clawdeen wolf

to be young, gifted and black

[darkkdamsel00]

MY FOUR OFF CAMPUS BOOKS ON WATTPAD

LONDON - Dean Di Laurentis

When Jayme Morris leaves the rainy streets of London for a six-to-eight-month semester abroad at Briar University, she has one goal: focus on her Fashion Marketing Management degree, nurture her drama minor, and return home stronger. No distractions. No romance. Especially not with the campus's biggest playboy.

But from the moment Dean Di Laurentis locks eyes with her across a crowded Kappa party, everything changes.

BEST FRIEND EXCEPTION - Garrett Graham

Garrett Graham has known Hema Kumar since they were four years old, back when he stole her crayons in preschool and she punched him in the stomach. She's been his constant. The one who sat through his hockey games with a book in her lap, the one who patched him up after fights, the one who roasted him mercilessly but always had his back. She's family.

Until she isn't.

Until the night Garrett realizes the tight feeling in his chest when she smiles at him isn't just "best friend" shit anymore.

UNEXPECTED - John Logan

Elena 'Ellie' Cruz is a scholarship dance major at Briar University, pouring everything into her performances and keeping her head down. John Logan is the charming, cocky hockey defenseman who never does relationships. One wild party, one unforgettable night, and nine weeks later, two pink lines change everything. Now they have to figure out co-parenting, feelings they didn't ask for, and whether love can bloom off the ice and off the stage.

NEWS FLASH - Dean Di Laurentis

NHL bad boy Dean Di Laurentis and Hong Kong supermodel Aria Li strike a deal: fake date for six months, boost their images, then walk away.

No feelings. No complications.

But when staged kisses turn electric and fake nights feel dangerously real, both start breaking the rules.

What happens when the ice melts and the runway lights dim?

Fake dating was never supposed to feel this real.

[darkkdamsel00]

CHERRY PIE

Pairing: Garrett Graham x Tucker!Sister!Reader

Summary: During winter break, Garrett and You secretly spend an uninterrupted week together.

You are Tuckers older sister and have been sleeping with Garrett Graham for two years. Nobody knows about it. One night during break Garrett tells Dean, Logan and Tucker that he is going home but he lied. He is just staying at their off campus house.

You heard your brother mentioning that so you surprise him in brand new red lingerie and some cherry pie. It gets smutty and very intimate.

The off campus house sat quiet under the winter break sky. Its usual chaos was replaced by an empty calm that felt almost foreign. Snow dusted the front yard and the streetlights cast long shadows across the driveway. Inside, Garrett Graham moved through the living room alone after watching his roommates pile into a car headed for their respective family homes. He had told Dean, Logan and Tucker he was catching a late flight back to his parents place. It was a clean lie, one that slipped out easily because he needed this time. Two years of stolen moments and careful secrecy had built up a hunger that demanded space.

He dropped his duffel bag by the couch and ran a hand through his messy dark hair, exhaling slowly. The house smelled like leftover pizza and faint traces of Logans cologne but it was peaceful. No one would interrupt. No one would suspect. Especially not Tucker, whose older sister had been the secret center of Garretts world since that first charged night two years ago.

You had met through Tucker of course. Family visits to the house turned into lingering conversations in the kitchen, late night rides home after parties and then one unavoidable kiss that ignited everything. It started as passion and curiosity but it deepened into something raw and committed. You kept it hidden because the boys world was tight knit and dramatic. Tucker was protective. Dean and Logan would turn it into endless teasing. So you and Garrett became experts at timing, at quiet texts, at finding pockets of privacy.

Tonight you had overheard Tucker mention Garretts supposed departure while you were at home packing your own bag for a short visit to campus. The opportunity felt perfect. You drove over with a fresh cherry pie from the bakery your family loved and a brand new set of red lingerie hidden under your coat. The lace was delicate yet bold, the color deep crimson that you knew would drive him wild. Your heart raced as you parked a block away and slipped through the back door using the spare key Garrett had given you months ago.

The house was dimly lit, only a single lamp in the living room and the glow from the kitchen. You heard Garrett moving upstairs, probably settling in. You set the pie on the counter and peeled off your coat, revealing the lingerie. The red bra pushed your breasts up invitingly, the matching thong sat high on your hips and the garter belt connected to sheer stockings that hugged your legs. You felt powerful, exposed and utterly his. You warmed two slices of pie and carried them on a plate with forks.

Garrett came down the stairs in gray sweatpants and a worn Briar U shirt, his broad shoulders filling the doorway. He froze when he saw you standing there in the kitchen light, the red fabric glowing against your skin. His brown eyes widened then darkened with immediate heat.

“What the hell are you doing here?” he breathed but his voice held no complaint, only stunned desire.

You smiled, stepping closer, the plate balanced in your hands. “I heard you were staying. Thought you might want company. And dessert.”

He crossed the room in three strides, his hands finding your waist, pulling you against him. The plate wobbled but you managed to set it on the counter before his mouth claimed yours. The kiss was deep and urgent, two years of practiced intimacy pouring out. His tongue traced your lips and you opened for him, moaning softly into his mouth. His hands roamed down your back, cupping your ass and squeezing the bare skin exposed by the thong.

“You look incredible,” he murmured against your neck, his breath hot. “Red is definitely your color. Fuck, I missed you.”

You laughed softly, tugging at his shirt. “You saw me three days ago.”

“Three days too long.” He lifted you effortlessly onto the kitchen counter, your legs parting so he could step between them. The cool surface contrasted with the heat building between you. Garrett kissed down your collarbone, his mouth trailing fire over the swell of your breasts still encased in lace. He nipped at the fabric then pulled one cup down, freeing a nipple. His tongue circled it slowly, savoring the way it hardened under his attention. You arched into him, your fingers threading through his hair.

The cherry pie sat forgotten for a moment but you reached for it, breaking off a small piece with your fingers and bringing it to his lips. “Taste.”

Garrett took the bite, his eyes locked on yours. Sweetness burst between you and he grinned, licking your fingers clean. “Sweet but not as sweet as you.”

You fed him another piece then took one yourself, letting the filling drip slightly onto your chest. Garrett followed the trail with his tongue, licking the sticky cherry from your skin. The sensation sent shivers through you, straight to your core. His hands gripped your thighs, spreading them wider as he continued his descent. He kissed over the lace of your bra then down your stomach until he reached the edge of your thong.

He looked up at you, his expression intense. “Been thinking about this all week. About having you all to myself.”

You leaned back on your elbows, watching as he peeled the thong down your legs, leaving the garter and stockings in place. The red straps framed your exposed pussy beautifully. Garrett groaned at the sight, his breath fanning over your sensitive flesh. He kissed the inside of your thigh then higher until his mouth covered you. His tongue delved between your folds, finding your clit with practiced ease. He licked slow circles, alternating with gentle sucks that had your hips bucking against his face.

