you could see just how good she’s taking me.”
He popped his thumb into his mouth, wetting it just enough to circle down to your clit.
A gasp tore out of you, “Feels s’good. F-fuck me. I want it so bad.”
“Yeah? M’gonna give it to you.” He sighed, moving his hips slowly at first. He worked his hips in and out, testing angles and speed until he saw the specific twitch of your brow, the exact combination that had you fluttering and moaning in his hold.
When he found it he didn’t stop, didn’t waver, he focused on fucking you deep and hard his thumb rubbing blunt circles into your clit.
You had never been fucked this good in your life. You were a puddle in his hands on the dirty floor of this equipment room. His heavy grunts only spurred you on, making you writh in his hold.
“Steve.” You moaned, his balls slapping against your ass violently from the force with which he was thrusting in and out of you.
“I know, baby.” His voice was raspy, a little amusement in his voice as he watched you come apart around him. “You wanted this. Tell me how b-bad.”
“Wanted it so bad,” You whined, pulling whatever part of him you could. His hair, his arms, scratching down his skin. “Fucking me so good, don’t stop. Don’t ever stop.”
“Never.” He shook his head, leaning down to mouth harshly at your bouncing tits.
When his lips pulled one of your nipples into his mouth, your back arched against him. You could feel yourself fluttering, that familiar feeling creeping up your spine.
You didn’t even need to say anything, Steve, who had only touched you for the past few hours seemed to know your body like the back of his hand.
“Come for me,” He cooed, “You feel so good around me, wanna feel you cum around me. There it is, there it is pretty girl.”
You came apart in his arms, letting him praise and kiss you through the most intense orgasm you’ve ever had in your life.
“Squeezing me to death,” He grunted, having to thrust into you with a little more pressure as you tightened up around him, “Gonna make me fucking cum.”
“Steve.”
“I know, I know, I’m so close.”
Your head lolled to his shoulder, pressing soft kisses into the sweatlined skin. He was fucking into you even faster now, the harsh pace making your eyes roll back. You were so sensitive, every drag made your body tremble. It was so good you were nearly pushed to tears.
“Fuck, gonna come. I’m about to cum Y/n, where do you want it?” He panted, his eyes squeezing shut. His brows furrowing in concentration as he waited for your permission.
“Inside,” You gasped, “Cum inside me, Steve wanna feel it.”
“Fuckkkk.” He groaned, his hips stilling as he spilled his cum deep inside of you. His cock twitching, his arms trembling as you watched him come apart above you.
He leaned down pressing his lips to yours in a lazy open-mouthed kiss. “That was so fucking hot.”
You giggled, still a little hazy and still coming down from your own high. “You’re so fucking hot.”
He pulled out of you with a hiss, bringing a clean rag to help clean you up before he pulled you into his chest. It wasn’t ideal, or even romantic to be lying on the floor of a middle school equipment building surrounded by dry rotted mitts and dust mites, but you couldn’t find it in yourself to mind while you were in his arms.
It wasn't until the absence of the rain sounds on the roof made you stir.
”Hey,” You whispered, lifting your head up from his chest, “I think the rain has slowed down.”
You both pause, hearing what was once pouring against the roof now dulled to soft slow thumps.
“I think,” He whispered, your fingertips still sliding through the hair on his chest, “We should get dressed, go to the little diner down the road, get some burgers and a milkshake. How does that sound?”
“Sounds like the best date in the world.” You beamed, pressing a gentle kiss to his lips.
the best fanfiction you've ever read was written by a woman in her 40s before she made dinner for her kids. it was written by a teenager after school when they should've been studying for a history test. and a barista came up with the idea while they cleaned the espresso machine and busser fact-checked it on their break and the post-doc edited between writing grant proposals and the nurse apologized for typos in the notes after a long shift and behind every drabble and one-shot and multi-chapter fic there is a person with a wonderful and interesting and chaotic life and it is such a privilege that we get to be apart of it because they decided to do this thing we all share, for fun.
warnings - smau for this one!!! tucker lowk desperate, reader gets mad at jenna but theyre okay so quick, inside joke between jenna (the erma) so ur user is your first intial with erma after it & then the same with your last intial with erma after it, john follows reader
☄︎ Warnings: NSFW, threesome, not proofread, everybody smoochin, reader is a lil mean,
☄︎ Pairing: F!Reader x Dean Di Laurentis, F!Reader x John Logan, Dean x Reader x Logan
☄︎ Rating: 18+, MDNI
☄︎ Words: 6427
☄︎ AN: i got SO carried away here. written for this ask, hashtag bring back challengers summer!! i was raised by katherine pierce so her vibe is here too. i love mean (to men) women <3
also sorry for the pic idk how to use photoshop lol
i cannot stress enough that i haven't proofread this and i don't have the energy to so good luck!
🎵 Listening to 🎵
Candy - Doja Cat
Hockey away games were your favourite.
On campus, you lived in a bubble that you could not escape, not that you wanted to. Your whole life was planned out; finishing university and then go on to become the top tennis player in the country, after that the world. You had the talent and skills to do both now, but completing university with a top degree had to be your focus. You didn’t want your only skill in life to be hitting a ball with a racquet.
Your professors were demanding, your coursework unrelenting, and your coach would have you pushing your body to limits that you didn’t even know existed. You didn’t have the time, nor the emotional bandwidth, for distractions.
And that worked just fine for you. Distractions offered nothing for you. Without the crushing weight of the obligations that you had imposed on yourself, you couldn’t breathe. The demand for perfection outweighing any other want you could have.
Off campus, was a different story entirely, you allowed yourself the momentary distraction. While you knew that tennis was your fated love, you couldn’t ignore the draw to hockey. The Briar U hockey team were always more aggressive when they played away, as if they had something to prove. That’s probably what drew you to hockey. The raw athleticism and passion exuding from every player was dizzying. The boos from the opposition’s home crowd only spurred them on. You had to press your legs together at every match.
When you were 50 miles away from the university, you weren’t the you that demanded perfection from yourself, there’s something so thrilling about forgetting yourself. Instead, you sought it in others.
You really loved away games; you’d always returned to campus refreshed. With a glow that only could come from the feeling of being reckless. You excused yourself to do things you knew you shouldn’t, with people you shouldn’t. Usually, that meant you were sneaking in a hockey player from the opposing team into your room, but recently, something within you had snapped, you wanted to play closer to home. After all, what happened at an away game, stayed between the four walls of whatever hotel it happened in.
You stood in the brightly lit hallway of the hotel the team was staying at. The hotel’s they stayed at were always immaculate, only the best for the stars of Briar U. The players were always allocated their own rooms unless they specified otherwise, but you knew that both Dean Di Laurentis and John Logan were in this one together. And they were waiting for you.