“Garrett,” you gasped, your voice echoing in the empty house.

He hummed in response, the vibration adding to the pleasure. Two thick fingers slid inside you, curling upward to stroke that perfect spot. Your walls clenched around him as he worked you open with steady rhythm. The combination of his mouth and fingers built the pressure fast. You gripped the edge of the counter, your thighs trembling. He increased the pace, sucking harder until you shattered, your orgasm crashing through you in waves of heat and release.

He rose up, kissing you so you could taste yourself on his lips. His sweatpants tented obviously and you reached down to palm him through the fabric. He was rock hard and throbbing. You tugged the waistband down, freeing his cock. It sprang up, thick and long, the head already glistening. You stroked him slowly, base to tip, enjoying the way he shuddered under your touch.

“Need you inside me,” you whispered.

Garrett lifted you off the counter, turning you around so you faced the kitchen island. You braced your hands on the surface, arching your back to present yourself to him. He rubbed his cock along your slick entrance, teasing your clit before pushing in. The stretch was delicious, familiar yet always overwhelming in the best way. He filled you completely, bottoming out with a shared groan.

“Fuck, you feel perfect,” he said, his hands gripping your hips.

He started thrusting, slow and deep, letting you feel every inch. The sound of skin meeting skin filled the room, mixed with your moans and his low grunts. He reached around to rub your clit in time with his movements, keeping the pleasure constant. You pushed back against him, meeting every thrust. The red lingerie straps dug into your skin, adding a slight edge that heightened everything.

Garrett leaned over you, his chest against your back, his mouth by your ear. “I love you like this. All mine. No one else knows how you sound when you come on my cock.”

His words pushed you closer to the edge. He straightened and picked up the pace, pounding into you harder. The angle hit deep, making you cry out with each stroke. Your second orgasm built fast and powerful. You clenched around him, pulsing as you came again. Garrett followed moments later, burying himself deep and spilling inside you with a guttural moan.

You stayed connected for long moments, catching your breath. He pulled out gently, turning you to face him and lifting you into his arms. He carried you upstairs to his bedroom, kicking the door shut behind you. The bed was unmade from earlier but it felt like home. He laid you down and stripped off the rest of his clothes before joining you.

The night was far from over. You spent hours exploring each other with the kind of intimacy that only comes from time and trust. Garrett removed the lingerie piece by piece, kissing every inch of skin he revealed. He worshipped your body with his mouth and hands until you were trembling again. Then he pulled you on top of him, guiding you to ride him slow and sensual. Your hands braced on his chest as you moved your hips, grinding down to take him fully. He watched you with hooded eyes, his fingers digging into your thighs.

“Youre so beautiful,” he murmured. “Ride me just like that.”

You leaned down to kiss him, your breasts pressing against his chest. The new angle made you both gasp. He thrust up, meeting you, creating a rhythm that built steadily. Sweat slicked your skin and the room filled with the scent of sex and cherry. When you came this time, you buried your face in his neck, muffling your cries against his skin. He held you through it then flipped you onto your back for one more deep, intense round.

By the time you both collapsed, the clock showed it was well past midnight. Garrett pulled the covers over you both and tucked you against his chest. His fingers traced lazy patterns on your back.

“This is what I needed,” he said quietly. “Just us. No hiding for a few days.”

You smiled, pressing a kiss to his collarbone. “We deserve it. Two years and it still feels this good.”

He chuckled. “Better every time. I love you.”

“I love you too.”

The break stretched ahead with promise. Mornings spent tangled in sheets, afternoons sneaking touches in every room of the house and nights filled with more passion. You shared meals, including the rest of that cherry pie eaten naked on the couch while laughing about old stories. Garrett opened up about hockey pressures and you talked about your own life outside the Briar bubble. The secrecy added spice but the real intimacy came from these unguarded moments.

One afternoon you found yourselves in the shower together. Water cascaded over your bodies as Garrett soaped your skin, his hands lingering on your breasts and between your legs. You returned the favor, stroking his cock until he was hard again. He pressed you against the tile, lifting one of your legs and sliding into you. The water made everything slick and smooth. He fucked you with deep, steady strokes, whispering praises in your ear.

“You take me so well,” he groaned. “Always so tight for me.”

You came with the shower spray mixing with your release and he followed, pulling out to finish on your stomach before washing you clean again. Afterward he wrapped you in a towel and carried you back to bed where you napped in each others arms.

Evenings brought slower exploration. Garrett loved going down on you for long stretches until you begged for mercy. He would edge you with his tongue and fingers, bringing you close then backing off only to start again. When he finally let you come, it was explosive. Then he would slide into you and make love with a tenderness that contrasted the earlier intensity.

On the third night you surprised him again, this time with nothing but one of his hockey jerseys. It hung off your shoulder, exposing skin and the hem barely covered your ass. Garretts reaction was immediate. He chased you playfully around the living room before catching you on the couch. He bent you over the armrest and took you from behind, his thrusts powerful and possessive. The jersey rode up your back as he drove into you. You gripped the cushions, moaning his name.

Afterward you cuddled under a blanket, sharing quiet conversation about the future. “One day we wont have to hide,” he said. “Ill tell Tucker and the guys when the time is right.”

You nodded, tracing his abs. “When were ready. For now this is ours.”

The week blurred into a haze of sex, laughter and connection. You cooked together, burned toast, laughed about it and ended up fucking on the kitchen table. You watched movies that went unwatched because hands wandered. Garrett even took you on the backyard deck one clear night under the stars, wrapped in blankets and each other. The cold air made your skin tingle but his body kept you warm as he moved inside you, slow and reverent.

Every encounter deepened the bond. Garrett learned new ways to make you shake with pleasure, finding that spot behind your knee that made you giggle then moan when he kissed it. You discovered how sensitive his neck was and used that knowledge to drive him crazy with your mouth. The intimacy went beyond bodies. You shared dreams and fears in the dark hours before sleep. He held you when you talked about family pressures and you listened when he worried about his career.

By the end of the break the house felt like a sanctuary. When it was time to leave you both cleaned up carefully, removing any trace of your stay. Garrett kissed you long and deep by the back door.

“Until next time,” he said.

“Until next time,” you echoed.

You drove away first then he followed later, making sure no one suspected. The secret remained but it was stronger now, fortified by days of uninterrupted love and lust. Back at your respective routines you exchanged texts filled with coded messages and promises. The red lingerie stayed in your drawer, a reminder of that perfect week. Cherry pie became an inside joke that always brought a smile.

Life at Briar continued with its parties and games but you and Garrett had your own world. Stolen kisses in empty hallways, quickies in his car after practice and the occasional weekend when the house cleared out again. The passion never faded. If anything it grew as you both learned more about each other.