You’ve known of them both for a while now, having spent semesters watching them compete for the highest grades, glory on the ice, and, eventually, for your attention. The first time you had really seen them was at one of your matches. When you played, there was always a large crowd, all on the edge of their seats. You knew how to put on a show and you knew how to win, and people loved to see all the new ways in which you’d dominate the court.
You’re not sure how, or why, you were able to pick them out of all the people there. Perhaps it was the way they looked at you, one and the same expression on two different faces.
That day, they were both sat leaning forward in the crowded bleachers, elbows on their knees. The blonde, Dean you later found out, watched your every movement without blinking, his mouth slightly parted. The dark haired one, Logan, had an intensely focused expression, his jaw clenched. They didn’t track the movement of the ball like the other spectators; they had just watched you.
That’s when you had started to really pay attention to them during their hockey games. You’d alternate between jerseys, sometimes wearing 22 and sometimes 66, it all depended on who you, in your expert opinion, played the best or who performed the best in class. Any attention you gave one fuelled the other, they were smarter in class because of it. They were more aggressive on the ice because of you. As much as it pleased you to see, really, you were doing them a favour.
Outside of hockey matches and the occasional shared lecture, they barely saw you. You ignored every invite sent for one of their infamous house parties; cheap alcohol, drunk people, and loud crowds that weren’t cheering for you had never been your scene. Being so elusive meant that every minute mattered when it came to earning your attention, and you never gave them enough time to ever feel satisfied, always chasing the next hit of you.
So, you waited for 10 minutes before you knocked on their door. You had already arrived 15 minutes later than you said you would. The wait was torturous for you too. Anticipation had pooled deep in your belly. You weren’t dumb, you know that they had invited you over in the hopes that you’d finally choose one of them. But you weren’t going to choose. The rivalry meant too much to you. They may not be ready to admit it, but it meant the same to them.
While you wouldn’t choose tonight, you would give them some encouragement. There was only so long you could puppet them without having touched either of them. Besides, they had earnt a piece of the thing that you knew they were craving. You.
The last few games you went to, they were at peak performance. You were pleased.
Enough time had passed, so you raised your hand to knock firmly on the door. You smiled as you immediately heard the muffled sound of blankets being kicked off, followed by a heavy thud and a “watch it, dickhead.” Two seconds later, the deadbolt clicked and the door swung open.
Dean Di Laurentis stood in front of you, chest puffed forward as if he hadn’t just run to the door. He was wearing nothing but grey sweatpants that hung low on his hips. His damp hair was pushed back, and a slow, familiar smirk played on his lips as his eyes tracked down your body and back up to your face. You were wearing gym shorts and a tank top, simple, but it was tight and showed off your curves.
Dean didn’t stand back to let you in. Instead, he lent one thick forearm against the doorframe and tilted his head down to you. “Look who finally decided to show up,” Dean jabbed, you could tell he was annoyed at you for making him wait. You revelled in thinking about how easily he’d lose his anger once you smiled at him.
“I’m so sorry I kept you waiting,” you pouted a little and looked up at him.
The heat in Dean’s eyes immediately died, as it always did when it came to you. He didn’t move though; he stared at you as you watched him with a seductive playfulness.
“Are you going to let me in or are you planning on standing there looking pretty all night?” You asked smoothly, crossing your arms over your chest.
A voice from inside the room interrupted the staring competition. “Just let her in, Dean.”
Dean rolled his eyes and stepped aside. You dragged your hand against his bare chest as you slipped past him and entered the room. Logan was sitting on the floor at the foot of the bed; his legs crossed at the ankles. He also wore nothing up top, but he had a pair of shorts on instead of sweatpants.
The room was as brightly lit as the hallway. It was also small, dominated by the double bed in the middle of it. The TV was on but muted, a hockey match with teams you did not recognise was playing. On the floor in front of Logan, a laptop was open and there was an iPad with some diagram of an ice hockey rink with a load of circles, arrows, and crosses on it. You had no idea what it meant but you did know it had to do with game tactics.
Even right after a game, they were still thinking about hockey, analysing how to get better. You liked how consumed they were with hockey. How desperately they wanted to be better. Logan was good because he worked at it, Dean was good because he had a natural talent.
“If you boys are too busy for me, I can leave,” you teased, even as you walked further into the room.
“Never,” Dean said as he shut the door and locked it. At the same time, Logan hurriedly shut his laptop with a ‘click’, putting that and the iPad on the desk in the corner.
Logan turned to lean against the desk, his arms crossed as he took you in. “Dean was just explaining his terrible third-period positioning.”
“My positioning was fine,” Dean snapped, though there was no heat in his voice and a competitive spark in his eye. He moved to stand next to you and you both faced Logan. “You’re just mad that you didn’t get the assist.”
“I don’t need the assist when I’m the one scoring,” Logan shot back smoothly. While Dean was watching Logan, Logan was watching you. He wanted to see your reaction to the things he was saying to Dean.
You let out a soft, amused, hum. Your head turned upwards to look at Dean, his form towering over you. Then your head turned back to Logan.
The contrast between them was an intoxicating combination. Dean had effortless charm and a devastatingly cocky smile. He was loud and he commanded the room by drawing attention. Logan was quieter, almost like he was always calculating his next move. He also commanded a room but through his eyes, they were always dark and intense.
That was their default, but they weren’t always like that. Sometimes, Logan would smile, laugh even. It’d feel like when the clouds parted to reveal the sun.
Especially when jealous, Dean’s jaw would click, his playful smirk hardening into something sharper, something hungrier.
They were two sides of the same coin, two halves that made the whole. That’s also why you would never choose.
“Is that right, Logan? Because from where I was standing, Dean had to pick up your slack in the second period.” Logan’s dark eyes narrowed at you.
Dean let out a sharp laugh, he threw his hands up and looked to the sky. “Finally, someone with eyes. I’ve been telling him that since we left the ice.”
“She’s fucking baiting you, man. She just likes watching us like this.”
You felt Dean’s gaze fall on you, but you were watching Logan with a satisfied smirk. Fair point. “Oh, come on, Logan,” you purred. “Don’t be a sore loser.”
This is the longest you’ve ever been in the same room with both of them; you’d never seen them like this. You usually planted the seed and then left. This time, you planned to be here to reap the rewards of it.
It felt like there wasn’t enough oxygen in the room, their chests were heaving as they made subtle jabs toward one another. All three of you had the same twinkle in your eye.
You turned, kicked off your shoes, and sat at the foot of the bed. “Come here,” you said, patting the bed on either side next to you.
At your command, the arguing immediately ceased. Both Logan and Dean ran to take their place on either side of you. They both turned their body to face you.
You instinctively bit your bottom lip as your head swivelled between them both. Their eyes watched you hungrily, both of their hearts racing as they waited, entirely at your mercy, for your next move.
Who to choose first, you wondered. You felt Logan’s hand begin to snake around your waist so you turned your head to face him, leaning in slightly. His eyes fluttered closed as you leant further in. Just before you fully reached his lips, you pulled back and turned to Dean. Logan was impatient, so Dean gets to have you first.
Your hand tangled in the damp hair at the nape of Dean’s neck as you pulled him in. He tasted like mint, and you wondered if he knew he’d be kissing you tonight. The kiss was full of Dean’s usual confidence; his tongue slid past your teeth with a practised ease. You sighed into Dean’s mouth, and his eyes locked onto Logan’s across the bed, marking his place. Logan watched with ragged breaths as you melted in.
Dean was smiling against your lips a little too confidently so you pulled back, you weren’t only his tonight. Satisfaction flared within you when you looked down to where his sweatpants were tented.
With a smile, you turned to Logan. Your bottom lip was wet and flushed. Logan didn’t move slowly towards you this time; he leant in and claimed your mouth. His kiss was possessive, his need to be better than another pouring out into you. It was the complete opposite to Dean’s smooth and relaxed kiss.
Dean leant back in, his lips traced a slow path down your neck, pressing kisses as he went along. The kiss with Logan began to get sloppy, spit pooling at the corners of your mouths.
Logan’s hand came to cup your breast whilst Dean’s hand came stroke your thigh. You had them right where you wanted them, but they too, had you.
You pulled away from the kiss with a laugh. “Easy boys,” you cooed. They both pulled away from you but their hands remained where they were. As you leant back against the mattress, Logan’s hand dropped to rest on the thigh Dean wasn’t holding.
You propped yourself up on your forearms. They both look down at you. A slow, wicked, smile spread across your face. “I want to see just how well you play together.” Your voice like a velvety command.
Both of sets of eyes flashed to one another before Logan’s flashed back to you. Dean, ever the life of the party, began leaning in towards Logan. Logan continued watching you until you raised your eyebrows and jerked your head in Dean’s direction.
“Not sure you could handle me?” Dean murmured, voice dropping to a rough whisper.
With that, Logan leant into him. The kiss started entirely too masculine, rough and competitive. The energy and hunger that had been building for months between them finally having an outlet. Even as the kiss began to soften, neither man’s grip on your thighs lessened.
You watched them, a spark of triumph flaring in your chest. The sound of their breathing grew heaving and ragged. A low, involuntary groan was dragged from the back of Logan’s throat, muffled by Dean’s mouth. That caused your thighs to squeeze together. ‘Time to leave,’ you thought to yourself. You weren’t sure you would be able to stop this going further if you didn’t.
“Okay,” you said. That pulled them out of their trance. They sat back, a line of spit connecting them. You took the opportunity to slip out from between them. “I’m going to bed now.”
Both looked up at you with dazed expressions.
“I’m sure you can take care of each other,” you mused as you looked at their dicks, straining against the restraint that their clothes provided.
“Can’t we at least get your number?” Logan begged in the neediest way you’d ever heard.
A sigh escaped your lips. This was a bad idea, this was supposed to stay here and not follow you back to campus, but how could you say no when both sets of eyes pleaded with you like this. “Whoever plays the best over the next five games, can have my number.”
That night in your hotel room, you had to make yourself cum three times just to come down from the image of their joy when you’d given them that sliver of hope.
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Once back on campus, it wasn’t as easy for you to slip back into your usual routine as you’d wanted. Involuntarily, your mind would drift back to them, the moments in the hotel room.
Your actions in the room had the outcome you’d planned, they were even better on the ice. But you hadn’t planned for it to affect you in the way that it had. The need hit you at a strength you’ve never felt before.
You noticed the way their posture straightened when you’d look over to them in passing. They’d both look in your direction when they did anything noteworthy in their games, as if they expected you to be keeping note. You were.
The last of the five games ended with a huge home-game win against Harvard. The arena emptied out, fans, coaches, and the opposition team had all left, but you had stayed. You were sat, waiting for your boys, on a bench not too far outside the double doors.
The rest of the Briar U boys had left 10 minutes ago, they all piled onto a bus, likely to head back to the hockey house for the after party.
It had been a while since you last dressed like this, it was too cold a night for you to be wearing the cute sun dress that you were; it stopped half-way down to your knees. Heat flooded your body; you couldn’t feel the cold. It was weeks since you last wore one of the player’s jersey’s, you didn’t want to show favouritism or potentially bias the results. You were always so fair.
You turned at the sound of the door slamming open. They walked over to you, determined expressions on their faces. You didn’t rise from the bench as they came to a halt in front of you. They dropped their big duffle bags and crossed their hands behind their backs as they waited for you to tell them their fate.
You let your eyes roam over their bodies. The match was physical; it was some good fucking hockey. Dean had a faint, forming, bruised cut on his jawline, he was smirking down at you. Full of confidence. Hot.
Logan’s face was unmarked, his expression guarded and serious. Also, hot.
“Well?” Dean asked when the silence stretched on for too long. “Don’t keep us waiting, sweetheart.”
It was the first time he had used that nickname with you. You tilted your head up and crossed one knee over the over, deliberately letting your already too short dress rise further up your legs. “You both played wonderfully, I’m very happy.” It was high praise coming from you, both of their chests puffed. “Dean, your assists were flawless, truly. And the way you put your body on the line to block those shots. Mwah, chefs kiss.”
“But,” you countered, sliding your gaze up to Logan. “Logan scored the game-winning goal and he hit the Harvard captain so hard, I could hear it from where I was sitting. That is passion.”
Logan let out a breath that he didn’t know he was holding as Dean let out a self-pitting laugh. “That’s brutal,” he muttered. “Alright, don’t fuck this up, Logan.
Dean leant down to give you a kiss, you let him. He gave you one last look, before picking up his bag and heading to his car. You watched Logan as the sound of Dean driving away faded into the distance.
“Are you going to give me your number, then?” Logan’s voice was low and gravelly.
You rose from the bench and stepped so close to him that you had to look up through your eyelashes. “My number? Is that all you want? Are you telling me I froze my ass off in this short ass dress for nothing?” You tilted your head. “I think I might have even forgotten to put on underwear.”
You hadn’t.
“Fuck,” Logan breathed, “you’re driving me out of my fucking mind. I did that for you, you know. I played for you.”
“I know,” you purred, a manipulative smirk on your lips. “And you deserve to be rewarded for that.”
A voice in your head reminded you that Dean had also played for you. You wouldn’t forget that. Tonight though, Logan had won you fair and square.
“My car’s parked over there.” Logan pointed to the car in the car corner. He and Dean had opted to drive separately to the rest of the team, knowing one of them would likely be leaving with you.