Months later during another break the cycle repeated but with even more confidence. This time Garrett surprised you with a weekend away at a cabin but that is another story. For now the memory of that first secret week in the off campus house remained the standard. Red lace, cherry sweetness and hours of raw, intimate connection. It was everything you both needed and more.

The end of that particular break came too soon but it left you both satisfied and connected in ways words could barely capture. Garrett returned to his roommates with a relaxed smile that they chalked up to good family time. You went back to your life carrying the glow of being thoroughly loved. No one knew and that made it all the sweeter.

Taglist: @spookypersondinosaur

[darkkdamsel00]

FELLOWSHIP

Pairing: Dean Di Laurentis x Female!Reader

Summary: Torn between her dream career in Barcelona and the man she loves, she leaves Dean behind, hoping their love can survive the distance.

The late afternoon sun filtered through the half-drawn blinds of Dean Di Laurentis’s off-campus apartment, casting long golden stripes across the hardwood floor. You sat on the edge of the couch, knees pulled to your chest, phone clutched in your hand like a guilty secret. The email was still open on the screen—Congratulations on your acceptance into the Global Journalism Fellowship in Barcelona—and the words blurred every time you read them. Six months. Spain. A chance to build the international reporting career you’d dreamed about since you picked up your first notebook in high school.

You’d been hiding it for two weeks. Two weeks of deleted browser history, late-night “study sessions” that were really research into visas and housing, and excuses that grew thinner every day. Dean wasn’t stupid. He never had been.

The front door clicked open. You quickly locked the phone and dropped it beside you as if it burned.

“Hey, babe.” Dean’s voice carried that easy charm even when he was exhausted from practice. He dropped his hockey bag by the door, kicked off his shoes, and crossed the room in three long strides. His hair was still damp from the shower, golden strands sticking to his forehead. He leaned down and kissed you, soft at first, then deeper, his hand sliding to the back of your neck like he could pull the truth out through touch alone.

You kissed him back, heart aching. God, you loved him. Had loved him since the night freshman year when he’d swaggered into the bar, all cocky smiles and ridiculous one-liners, and somehow ended up walking you home because “a pretty girl like you shouldn’t wander campus alone.” Four years later and that love still felt electric. Dangerous. Too big for the future that was now splitting in two.

He pulled back, blue eyes searching yours. “You okay? You’ve been weird lately.”

“I’m fine,” you said automatically. The lie tasted sour.

Dean straightened, jaw tightening. He ran a hand through his hair and walked to the kitchen, grabbing a water bottle from the fridge. You watched the familiar roll of his shoulders, the way his T-shirt stretched across his back. He was still the most beautiful man you’d ever seen, sharp jaw, easy athletic grace and that smile that could melt ice. But tonight there was tension in every line of him.

“You’ve been ‘fine’ for two weeks,” he said, not turning around. “Barely sleeping. Jumping every time your phone buzzes. Canceling plans. What the hell is going on?”

Your stomach twisted. “Dean…”

He spun, eyes flashing. “Don’t ‘Dean’ me like I’m some idiot you can placate. We’ve been together since we were eighteen, baby. I know you. Something’s wrong and you’re shutting me out. I’m done with it.”

The words hung heavy between you. You stood up, arms wrapping around your middle. “It’s complicated.”

“Complicated,” he repeated, voice low and dangerous. He set the water down hard enough that it sloshed. “We’ve done complicated. Remember when my dad tried to push me into law school and you stayed up all night helping me write the email telling him hockey was my future? Or when your mom got sick sophomore year and I drove you home every weekend? We don’t do secrets. Not us.”

Tears pricked your eyes. You hated this, hated the way his hurt sharpened into anger, hated that you’d caused it. “I got a job offer.”

The silence stretched. Dean’s brows drew together. “Okay… That’s good, right? In Boston? New York? We can figure it out. I’ve got offers here too. We always said we’d stay close after graduation.”

You swallowed. “It’s in Barcelona.”

The color drained from his face. For a second he just stared, processing. Then a bitter laugh escaped him. “Spain. You’re telling me you’ve been hiding a job in fucking Europe?”

“It’s a prestigious fellowship,” you whispered. “Six months minimum, possibility of extension. International reporting, travel, bylines in major outlets. It’s everything I’ve worked for.”

Dean crossed his arms, muscles corded with tension. “And when were you planning to tell me? After you packed your bags? Or were you just going to disappear one day and text me from the plane?”

“That’s not fair.”

“Not fair?” His voice rose. “What’s not fair is watching the woman I love—my best friend, the person I want to build a life with, hide something this huge. We’re months from graduating, baby. Months. I thought we were talking rings next year. I thought we were doing this together.”

You flinched. The word rings hit like a punch. You’d talked about it in quiet moments—lazy Sundays in bed, future houses, kids with his smile and your stubbornness. But dreams shifted. Opportunities like this didn’t come twice.

“I was scared,” you admitted, voice cracking. “Scared you’d ask me to stay. Scared I’d say yes.”

Dean’s expression crumpled for a moment, raw pain flashing before anger slammed back down. “So that’s it? You were just going to choose without me? After everything?”

“I haven’t chosen anything yet!” You stepped closer, desperate. “I got the offer two weeks ago. I’ve been going back and forth every single night. I love you, Dean. God, I love you so much it hurts. But this… this could change my life. I’ve spent four years watching you chase your hockey dreams. Supporting you through drafts and scouts and everything. Can’t I have something like that too?”

He dragged a hand down his face. “You think I don’t want that for you? I’d move mountains for you. But Europe? For half a year or more? What about us? Long distance across an ocean? I’m supposed to start my career here, probably get traded eventually. How the hell do we make that work?”

“I don’t know!” Tears spilled over now. “That’s why I didn’t tell you. Because every time I imagine telling you yes, I see your face like this. And every time I imagine saying no, I feel like I’m killing a part of myself.”

Dean moved then, closing the distance in two strides. His hands cupped your face, thumbs brushing away tears even as his own eyes glistened. “Don’t cry. Please don’t cry. I can’t stand it.”

You leaned into his touch, inhaling the familiar scent of his soap and faint mint. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

He kissed you fiercely, all teeth and desperation. It wasn’t gentle—it was angry and loving and terrified all at once. You clutched his shirt, pulling him closer, bodies pressing together like you could fuse and solve everything. His tongue swept into your mouth, claiming, and you moaned softly, the sound swallowed by him.

When he pulled back, forehead resting against yours, his breathing was ragged. “Stay with me. We’ll find something here. Or I’ll go with you. I’ll figure it out.”

“You can’t just derail your life for me,” you whispered. “Hockey’s your dream too.”

“And you’re my life.”

The words broke something inside you. You kissed him again, slower this time, hands sliding under his shirt to feel warm skin and the steady beat of his heart. Dean groaned, lifting you effortlessly. Your legs wrapped around his waist as he carried you to the bedroom, never breaking the kiss.

Clothes came off in a frantic rush. His shirt, your sweater, jeans kicked aside. Naked skin met naked skin as he laid you on the bed. Dean hovered over you, eyes dark with emotion. “I love you,” he said, voice rough. “Even when you’re breaking my heart.”

You pulled him down, arching as he entered you in one smooth thrust. The familiar stretch, the way he filled you perfectly—it was home. You moved together, slow and deep at first, then harder, driven by fear and love and the looming shadow of goodbye. His mouth found your neck, sucking marks you knew would linger. Your nails raked down his back, leaving your own claims.

“Dean,” you gasped as pleasure built, sharp and overwhelming.

“Come for me, baby,” he murmured against your ear. “Let me feel you.”

You shattered around him, crying out his name. He followed moments later, burying himself deep and whispering your name like a prayer.

Afterward, you lay tangled together, sweat cooling on your skin. Dean’s fingers traced lazy patterns on your arm. The room was quiet except for your breathing.

“I don’t want to lose you,” he said finally.

“You won’t. Not really.”

But even as you said it, doubt crept in. Long distance had killed stronger couples. Different time zones. Months apart. The fear of growing in opposite directions.

The next few days were a whirlwind of fighting and loving. Mornings spent in bed, bodies moving desperately like time was running out. Afternoons of silence where Dean would stare at his laptop, jaw clenched, researching flights and European leagues. Evenings of arguments that left you both raw.

One night it exploded.

You’d come home from the library to find him pacing the living room, phone in hand. “I talked to my agent. There’s interest from a few teams, but nothing concrete yet. If I push, maybe I could—”

“Stop.” You dropped your bag. “You’re not rearranging your entire career for a maybe with me.”

“Why the hell not?” He whirled. “You’re willing to throw us away for a job, but I can’t even try?”

“That’s not fair. This isn’t throwing us away. It’s six months. Maybe a year. People do long distance all the time.”

“Six months turns into forever when you’re building a career overseas.” His voice cracked. “I see the way your eyes light up when you talk about it. The stories you could chase, the places you’d go. And I want that for you. I do. But I’m terrified you’ll realize you don’t need me anymore.”

The admission hung there, stripping him bare. Dean Di Laurentis, the golden boy, the confident hockey star, was terrified.

You crossed to him, wrapping arms around his waist. He resisted for a second before melting, hugging you so tight it hurt. “I’ll always need you. You’re my home, Dean. But I need to do this for me. I’ve followed you through so much. Let me have this chapter.”

He buried his face in your hair. “I hate this. I hate that I can’t be selfish and beg you to stay. Because I love you enough to let you go if that’s what you want.”

Tears soaked his shirt. “I don’t know what I want. That’s the problem.”

You spent that night talking until dawn, memories of freshman year snowball fights, the time he surprised you with a weekend in New York, lazy summers at his family’s lake house. Laughter mixed with sobs. When the sun rose, you made love slowly, reverently, like sealing a promise.

Graduation crept closer. The apartment filled with boxes—some for his potential move, some for your uncertain future. The secrecy was gone, but the ache remained.

Two weeks before commencement, Dean came home with flowers and takeout. His eyes were red-rimmed. “I got an offer. Minor league team in Boston. It’s not NHL yet, but it’s a start. Close enough that if you come back after the fellowship…”

You smiled through tears. “That’s amazing.”

He set the food down and pulled you close. “I’m proud of you. Whatever you choose. But I need you to know, if you go, I’ll wait. I’ll visit. We’ll make it work. Because four years with you taught me something. You’re worth fighting for. Even across oceans.”

You kissed him, tasting salt. “I love you.”

The decision came on a quiet evening. You sat on the balcony, city lights twinkling below, Dean’s arm around you. The Barcelona offer lay on the table between you like a live grenade.

“I’m going,” you whispered.

Dean’s breath hitched. He nodded slowly. “Okay.”

Heartbreak crashed over both of you. He pulled you into his lap, holding you as sobs shook your body. You cried for the future you’d planned, for the nights you’d miss, for the love that felt too big for distance. He cried too, silent tears tracking down his cheeks as he rocked you.

“I’ll come back,” you promised. “Or you’ll come there. We’ll figure it out.”

“Yeah,” he said hoarsely. “We will.”

Graduation was bittersweet. You walked across the stage hand-in-hand with him, caps and gowns fluttering. His family cheered, yours hugged you tight. Photos captured wide smiles that didn’t quite reach the eyes.

The night before your flight, you stayed up until sunrise. Bodies intertwined, words whispered in the dark. Promises. Fears. Dreams.

At the airport, Dean held you so long security almost intervened. “Text me when you land. Call me every day. I love you.”

“I love you more,” you choked out.

He kissed you one last time, deep, lingering and full of every unsaid thing. When you pulled back, his eyes were bright. “Go change the world, baby. I’ll be here when you’re ready to come home.”

You walked through security with tears streaming, heart shattered and full at the same time. The fellowship would change your life. But Dean Di Laurentis had already changed it years ago.

Months later, in a small Barcelona apartment overlooking narrow streets, your phone buzzed with a video call. Dean’s face filled the screen, tired from practice but smiling that same cocky grin.

“Hey, stranger.”

“Hey yourself,” you said, voice soft. “Miss you.”

“Miss you more. Tell me about your day.”

You talked for hours—stories of interviews, street markets, the way the city came alive at night. He told you about games, his teammates, the apartment he’d found in Boston. Distance stretched between you, but love bridged it, fragile and fierce.

Heartbreak wasn’t the end. It was the space where something new could grow. Stronger. Deeper.

And when you closed your eyes at night, you still felt his arms around you. Still heard his voice promising forever.

One day, you’d find your way back. Or he’d find his way to you. Until then, you carried him in your heart, the boy who became your everything, the man who let you go because he loved you enough.

Taglist: @spookypersondinosaur

[darkkdamsel00]

OFF CAMPUS WRITERS

Please use the correct tags for your oneshots. If I’m looking for Garrett Graham x Reader, I shouldn’t end up reading Dean Di Laurentis x Reader instead and vice versa. Misleading tags just to push your work is really annoying, and I’ve seen a lot of people doing this lately.

[darkkdamsel00]

MY HUSBAND WOULD LIKE…

Pairing: John Logan x Girlfriend!Reader

Summary: After accidentally calling John your “husband” during a date night, a playful moment turns into a deeper realization

You had been dating John Logan for almost two years now and every single day still felt like a wonderful surprise. He was the kind of guy who made ordinary moments feel special just by being in them. His beautiful brown eyes always seemed to sparkle with mischief and his smile could light up the darkest room on campus. Being with Logan meant laughter was never far away and affection came as naturally as breathing.