“I’m fixing it up,” he told you sheepishly as you approached his beat-up car. “It’s a work in progress.” You didn’t really care what his car looked like; you just needed him inside of you.
10 minutes later, you were on Logan’s lap in the back of the car. The two seats at the front of the car were as far forward as they could go. He was leant as bar back as he could, one leg bent on the driver’s side of the car and the other on the passenger’s side. It was cramped, you couldn’t sit up fully and had to lean forward into him. The windows were already fogged up, the heat radiating from your bodies contrasting with the cold night outside. You could barely see the details of his face. This was better, you supposed. You really weren’t supposed to allowing this distraction on campus.
You didn’t need to think about that now, though. Your panties were already discarded, dress hiked up, and his pants were around his ankles. You ground down into him, your naked, slick folds leaving a trail of arousal on his rapidly hardening cock. His hands were holding your hips, not controlling, just resting there.
“That’s it,” he encouraged as your grinding picked up speed.
Logan pressed his lips to yours, heavy and desperate. He bit your lip, not hard enough to draw blood, but with enough force to pull a gasp from you. He used that opportunity to slide his tongue into you, claiming you as he did that night in the hotel.
“Tell me what you want, tell me you need me,” Logan pleaded.
You ground down harder into him in response, eyes rolling back as you found the perfect angle for your clit to get enough friction. You let out little whines as you started rolling your hips. It felt good but it was just not enough.
“More,” you rasped into his neck.
One hand left your hip to grab hold of his throbbing dick, the other gripped harder on your hip, urging your body up. You raised your hips slightly so he could line himself up. He dragged the tip along your folds, his pre-cum mixing with your arousal. He circled your clit with his dick and your thighs shook around him.
“Stop teasing, I need you to fuck me now,” you moaned.
Logan obliged, you felt the head of his dick glide across your entrance before slowly entering you. As Logan continued to guide you down onto him, his serious, guarded, look had shifted into something entirely more desperate. Your nails dug into him as you fully sat on him.
You look at him through hooded eyes. You feel every vein on his dick as it stands inside of you. It curved in just the right way to be nudging at that sweet spot inside of you.
One hand gripped the seat behind Logan’s head while the other rested against the fogged window as you bounced on his lap. Both hands came back to your waist, giving him the leverage to slap up into you. The car rocks as he fucks you with force. There are no pleasantries, just pure, unadulterated, purpose.
Logan was a grunter, you found. He’d grunt at each flick up of his hips, he grunted as you bit down into his shoulder. The way you wrapped around him so perfectly had his orgasm rising quicker than he anticipated.
“Perfect, you’re so perfect.”
One of his hands left your waist to find your clit. He pressed down, circling you with the same frantic pace as your bounces.
You clenched tightly around him as your orgasm hit you. His pace increased, the sound of your moans as you orgasm having breathed life into him. Logan didn’t last much longer; he came with a grunt. He wrapped his arms around you as he shot warm ropey cum up into you.
Your hips slowly continued to roll as you came down, you could feel him twitching inside of you as you continued milking him.
He kept hold of you even after he had gone soft. You didn’t protest, remaining in his arms, his cock still nestled in you. Gravity had pulled on his cum, it ran down over his shaft, onto his balls, then the seat of the car.
“Tell me this wasn’t just because I won the bet,” he stuttered into the darkness.
You don’t give him the easy reassurance he was looking for. Instead, you slid off of him and used your discarded panties to wipe his release from where it had flowed out of you. Ignoring the way he looked at you, you wished him a good night as you opened the passenger door and walked home.
⋆꙳⛸❅*‧⛸‧*❆₊⛸⋆❆⋆꙳⛸❅*‧⛸‧*❆₊⛸⋆❆⋆꙳⛸❅*‧⛸‧*❆₊⛸⋆❆*❅‧⛸
You had met, and fucked, Logan many times in the three weeks after you had left him in the back of his car. The release it provided you was like a drug; you couldn’t stop yourself from coming back for more.
You especially needed it because Dean was avoiding you. The only times you saw him in the last three weeks were when you went to his games. He never took his helmet off, so you couldn’t even really see him. He stopped coming to your matches and any lectures that you once shared. The more he avoided, the more you went on the hunt for him. He was a master at evasion.
You had even forced yourself to go to a party on campus that you heard he *might* be at. You did find him, but he had his head buried between this leggy blonde’s legs. The sex with Logan was rough that night, you couldn’t stop talking about Dean. About how his form on the ice had significantly dropped.
But this was on you. One of your boys was drowning, and it was your fault. Logan, while still performing, also didn’t have the passion he once showed on the ice. The last night of the five-game bet just proved to you that they both needed you to be at their best. They needed to be able to compete for you. More importantly, they needed to have an excuse to compete against each other.
You broke another one of your rules for yourself as you climbed up the fire escape that you knew led to Dean’s room. Logan had so innocently given you a tour, not knowing you were using it as an excuse to plan your way in.
Inside the dimly lit room, Dean was laying on his bed, one arm bent behind his head as he scrolled through his phone. You tapped your knuckles against the glass window, not too loud as to draw the attention of others. His head snapped towards your direction, he wasn’t expecting anyone especially you.
His eyes narrowed at you for what felt like an eternity before he came to slide the window open. You climbed over the desk that was against the wall. His eyes were still full of suspicion, even as he helped you over the desk to standing.
It had been weeks since you last spoke to him. Your heart was fighting its way through your ribs as if it wanted to pop out.
For the first time in a while, you didn’t know what to say. He had every right to be looking at you in the way that he was. You had basically abandoned him. You gave him a slight smile, he didn’t return it, but he did soften.
“Why are you here?” The harsh tone that came out of Dean’s mouth did not match the way his eyes were soft as they roamed over you. Logan had won, and he was doing his best to respect that. But here you were, seeking him out.
“I missed you, is that an acceptable reason?” You pouted. It was pure honesty.
“What game are you playing?” Dean’s eyes scanned yours as he crossed his arms over his chest. He couldn’t tell if you were just a tease or if you were really here for him.
“Why? Do you want to play with me?” you challenged softly. He watched as your tongue darted out to lick your lower lip. You wanted him.
Dean let out a dark, breathless chuckle. He looked down at your lips before looking back into your eyes. He stepped closer to you and you slipped away, going to sit on the edge of his bed.
He turned to follow you, coming to kneel between your open legs. “I want to play,” he said.
Sex with Logan was fast, messy, and hot. But Dean liked to take his time, a master in the art of seduction. He leant back on his knees as he peeled his shirt off. He pressed a kiss to your bare knee and then your inner thigh. “Arms up,” he whispered.
You immediately obliged and he pulled your top over your head. His hand came to cup your breast; he rolled a nipple in between two fingers whilst his other hand kneaded your breast.
You let out a sharp exhale and Dean smirked. He was going to take his time learning everything you liked. He rose up on his knees to take a nipple into his warm, wet, mouth, your hands came to his hair, urging him on. You hadn’t been touched this sensually before, and it was driving you wild.
“I want to taste you; can I do that?” Dean asked, warm breath fanning your erect nipple.
“Mhm.” You mumbled, overcome with need.
“Vocal, I need you to be vocal.” Dean’s voice came through clear against your dazed thoughts.
“Yes, yes, fuck me with your mouth.”
You whined as Dean moved from between your legs to lie back onto the bed.
“Come take a ride,” he said, gesturing to his face.
You peeled off your shorts and climbed onto him eagerly. You moved up his body until your thighs were caging his face in. His nose brushed against your clit as you lowered down. You leant forward, holding on to the headboard as he used his hands to spread your folds apart.
Flattening his tongue, he licked a long, wet stripe up you. It was agonisingly slow, and you ground down in frustration.
He rubbed his nose against you, “you smell so good.”
“Dean,” you whimpered. You never whimpered. “Please.”
He continued licking around your folds, coming close to your clit then going back down. “How can someone so mean taste so sweet, it’s not fair,” he growled between licks.
There was no shame in you as you grinded down into his face, chasing that high that he wanted to prolong for you. Sensing your urgency, Dean shifted you slightly so he could get easier access to your clit. He licked, sucked, and flicked as you wantonly moaned, not bothering to try and stay quiet.
His hands were on your ass, helping you to drive your hips as he mercilessly went at your clit. You came just as easily for him as you had the first time you slept with Logan. Like your body was always on the precipice of orgasm just waiting for them to release it.
Dean held you as you rode his face through your orgasm. He continued lapping up your arousal.
Once your body stopped twitching. He grabbed your hips and guided you down his body. He kept pushing your hips down until you brushed against his hard dick. Dean looked up at you through hooded eyes.
“I take it you missed me,” you smiled down at him. A genuine one.
You eased yourself down on his dick and rode him as if your life depended on it. And, in some ways, it did.
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The next few months continued on in a beautifully orchestrated chaotic mess, only becoming messier when your injury caused you to be unable to play a sport competitively for months. There was so much built within you, and no outlet. There was nothing you could do but channel that though them.
They knew that you were with both of them, using both of them, whispering sweet nothings to both of them. It did wonders for their performance on the ice. It left scouts breathless and opponents bruised, and they were doing it all for you.
The sex got even better, both of them desperately trying to fuck the memory of the other out of you. It was a game you loved to play with them and they willingly participated.
Some nights you’d slip from one room to the other, still smelling like the other man sometimes even wearing their clothes. During the away games they could hear you through the hotel walls, your muffled moans being so close to torture. You’d turn up to Logan’s room with dark, blooming hickeys on your chest. Dean avoided your neck, where anybody could see it. He only needed Logan to know.
You’d walk into Dean’s room wearing the necklace he knew belonged to Logan. It would dangle in his face as you rode him.
They wouldn’t confront you about it until after the last away game of the season. Both of their doors were left unlocked; they never locked it now as they waited to see which room you’d enter after each game.
You found them both waiting for you in Logan’s room. Dean was sitting on the edge of the mattress. Logan was sitting back against the headboards. Despite the win, the air in the room felt heavy. Both had the same expression on their face.
“So, we’re gathered here today to…?” Both you and Dean smiled, Logan didn’t, not in the mood for a joke.
“You have to choose,” Logan said. “Once and for all. Him or me.”
You looked over at Dean, his head was tilted up in arrogance, then turned your head to look at Logan.
“No,” you said simply. There was no way you’d let this rivalry stop. You needed it to breathe.
Dean smiled, as if he expected that answer. Logan didn’t protest either.
“Am I not taking good enough care of you both?” You voice was dipping with sweet manipulation. You pulled your top over your head letting it drop to the floor.
You weren’t stupid; you knew the real reason they were both in this room together. You knew why they had waited until the season ended to broach this topic. What if you had agreed to choose? Then they’d have no excuse to go against each other the way they did. To look at each other the way they did.
They could hide behind the rivalry they had for you, using your body as the only bridge between them.
“You don’t want me to choose,” you murmured, “because if I pick one, this game ends.” You pulled off the rest of your clothes, stood completely naked in front of them.
The room was consumed with heat in light of the silent truth being brought to light.
“You’re a menace,” Logan rasped.
Dean reached out to grab you and pull you onto the bed. He wasted no time in spreading your legs and settling in between them.
Logan didn’t move an inch from the headboard, but his chest heaved as he watched the way Dean’s mouth moved around where you were most sensitive. Dean was on his knees at the edge of the mattress, his head buried between your thighs.
Dean’s large hands came under your butt, his calloused pals lifting your hips higher off of the sheets to give him better access. At this new angle, he slid his tongue flat and deep into your pussy. You threw your head back, making eye contact with Logan.
“Logan, join me,” Dean called out, his voice rough and breathless between the hot, wet, kisses he pressed to your pussy. “Come taste her.” He didn’t look up, his tongue already sweeping back across your entrance.
Logan finally slid down the mattress and knelt on the bed next to you. Dean focused on tongue fucking you, adding a finger and curling it in you, as Logan focused on your clit.
“Ah~ Fu-Fcuk. My boys, yes.” You were babbling incoherently.
The two of them worked in a frantic synchronisation. Occasionally, Dean would flick his tongue against your clit, his tongue brushing against Logan’s.
Your hands gripped onto the sheets as they worked you. The sound of them both moaning back into you had you grinding your hips. The feeling of them both finally here overwhelmed you in the best way. Fire pooled low in your belly as the pleasure began to rise until it began to overfill. Your body tensed as you came harder than you ever had, your vision fading to black.
“That’s it, cum for us, good girl,” Dean mumbled against you. Dean gently lowered your hips back down to the mattress.
As they came up from between your legs, Dean and Logan locked eyes. Dean’s chin glistened with your arousal. They stood up from the bed eyes on the way each other’s pants tented.
This time, Logan was the first to lean in. He licked Dean’s chin before running his tongue along the blonde’s lower lip. They kissed, both tasting of you and their tongues swirled around each other’s mouths.
You crawled to the floor, sitting on your knees in between them. As you pulled down their boxers, both cocks sprung free. You began working them, licking the leaking slit of one whilst your thumb ran over the slit over the other, then you switched.
They were moaning into each other’s mouths as you worked them with all you had. Dean’s dick was thick, the tip bright pink. Logan’s was a deeper, angrier red. The colours looked so pretty together as you rubbed the tip of their dicks together. They rolled their hips into your hands.
They came like that, grinding against each other in your hands.
✶ dean tries to act unbothered by the growing relationship between you, so you kiss his best friend as payback.