Today was one of those perfect spring afternoons where the sun warmed the air without being too hot and the breeze carried the faint scent of blooming flowers from the trees lining the streets around Briar University. You had planned a date night that felt simple but meaningful. No big parties or crowded bars. Just the two of you at a cozy Italian restaurant downtown that Logan had been talking about for weeks. He loved their pasta and you loved seeing him happy so it was an easy choice.

You spent the afternoon getting ready in your off campus apartment. The place was small but it had become a shared haven. Logan’s hockey gear often took up half the living room and your books were stacked everywhere but it worked. You slipped into a soft sundress that fell just above your knees in a pretty shade of lavender. Logan always said that color looked good on you. You brushed your hair until it shone and added a touch of lip gloss knowing he would probably kiss it off later anyway.

When Logan knocked on your door you opened it to find him standing there in dark jeans and a button down shirt that made his broad shoulders look even better than usual. His hair was still a little damp from his shower after practice and he smelled like fresh soap and that cologne you bought him for his birthday. He grinned the second he saw you.

“Hey gorgeous,” he said pulling you into his arms right there in the doorway. “You look incredible. I am one lucky guy.”

You laughed softly and wrapped your arms around his neck. “You clean up pretty nice yourself Logan.”

He kissed you then slow and sweet like he had all the time in the world. When he pulled back his eyes were warm. “Ready for the best carbonara of your life?”

“Absolutely.”

The walk to the restaurant was comfortable. Your hand fit perfectly in his and he swung your joined hands a little as you strolled along the sidewalk. Logan told you about his day at practice how the team was shaping up for the upcoming playoffs and how he had finally nailed that one drill Coach had been riding him about. You shared stories from your classes and the latest drama from your study group. Conversation with him was always easy like slipping into your favorite sweater.

When you reached the restaurant the hostess seated you at a quiet table near the window. Soft lighting glowed from pendant lamps and the aroma of garlic and fresh herbs filled the air. Logan pulled out your chair for you before sitting down across from you. He reached over and took your hand again his thumb brushing gently over your knuckles.

“This is nice,” he said. “Just us. No loud music no drunk freshmen. Perfect.”

You smiled at him feeling that familiar flutter in your chest. “It is perfect.”

The waiter came by with menus and took your drink orders. Logan got a soda because he was driving and you chose a sparkling water with lemon. When the waiter returned to take your food orders Logan was still studying the menu with that focused expression he got whenever he was deciding between food options.

You already knew what he wanted. He had been talking about their carbonara for days. You decided to order for both of you wanting to surprise him a little. As the waiter turned to you with a polite smile you spoke clearly and warmly.

“I will have the chicken parmesan please and my husband will have the carbonara with extra parmesan on top just how he likes it.”

The word slipped out so naturally that you almost did not realize what you had said until you saw Logan’s reaction. His head snapped up from the menu his brown eyes wide with surprise and pure delight. A huge grin spread across his face from one ear to the other lighting up his entire expression. He looked like you had just handed him the moon and stars wrapped up in a bow.

Your own lips twitched as you fought back a laugh. You kept your face composed focusing on the waiter who simply nodded and scribbled down the order without missing a beat. When the waiter walked away you finally let your gaze drift back to Logan. He was still grinning that ridiculous happy grin that made his eyes crinkle at the corners.

“Husband huh?” he said his voice full of joy. “I like the sound of that.”

You could not hold back your laughter anymore. It bubbled out soft and warm as you squeezed his hand. “It just came out. But it felt right.”

Logan leaned forward across the table his grin never fading. “Say it again.”

“Logan…”

“Please. For me.”

You rolled your eyes playfully but your heart was melting. “My husband will have the carbonara.”

He let out a happy little sound that was half laugh half sigh and sat back in his chair looking utterly content. “I am going to need you to call me that all the time now. In front of the team. In front of everyone. Especially Dean because he will never let me live it down but I do not even care.”

You laughed again shaking your head. “You are ridiculous.”

“Ridiculously happy,” he corrected still smiling. “You have no idea what that does to me. Hearing you call me your husband like it is the most natural thing in the world.”

The food arrived soon after and you both dug in. Logan twirled his pasta with enthusiasm making appreciative noises with every bite. Between forkfuls he kept looking at you with that same joyful expression occasionally reaching over to steal a bite of your chicken parmesan.

“You know,” he said after a while his tone turning more thoughtful but still warm. “I have been thinking about us a lot lately.”

You raised an eyebrow taking a sip of your water. “Oh yeah? Good thoughts I hope.”

“The best thoughts,” he assured you. “Like how we met at that first party freshman year. You spilled your drink on me and instead of getting mad I just laughed because you looked so cute trying to apologize.”

You groaned remembering that night. “I was so embarrassed. I thought you would never talk to me again.”

“Instead I asked for your number right then and there,” he said proudly. “Best decision I ever made. And now here we are two years later and you are calling me your husband in public. I feel like the luckiest guy on campus.”

Your cheeks warmed but you smiled softly at him. “I feel pretty lucky too Logan. You make everything better. Even tough days at the library or when I am stressed about exams. You just show up with coffee or drag me out for a walk and suddenly things do not seem so bad.”

He set down his fork and reached for your hand again. “That is all I want. To be the person who makes your days brighter. And maybe one day… not just boyfriend. Husband for real.”

Your heart skipped at his words. You had talked about the future before in vague terms but hearing him say it so openly made everything feel more real. More possible.

“I like that idea,” you admitted quietly. “A lot.”

The rest of dinner passed in comfortable conversation and shared bites of food. Logan told you funny stories about the hockey team and you shared the latest plot twists from the book you were reading for class. By the time dessert arrived a shared tiramisu you were both full and happy.

After paying the bill Logan helped you into your light jacket and kept his arm around your shoulders as you stepped back out into the evening air. The sun had set and string lights twinkled along the street. You walked slowly not wanting the night to end.

“You know I am never going to forget that,” Logan said after a few minutes. “The husband thing. I am going to bring it up for the rest of our lives.”

You laughed leaning into his side. “I figured you would. But that is okay. I meant it.”

He stopped walking right there on the sidewalk and turned to face you. His hands came up to cup your cheeks gently. “I love you so much. You know that right?”

“I know,” you whispered. “I love you too.”

He kissed you then deeper than before right under the soft glow of the streetlights. When he pulled back his grin was back in full force.

“Come on wife,” he teased. “Let us go home.”

You swatted his arm lightly but you were laughing. “Do not get ahead of yourself Logan.”

“Too late. Already there.”

The walk back to your apartment was filled with more teasing and sweet words. Logan kept finding ways to slip the word husband into conversation making you giggle every time. By the time you reached your door you were both a little tired but buzzing with happiness.

Inside the apartment Logan kicked off his shoes and pulled you toward the couch. You curled up against him as he turned on the television finding some silly comedy show to watch. His fingers traced lazy patterns on your arm while you rested your head on his chest listening to his heartbeat.

“This was a good date,” you murmured.