002. WARNINGS !
✶ no actual smut, but some suggestive stuff happens. beau is used but he’s right where he wants to be, don’t feel too bad.
word count : 2,8k
gif by @luke-thompsons
Dean has a problem.
He’s always been good at acting nonchalant. Keeping things casual. Avoiding the emotional side of hookups altogether. Usually, it works out pretty well.
He makes it a point not to get involved with the same girl for too long. Everyone on campus knows about his reputation, and if he suddenly seemed devoted to one person, people would start getting the wrong idea.
So how has he become the one with the wrong idea?
Somewhere along the way, Dean caught feelings for his fuckbuddy. Friend with benefits. Whatever label you wanted to slap on it, he’d broken the one sacred rule: don’t catch feelings.
You blew into his life like a tornado.
You tore apart his carefully maintained routine and—before he even realized it was happening—made everyone else seem considerably less interesting.
At first, Dean didn’t mind. He’d found a girl who could match his energy, someone who wanted the same uncomplicated physical release he was more than happy to provide.
But then things started changing.
Sometimes, after sex, you stayed.
You’d lie in bed talking about classes, his hockey practices, your bizarre family dilemmas, campus gossip—anything and everything. Neither of you ever intended to fall asleep together, but somehow it kept happening. More than once, you woke up with Dean wrapped around you, his arm draped across your waist as if it belonged there.
Which was honestly very nice.
The problem was that Dean had always been excellent at avoiding things. Yet he’d never felt this way about a girl before.
At least not since high school, and he’d be a senior in a matter of months. The whole thing felt strange. Too serious. Too grown-up. It didn’t fit the effortless, unbothered persona he'd spent years perfecting.
You weren’t much better.
You’d tried to bring up the subject more than once, testing the waters carefully, only to abandon it whenever Dean gave you nothing to work with. Every conversation seemed to end with him brushing things off or changing the subject before it could become real.
Of course you’d caught feelings too.
Because beneath all the flirting, the confidence, and the reputation, Dean was kind. Thoughtful in ways most people never got to see. He was gentle when it mattered, attentive without making a big deal out of it, and he'd never once made you feel disposable.
Not like certain frat boys or other athletes, who only cared about themselves.
Dean Di Laurentis is boyfriend material.
The problem is that he doesn’t seem to realize it.
Or maybe he does. Maybe he just doesn’t want to admit it.
Which brings you to your current dilemma.
Dean is sprawled across the couch, a girl’s hand resting on his chest as she gazes up at him like he hung the stars himself. And he’s entertaining it.
You’d never explicitly asked for exclusivity, but the two of you had established one rule from the beginning: if either of you wanted out, or wanted to be with someone else, you’d say so.
For the past few weeks, you’d seen each other almost every day. You weren’t seeing anyone else, and you’d gotten the impression he wasn't either. In fact, campus gossip had been practically buzzing about the fact that Dean Di Laurentis hadn’t hooked up with anyone at a party in weeks.
It shouldn’t have made you jealous.
You weren’t together. You weren’t anything.
So why did it feel like you were everything? Why did it feel like he was breaking your heart without even realizing it?
The noise of the party faded into the background as you chugged the drink in your hand and headed for the kitchen in search of something stronger.
You wanted to curse Garrett for hosting this stupid party. For practically forcing you to come, knowing Dean would obviously be here.
Grabbing a bottle of tequila, you started pouring.
Your eyes kept flicking back and forth between Dean’s hand resting on the girl's thigh and the way their faces seemed just a little too close together.
“Whoa, there.”
A voice beside you pulled you from your thoughts.
Beau Maxwell.
Dean’s best friend gently took the bottle from your hands before you could continue.
“Rough night?” He asked, glancing at the alarming amount of tequila you’d managed to fit into one cup
“Yeah,” you said with a tight smile. “You could say that.”
His expression softened. Without a word, he grabbed a random mixer from a nearby shelf and handed it to you.
“Here,” He twisted off the cap and passed it over. “Unless your plan is to drink four tequila shots at once.”
A laugh escaped you despite yourself.
You poured some into the cup and took a sip. Immediately, you coughed.
“That bad?” Beau asked, amused, patting your back lightly as you struggled to swallow.
“It's really strong,” you managed.
“Can I try?”
You looked up at him and held out the cup. “Be my guest.”
Beau took a sip and a second later, he grimaced.
“Damn.” He lowered the cup. “Who hurt you?”
You tried to laugh but the joke landed a little too close to home.
Had Dean talked to Beau about whatever this thing between you was? Did Beau even know you'd been sleeping together?
Your eyes drifted back toward the living room.
Dean now had two girls caressing his face and chest. Logan and Tucker were sitting nearby with girls of their own, laughing about something. Still, the knot in your stomach refused to loosen.
Beau followed your gaze, understanding immediately flashed across his face.
Before you could look away, his hand settled on your waist. He gently turned you around until your back was resting against the kitchen island, blocking your view of Dean entirely.
“He's really dumb sometimes,” Beau said.
You hummed in agreement, taking another small sip.
Then, before you could think better of it, you asked, “Wanna do something maybe even dumber?”
His eyebrows lifted.
“Like what?”
You tilted your head slightly. “Like helping me forget what his name even is.”
For a moment, Beau said nothing, but he didn’t remove his hand from your waist. Instead, his thumb brushed absentmindedly against the fabric of your top, moving back and forth.
His gaze flickered down to your lips.
“He’ll be pissed,” Beau said quietly.
“I doubt he cares.” Your voice came out softer than intended. “Just look at him. Not a care in the world.”
He glanced toward the living room before looking back at you, his jaw tightening. Then he leaned in slightly, close enough that you could feel the warmth of his breath.
“You sure?”
“Yeah.”
The word barely left your mouth before the space between you seemed to disappear. For a moment, neither of you moved, caught in the tension hanging between you. Then Beau closed the distance, his lips meeting yours in a kiss that was soft and careful, nothing like Dean.
Dean kissed like everything was urgent, like he was always one second away from losing control. Beau, meanwhile, seemed content to take his time.
You found yourself kissing him back anyway, driven by a messy combination of hurt, anger, and the lingering hope that Dean might finally show that he cared.
The kiss deepened, and for a moment you let yourself get lost in it. It was nice. Beau was nice. A few weeks ago, you might’ve even considered going back to his place, letting the night unfold into something more. But now, no matter how hard you tried to focus on the boy kissing you, your thoughts kept drifting elsewhere.
Now, all you could think about was a certain blond hockey player.
Despite the warmth spreading through your chest, despite the attention and the distraction, there was no real desire to take things any further.
Still, even if you’d wanted to, you never got the chance.
You’d barely noticed how much time had passed when a loud clearing of a throat cut through the moment. A heavy hand landed on Beau’s shoulder, the interruption sharp enough to make both of you freeze before slowly pulling apart.
And there stood Dean. His jaw was clenched so tightly it looked painful, his entire body rigid with tension. But it was his eyes that made your breath catch, blazing with a fury that left little doubt he’d seen far more than enough.
“Having fun?” He asked through gritted teeth.
“Hey, Dean,” Beau said breathlessly, moving his hand away from your jaw.
You took a deep breath, glancing between the two men.
“Didn’t realize you two knew each other,” Dean said.
“Yeah, we’ve crossed paths a few times,” Beau answered. “We have a business course together too, right?”
“Yeah, right,” you stammered out, suddenly acutely aware of Beau's hand on your waist and Dean’s eyes burning into your profile.
Dean hummed, his jaw still tightly clenched.
“I think one of your teammates was looking for you,” he said to his friend.
“Who?”
“I don’t fucking know. He was just asking around for where you were.”
You knew it was a lie. You could tell by the bored tone of his voice and the way he seemed far more interested in staring at you than looking at Beau. Dean had never been a particularly good liar.
“Okay...” Beau trailed off. “I’ll see you around?”
You looked up at him and nodded, “See you.”
Dean watched him walk away to search for his supposed teammate.
“You won’t be seeing him around,” he all but growled.
Before you could respond, he grabbed your hand and pulled you toward the staircase leading up to his room. You stumbled after him, startled by the sudden movement.
You barely had time to process what was happening before you were standing in his bedroom, the door locked behind you while Dean paced in front of his bed.
“Dean, what the fuck?” You finally asked, breaking the silence as you frowned at the man in front of you.
“Me what the fuck?” He shot back, turning to point at you. “You what the fuck?”
“Huh?”
Your brows knitted together as you stared at him in confusion.
“Why the fuck would you kiss Beau?”
A sharp laugh escaped you, completely devoid of humor.
“You think it’s funny to mess around with my friend? That’s so fucked up.”
“Oh, that’s rich coming from you.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means you have no right to act like this or throw accusations around when you’re not any better.”
You let out a deep breath and rubbed at your eyes, trying to gather yourself.
“You don't get to practically entertain a threesome on the couch and then get mad because I kissed someone.”
“It's not just someone. That’s my friend,” he snapped. “And what threesome? I haven’t slept with anyone since we started—”
The words died on his tongue, and you caught it immediately. The hesitation. The way he suddenly seemed unable to finish the sentence.
Because the truth was, even Dean couldn't figure out what exactly the two of you were. Or, perhaps more accurately, what the two of you weren't.
“You’re gonna act like you didn't have two girls all over you?” You huffed. “Because you looked really comfortable.”
“All over me?” He looked genuinely offended by the accusation, as if it couldn’t have been further from the truth.
“I know we’re not exclusive or anything, but really? You had to do it right in front of me?”
“I don’t know what you think happened, but I didn’t even kiss them.” He shook his head. “I mean, one of them tried, but I just didn’t...”
“Didn’t what?”
For a moment, he stayed silent.
Dean sat down on the edge of his bed, dragging a hand over his face as he searched for the right words. His elbows rested on his knees, his head dipping briefly into his hands before he finally looked back up at you.
The anger had vanished, replaced by something far more vulnerable, something pained enough that it made your chest tighten just looking at him.
“I couldn’t kiss someone else.”
You let out a shaky breath at his words, watching as he waited for your reaction.
“Dean, that doesn’t make any sense.”
“Why?” He asked, genuinely puzzled.
“Because...” Your mind flashed back to all the times you’d carefully tried to bring up whatever this thing between you was. The times he’d thanked you for being so chill about your arrangement. The times he’d said he didn't have time for a girlfriend. How much he enjoyed his freedom.
“Is it so crazy that I could feel something between us?” He asked, a frown creasing his brows.
“You told me you didn’t want a girlfriend,” You replied.
“And you said you wanted a casual relationship.”
“Yeah, because you said you didn’t want to be tied down,” you shot back. “I’m not going to ask for something serious from the same guy who’s with a different girl every night.”
“You should’ve told me that,” he muttered.
Taking a deep breath, he stood and closed the distance between you.
“I've done casual before. It wasn’t an issue for me,” you explained. “But then you started doing things… You remember my friends’ names. You cuddle me. You kiss my forehead when I leave in the mornings...”
His expression softened.
When he gets closer to you, he takes your hands in his, rubbing his thumb across your palm.
“Did you like kissing Beau?”
“What?” You asked, caught off guard by the sudden change in topic when it felt like the two of you had almost finally admitted your feelings.
“Did you like kissing Beau?” He repeated, his gaze darkened now, one hand lifting to cradle your cheek.
“It was nice,” you admitted softly, watching the way he couldn't stop looking at you. “But I couldn’t stop thinking about you.”
“Yeah?”
His face was closer now, his breath brushing against your skin.
“It wasn’t fair to Beau, to just... use him.”
“You feel guilty, then?”
“I think he knew it came from jealousy, but it still wasn’t right.”
Dean slid a finger beneath your chin and tilted your head up until your eyes met.
“Beau can handle himself,” he said quietly. “He knew what he was doing.”
“So you're not mad?” You asked, the gentleness in his voice was making it difficult to think straight.
“I'm furious,” he admitted, a humorless laugh escaped him. “But I’ll deal with him later.”
His thumb brushed across your jaw.
“You, on the other hand, are another story.”
Before you could even react, Dean slid his hand to the side of your neck, pulling you into a deep kiss. The frustration that had been simmering between you all night seemed to collide at once.
One hand settled at your waist before drifting lower to your ass, drawing you closer as his other arm wrapped around you, hoisting you up and wrapping your thighs around his waist.
He backed you against the door, kissing you like he had a point to prove. When he finally pulled away, it was only to press a trail of kisses along your jaw, his forehead resting briefly against yours as both of you fought to catch your breath.
His hand moved toward the hem of your skirt, brushing over the fabric of your panties and finding the evidence of just how affected you were. The corner of his mouth twitched as his gaze flickered up to meet yours.
“This for him or me?” Dean asked, his voice low and rough around the edges.
“You,” you whispered immediately, your pulse racing as his heated gaze locked onto yours. “Always you.”
Those three words were all he needed.
Dean pulled away from the door and guided you toward the bed, dropping you on it before leaning over you. His lips found yours again, the kiss softer now, stripped of some of the jealousy and frustration that had fueled it moments before.
Then you suddenly broke away.
“Wait,” you gasped, catching his wrist before things could go any further. “Before we do this, I need to know what we are now.”
For a moment, all you could hear was the sound of both your breathing.
“Whatever you want us to be,” he said finally.
“Seriously? You’d just give up your womanizer ways for me?” You stared at him, a skeptical look on your face.
A grin tugged at the corner of his mouth.