“The best,” he agreed. “Especially the part where you made me the happiest guy alive with one little word.”

You tilted your head up to look at him. His eyes were soft and full of love. “I can say it more if you want.”

“Please.”

You smiled. “My husband is the best boyfriend in the world.”

He chuckled pulling you closer. “Close enough for now.”

You spent the rest of the evening like that cuddled together talking about everything and nothing. Logan shared more memories from your relationship the time you tried to bake cookies together and ended up with a smoky kitchen the late night drives when he needed to clear his head after a tough game and how you always knew exactly what to say to make him feel better. You reminded him of the way he supported you through your first big presentation and how he had stayed up all night helping you practice.

As the night grew later you moved to the bedroom changing into comfortable clothes. Logan wore an old Briar hockey shirt and you slipped into one of his hoodies that smelled like him. You brushed your teeth side by side in the small bathroom bumping hips playfully and making faces at each other in the mirror.

Once in bed Logan pulled you close wrapping his strong arms around you. You snuggled into his chest feeling safe and loved.

“Goodnight husband,” you whispered teasingly.

He let out a contented sigh kissing the top of your head. “Goodnight my beautiful almost wife.”

You drifted off to sleep with a smile on your face thinking about how far you had come together and how many more dates and moments like this lay ahead. Logan was your person. Your best friend your biggest supporter and the one who made your heart feel full every single day.

The next morning you woke up to the smell of coffee and pancakes. Logan was in the kitchen humming to himself as he flipped a pancake with surprising skill. You padded over in bare feet and wrapped your arms around him from behind pressing a kiss to his shoulder.

“Morning,” you said softly.

He turned in your arms and kissed you properly. “Morning beautiful. Breakfast is almost ready.”

You sat down at the small table and he served you a plate stacked with pancakes and fresh fruit. As you ate he kept stealing glances at you that warm grin playing on his lips again.

“What?” you asked laughing.

“Just thinking about last night. You calling me your husband. I cannot stop smiling about it.”

You reached across the table and took his hand. “It felt good to say it. Maybe one day we will make it official.”

His eyes lit up. “I am holding you to that.”

After breakfast you spent the morning doing normal couple things. Logan helped you study for an upcoming exam quizzing you from your notes and rewarding correct answers with kisses. You folded laundry together and danced around the living room when a good song came on the radio. Every moment felt easy and filled with love.

By afternoon you decided to take a walk around campus. The spring weather was still perfect and hand in hand you wandered the familiar paths. Students passed by some waving at Logan because of his hockey fame. He greeted them all with that same friendly charm that had drawn you to him in the first place.

At one point you stopped by the pond where you had shared your first real date. Logan picked up a flat stone and skipped it across the water counting the jumps proudly when it went far.

“Beat that wife,” he challenged with a wink.

You picked up your own stone and managed a decent skip. Logan cheered like you had just won an Olympic medal pulling you into a hug and spinning you around until you were both dizzy and laughing.

As the sun began to dip lower you headed back toward the apartment stopping at a small cafe for iced coffees. Sitting outside at a tiny table Logan reached over and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear.

“I have been thinking,” he said seriously. “About what you said last night.”

“Which part?”

“About making it official one day.” He took a deep breath. “I know we are still young and we have a lot ahead of us with hockey and your career plans but I cannot imagine my future without you in it. So yeah. I am all in. Husband. Partner. Whatever you want to call me.”

Your heart swelled with emotion. You leaned across the table and kissed him softly. “I am all in too Logan. We will figure it out together.”

The rest of the day passed in a blur of affection and quiet joy. You cooked dinner together making a simple stir fry and dancing around the kitchen when the radio played upbeat songs. Logan set the table and lit a candle making the meal feel special even though it was just an ordinary Tuesday.

Over dinner you talked about dreams for after graduation. Logan wanted to pursue hockey professionally if the opportunity came but he was also considering coaching if that path opened up. You shared your plans for graduate school and the kind of work you hoped to do. He listened intently offering encouragement and ideas making you feel supported in every way.

After dinner you settled on the couch again this time watching a movie you had both been wanting to see. Halfway through Logan paused it and turned to you with a mischievous look.

“Say it again,” he requested.

You knew exactly what he meant. Smiling you cupped his face in your hands. “My husband is the most amazing man I know.”

He beamed and kissed you deeply pulling you closer until you were practically in his lap. The movie was forgotten for a while as you lost yourselves in each other tender touches and whispered words of love.

Later that night as you lay in bed once more Logan traced patterns on your back with his fingertips. “Thank you for today,” he murmured. “For every day really.”

“Thank you for being you,” you replied.

Sleep came easily wrapped in his arms with the knowledge that your relationship was strong and full of promise. The word husband had been a spontaneous slip but it had opened the door to conversations and feelings that made your bond even deeper.

The following days blurred into a pattern of happiness. Logan started calling you his wife in playful moments making you laugh every time. At a team gathering he introduced you as “my future wife” to a few new players earning teasing from his teammates but he wore the title with pride.

One evening after a tough practice Logan came home tired and sore. You ran him a bath and massaged his shoulders afterward. As he relaxed under your touch he looked up at you with gratitude.

“I do not know what I would do without you,” he said.

“You will never have to find out husband,” you teased gently.

His grin returned chasing away the fatigue. “I love when you call me that.”

Life continued like that filled with small moments that built something lasting. Picnics on the quad study sessions that turned into make out sessions late night talks about everything under the sun. Through it all Logan remained your constant source of joy and support.

Months passed and the word husband stopped feeling like a joke and started feeling like a preview of what was to come. You both knew there would be challenges ahead but facing them together made everything seem possible.

On a warm summer evening just before the end of the school year Logan took you back to the Italian restaurant where it all started. This time when the waiter came to take your order Logan looked at you with love shining in his eyes.

“My wife will have the chicken parmesan,” he said smoothly. “And I will have the carbonara.”

You laughed unable to contain your happiness as the waiter walked away. Logan reached for your hand across the table his grin as wide as ever.

“See?” he said. “It sounds pretty great when I say it too.”

“It does,” you agreed. “It really does.”

As you enjoyed your meal talking and laughing you felt certain that this was just the beginning of a beautiful story. John Logan was not just your boyfriend. He was your partner your best friend and one day soon your husband for real. And you could not wait to see what the future held for the two of you.

The days turned into weeks and the affection between you only grew. Logan surprised you with small gestures like bringing home your favorite flowers or planning spontaneous road trips to nearby towns. You supported him through intense training sessions and celebrated every victory with him whether big or small.

One weekend you drove out to a cabin in the woods for a short getaway. The place was rustic and peaceful with a lake nearby. You spent the days hiking and swimming and the evenings sitting by a fire pit talking about your dreams. Logan roasted marshmallows badly on purpose just to make you laugh and you ended up with sticky fingers and even stickier kisses.