“Baby, if you wanted to get married tomorrow, I’d do it.”
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” you laughed, feeling him press a soft kiss to your cheek.
“Too soon to talk about children, then?”
“Take me on a proper date first.”
Dean's smile widened, “That can definitely be arranged.”
NOTE : sorry for the abrupt ending i just didnt really know how to end it without making it too long... also please don’t ask for a part two i won’t be doing one! reader was a bit of a hypocrite in this one but let’s support messy female characters 💜
summary: your ex-boyfriend doesn’t understand the concept of zero contact. but who are you to deny your his needs?
content: smau
⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･
instagram
yourusername
yourusername malone’s, i love u
comments
user so stunning
alliehayes so much fun 😫
sabjames hottttttt
user 😍
deandilaurentis nice and cute
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imessage
allieeee
babe pls tell me ur not in contact w di laurentis again
you
swear to u im not
idk if he can comprehend that we are broken up
allieeee
by the looks of it in ur most recent post’s comment section, he hasn’t gotten the memo just yet
you
ughh don’t mention it
he’s literally scaring the hoessss
allieeee
i’m so dead, ur not getting rid of him any time soon anyway
u still got that man wrapped around ur finger
or so i’ve heard 🫢
you
wdym by that
spill
allieeee
obviously u didn’t hear this from me butttt
hannah told me that u got him GROVELINGGGGGG & YEARNINGGGGG for ur sexy ass back
graham said he’s like an old grumpy man all the time now
you
wait don’t tell me that
r u trying to get us back tg or what
allieeee
babe yk im team u always but 🤷♀️
u two were cute or wtv
you
omg allisonnnnnnn janeee hayesssss
allieeee
but before u go back to ur man, u have to make him grovel a little more
and i’ve got the perf guy for it ;)
instagram
thefifthline
thefifthline hunter davenport has been spotted @ malone’s cozying it up w/ a girl 👀 has someone finally manage to tied him down or it is just the newest flavor of the week? let us know in the cmmts !
comments
user wait noo, thats my man bruh
user damm someone took my bitch
user oh he has a typeeee
user that kinda looks like a girl in my class lol
↳ user wait who?
↳ user idk her name but she’s in my comms class
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imessage
beau :)
kill me if i’m wrong but isn’t that u in that fifth line post w davenport ??
you
D1 athlete, beau maxwell found dead
suspect: a pretty girl that pleads innocent
beau :)
HA, more like D1 athlete, dean di laurentis found dead due to a heart attack cause by his ex gf canoodling w his arch nemesis
you
i thought we agreed we can only stay friends if we don’t talk abt him…
beau :)
my bad, brat
but like yk he’s been telling ppl to bring him up any chance they have while talking to u, right?
you
he’s doing what now !?!?!?!
beau :)
u didn’t hear it from me
instagram
yourusername
yourusername lil ‘ole hastings
comments
user soo pretty
user why would a man be there
↳ deandilaurentis deadass bro
user i loveee
beaumaxwell remember the heart attack…
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imessages
do not call or answer 🤬
question
and you can totally ignore me btw
but could you perhaps think about the state of my heart before you go and break it
because it’s painful getting shitted on by g and tuck, sometimes logan too bro
i mean not bro
babe
baby
but anyway, having to see it on my feed is truly salt to the wound
or however the saying fucking goes
but anyway, feel free to reach out to me anytime
miss ya
helluva
read yesterday
totally kidding when i said ignore me
delivered
instagram
hannahwells
hannahwells boy aquarium day
comments
user briar u is so ahh
juleslogan go heated rivalry !!
user #44 tho 😍
user stunningggg
deandilaurentis ik thats not my girl cheering for someone else
↳ deandilaurentis delete ts, wellsy
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imessages
do not call or text 🤬
you
btw i’m not ur girl anymore
just in case that wasn’t clear ?? for some reason
so pls delete the comment on han’s post 🙃
do not call or text 🤬
done
anything for u
you
gee thanks 🙄
do not call or text 🤬
so how was ur day, gorgeous?
you
get lost, dean
do not call or text 🤬
don’t place a restraining order against me or anything
but i just got hard at the sight of your text with my name on it
you
and you thought it was a good idea to tell me that bc……???
do not call or text 🤬
just to lyk that little dean only works for u ;)
always has, always will
you
decorum pls
do not call or text 🤬
wait
while i still have ur attention
stay tf away from davenport unless u want to kiss pretty boy without his front teeth
read
fuck, sorry
decorum, ur right, as always
delivered
instagram
yourusername
yourusername dinner w/ a view
comments
user is this a date date or just a date?
user looks deliiiii
summer.d so sexyyyy
↳ deandilaurentis great minds think alike
↳ summer.d im w/ mom in the divorce, sorry dicky
user where is this !?!
hdavenport 🔥
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thefifthline
thefifthline briar u’s sports arena presents the hockey quarter finals, they’ll take place tonight. our own incredible hawks will be up against harvard, and the competition is looking tight. live streaming will start @ 7:30, join us !!
comments
user go hawks
user betting my first born on harvard
↳ user 🤣 dream on
↳ user jake connelly is ur daddy, hawk fucks
user can’t wait to see my roster out there playing
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instagram
yourusername
imessage
do not call or text 🤬
i know we agreed on decorum
but what the fuck was that??
you
we? ok
do not call or text 🤬
don’t deflect, im serious
you
what are you talking abt ?
do not call or text 🤬
you and davenport
your ig story
you
are u sure its me and him? because it was u who seemed to like ignore the obvious passes u should have made to not end the first quarter in a tie
do not call or text 🤬
this isn’t abt hockey
it’s about us
you
there’s no us, dean
we are broken up
been for a while now, in case you forgot
do not call or text 🤬
i haven’t
because guess what? i get reminded every fucking second, okay
so, sorry for being emotional
you
whatever, dean
do not call or text 🤬
pls can we just talk
like a sit down talk, grown up talk ?
you
…
do not call or text 🤬
i promise i won’t try anything, i really just need to talk to you
please, just need to see you
you
aren’t you in like in mid game ??
do not call or text 🤬
intermission, yes
couldn’t concentrate unless i talked to you
you
i hate u
meet me @ the coffee hut tmr
like at five ish
delivered
okay i assume intermission is over
text me later
delivered
omg u did not just dedicate ur goal to me
im never watching any of ur games ever again
imessage
mission dih-laurentis
you
fuck, i folded
hunter
so weak minded
allie
i want details
you
he’s charming and soo sexy and like so sweet and idk why we broke up in the first place yk?
hunter
ohh she’s far gone
allie
unfortunately so
so ur cutting the chase w this whole u and hunter thing?
you
yea i think so
hunter
you’re an amazing fake fling, i loved our very fake sex and the threats your boy would send my way during practice