Lying in bed at the cabin one night with the window open to the cool night air Logan held you close. “I cannot wait to do this kind of thing for the rest of our lives,” he whispered.

“Me too,” you replied. “Husband.”

He chuckled softly. “Keep calling me that and I might have to propose right now.”

You smiled against his chest. “One day.”

“One day,” he agreed.

Back on campus life resumed with classes and hockey but your relationship remained the highlight. Friends commented on how happy you both seemed and you could not deny it. Being with Logan felt like coming home every single day.

As graduation approached the future felt both exciting and a little scary but you faced it together. Logan talked about his prospects with different teams and you finalized your plans for the next step in your education. Through it all you kept finding ways to call him husband in sweet moments making his face light up every time.

On the night before graduation you sat on the roof of your apartment building looking at the stars. Logan had brought blankets and snacks turning it into an impromptu picnic. As you leaned against him watching the night sky he kissed your temple.

“Whatever comes next we got this,” he said confidently.

“We do,” you agreed. “Together.”

The word husband had started as a playful slip on a simple date but it had become a symbol of your love and commitment. John Logan was your everything and you were his. The future stretched out ahead full of promise laughter and endless love.

And you could not wait to live it all with your favorite person by your side.

I’m open to take requests :)

[darkkdamsel00]

I <3 MY WIFE

Pairing: Garrett Graham x Wife!Reader

Summary: Garrett Graham loves two things: hockey and his wife.

The arena lights still hummed in your ears as you stepped out of the locker room tunnel, Garrett’s large hand firm on the small of your back. His palm was warm through the thin fabric of your dress, possessive in that way he never tried to hide. Not even here, where cameras flashed and reporters called his name.

“Graham! Garrett! One question—”

He didn’t slow down. Instead, he pulled you closer, his fingers spreading wide across your hip as he turned just enough to flash that cocky, post-win grin the press loved.

“Sorry, guys. Gotta get my wife home.”

The word wife rolled off his tongue like it always did, deliberate, proud, a little smug. You felt the heat rise in your cheeks, but you leaned into him anyway, letting him guide you through the crowd. His teammates whistled behind you.

“Whipped, Graham!”

“Tell us something we don’t know,” he shot back without missing a beat, voice carrying. “I married the hottest woman on the planet. Of course I’m showing her off.”

You laughed softly, elbowing his side. “You’re impossible.”

“Only for you, baby.” He pressed a kiss to your temple, right there in front of everyone, before steering you toward the private exit where his truck waited.

The drive back to your off-campus house was quiet at first. Garrett’s hand never left your thigh, thumb tracing slow circles over the bare skin where your dress had ridden up. The championship win still buzzed through him, you could feel it in the way his grip tightened every time he glanced over at you.

“You looked so fucking good tonight,” he murmured, voice low. “Sitting in that box wearing my jersey. Everyone staring. Knowing you’re mine.”

“I’m always yours,” you reminded him, threading your fingers through his.

“Yeah. But they need the reminder.” He lifted your hand to his mouth and kissed your wedding ring. “Mrs. Garrett Graham. Sounds good, doesn’t it?”

It did. It always did.

The house was dark when you pulled up. Garrett killed the engine but didn’t move to get out right away. Instead, he turned toward you, eyes dark in the low light from the streetlamp.

“Come here.”

You didn’t hesitate. You climbed across the console into his lap, dress bunching around your hips as his hands slid up your thighs. His mouth found yours immediately—hungry, victorious, tasting like the Gatorade he’d chugged after the game. He groaned into the kiss when your fingers tangled in his damp hair.

“Been thinking about this since the second period,” he admitted against your lips. “You in this dress. My ring on your finger. Want everyone to know exactly who you belong to.”

“They know,” you whispered, rolling your hips against him. He was already hard beneath you. “You made sure of it.”

“Damn right I did.” His hands squeezed your ass, pulling you tighter against him. “Gonna show you off even more tomorrow night at the victory party. Wear something tight. Something that shows off what’s mine.”

You shivered at the promise in his voice. Garrett had always been proud. Proud of his game, proud of his team, but nothing compared to how he acted about you. From the moment he’d slid that ring on your finger six months ago in a small private ceremony, he’d made it his mission to tell the world.

The next evening, the party at the hockey house was in full swing. Music thumped through the walls. Red Solo cups littered every surface. Teammates and their friends packed the living room and backyard, celebrating the championship win.

Garrett kept you glued to his side the entire night.

His arm stayed draped around your waist as he introduced you to people you’d already met a dozen times.

“This is my wife,” he said to a group of younger players who’d come to celebrate. His chest puffed out a little. “Best decision I ever made. Look at her. How the hell did I get so lucky?”

You rolled your eyes fondly, but you couldn’t stop smiling. His hand drifted lower, resting just above the curve of your ass in the tight black dress you’d chosen. The one that hugged every inch and ended high on your thighs.

“Garrett,” you murmured in warning when his fingers started tracing patterns dangerously close to inappropriate.

“What?” He grinned down at you, all innocent charm and devilish intent. “Can’t help it. You’re stunning. And you’re my wife. Gotta make sure these rookies remember that.”

One of the rookies laughed. “We know, man. You only say it every five minutes.”

“Damn right,” Garrett shot back without shame. He leaned down and kissed you deeply, right there in the middle of the crowded room. When he pulled back, his eyes sparkled. “See? Mine.”

The night continued like that. Every conversation, every introduction, every toast—Garrett found a way to work in that you were his wife. He pulled you onto his lap when he sat on the couch. He fed you bites of food from his plate. He danced with you in the backyard under string lights, hands roaming, mouth at your ear telling you how perfect you looked and how he couldn’t wait to get you home.

By the time you made it back to the quiet of your shared bedroom, you were aching for him.

Garrett kicked the door shut behind you and immediately pressed you against it. His mouth crashed into yours, hands sliding up your sides to cup your breasts through the dress.

“Fuck, baby,” he groaned. “Been hard for you all night. Watching you smile. Watching every guy in that house wish you were theirs. But you’re not. You’re my wife.”

“Yours,” you agreed breathlessly, tugging at his shirt.

He helped you pull it off, then made quick work of your dress, leaving it pooled on the floor. His eyes darkened as they raked over your body, lingering on the thin lace panties and the way your breasts rose with each breath.

“Beautiful,” he murmured, dropping to his knees. “My beautiful wife.”

He hooked your leg over his shoulder and pressed his mouth to you through the lace first, teasing, before shoving the fabric aside. His tongue was relentless, licking and sucking until your knees shook and you had to grip his hair to stay upright. He didn’t stop until you came hard against his mouth, moaning his name.

Then he stood, lifting you effortlessly and carrying you to the bed. He laid you down gently despite the hunger in his eyes, crawling over you.

“Look at you,” he whispered, pushing inside you slowly, savoring every inch. “So wet for me. So perfect.”

You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper. “Garrett… please.”

He started moving, deep and steady at first, then faster as need took over. His mouth stayed at your ear the whole time, praising you and reminding you.

“My wife. My girl. Gonna fill you up. Love showing you off but love this more, having you all to myself after.”

You came again with his name on your lips, and he followed right after, burying himself deep and groaning against your neck.

Afterward, he didn’t pull out right away. He stayed on top of you, kissing your face, your neck, your collarbone, hands gently stroking your sides.

“Love you,” he said softly. “Love being able to call you my wife in front of everyone. Love knowing you chose me.”

You cupped his face, thumbs brushing his cheekbones. “I’ll always choose you.”

He smiled, that soft, genuine smile he saved only for you—and rolled to the side, pulling you against his chest.

The next few weeks blurred together in the best way. Garrett’s NHL draft prospects were heating up, and with that came more events, more media, more chances for him to show you off.

At a fancy team dinner with alumni and scouts, he kept his hand on your knee under the table the entire time. When one of the older alumni asked about his personal life, Garrett didn’t hesitate.

“Married the love of my life right after the season started,” he said proudly, lifting your hand to show off the ring. “Couldn’t wait another second. She’s the reason I play better. My wife keeps me grounded.”

You blushed as eyes turned to you, but Garrett only grinned wider.

Later that night in your hotel room, he took his time undressing you, kissing every inch of skin he revealed.

“Proud of you,” you told him as he settled between your legs.

“Proud of us,” he corrected, sliding into you with a slow thrust. “Best team I’ve ever been on. You and me.”

He made love to you slowly that night, savoring every sound you made, every arch of your back. When you both finished, he pulled you close and whispered against your hair, “Can’t wait to do this forever. Show the whole damn world you’re Mrs. Graham.”

Summer came, and with it a trip back to your hometown for a family visit. Garrett charmed every relative, every neighbor, every old friend who stopped by.

“Have you met my wife?” he’d say, arm around your shoulders. “Best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

Your mom pulled you aside at one point, smiling. “He really loves showing you off, doesn’t he?”

You laughed. “You have no idea.”

That night in your childhood bedroom (now updated with a bigger bed Garrett had insisted on buying), he was particularly vocal.

“Quiet, baby,” you reminded him, giggling as he thrust into you. “My parents are downstairs.”

“Can’t help it,” he groaned, hips snapping harder. “Love fucking my wife. Love knowing this ring means you’re stuck with me.”

You came biting his shoulder to stay quiet, and he followed with a muffled curse against your neck.

Back on campus for one final semester before everything changed with the draft, Garrett’s showing-off reached new levels. He’d walk you to your classes even when it made him late to practice. He’d kiss you goodbye in the middle of the quad, hand on your waist, loudly calling you “my wife” so nearby students smiled or rolled their eyes.

One afternoon, after you’d aced a tough exam, he surprised you with flowers outside the building.

“For my brilliant wife,” he announced, loud enough for the crowd of students leaving class to hear. Then he picked you up and spun you around, kissing you deeply.

“You’re ridiculous,” you said when he set you down, but your smile gave you away.

“Ridiculously in love,” he corrected, lacing your fingers together. “And I want everyone to know it.”

The victory party at the end of the year was the biggest yet. The whole house was decorated, music louder than ever. Garrett wore a button-down that showed off his broad shoulders, but he spent most of the night focused on you.

He danced with you in the center of the living room, hands roaming your curves in the short emerald dress he’d picked out.

“Look at my wife,” he said to anyone who passed by. “Isn’t she gorgeous?”

When a tipsy teammate joked about how whipped he was, Garrett just laughed and pulled you closer.

“Whipped? Nah. Lucky. I get to go home with her every night. I get to wake up next to my wife. Best feeling in the world.”

Later, in the upstairs bathroom away from the chaos, he locked the door and lifted you onto the counter.

“Need you,” he growled, pushing your dress up. “Been dying to be inside my wife all night.”

You gasped as he entered you in one smooth thrust, legs wrapped around him. He fucked you hard and fast, hand over your mouth to muffle your moans, eyes locked on yours.

“Mine,” he panted between thrusts. “My wife. Forever.”

You came together, clinging to each other, hearts racing.

As the party wound down and you lay in bed hours later, Garrett traced lazy patterns on your bare back.

“Ready for the next chapter?” he asked quietly. “NHL, new city, all of it?”

“As long as I’m with you,” you answered.

He kissed the top of your head. “Always. I’m never gonna stop showing you off. Never gonna stop telling people you’re my wife. Best thing I’ll ever do is love you.”

You fell asleep in his arms, safe, loved, and completely his—just the way Garrett Graham liked it.

[darkkdamsel00]

FORBIDDEN LINE

Pairing: Dean Di Laurentis x Tucker!Sister!Reader

Summary: Hockey player Dean Di Laurentis, falls for his teammate’s sister

The bass from the off-campus house party thumped through the floorboards like a second heartbeat. You stood in the crowded kitchen, nursing a lukewarm beer and trying not to look as out of place as you felt. Visiting your brother for the weekend had seemed like a good idea at the time, until Tucker had dragged you to this hockey house party and immediately disappeared with his girlfriend.

“Stay where I can see you,” he’d warned before vanishing. Classic big-brother nonsense.

You were twenty-one, a senior at a different school two hours away, and perfectly capable of handling yourself. Still, the Briar University hockey crowd was… a lot. Loud, cocky, and ridiculously attractive. Especially the guy currently leaning against the counter across from you, watching you with lazy, amused interest.

Dean Di Laurentis.

You’d seen his face on Tucker’s Instagram enough times to recognize him instantly. Tall, broad-shouldered, golden-brown hair that looked like it had been styled by someone’s fingers, and a smirk that should probably be illegal in several states. He was exactly the type of guy your brother had spent years warning you about.

And he was staring.

You looked away first, pretending to be fascinated by the fridge magnets. A moment later, a warm, deep voice cut through the noise right beside you.

“You’re Tucker’s little sister.”

You turned. Dean was even taller up close, and the way his green eyes dragged slowly down your body before returning to your face made heat bloom low in your stomach.

“Little is relative,” you replied, lifting your chin. “I’m twenty-one. And you’re Dean Di Laurentis. The one who apparently never met a puck bunny he didn’t like.”

His grin widened, slow and dangerous. “Tucker talks about me. Interesting.”

“He talks about how you’re a walking STD commercial.”

Dean laughed, low and genuine. The sound did unfair things to your pulse. “Harsh. Accurate, maybe, but harsh.” He tilted his head. “You got a name, or should I just keep calling you Trouble?”

You told him your name. He repeated it like he was tasting it, and you hated how much you liked the way it sounded in his mouth.

For the next hour, he didn’t leave your side. He was charming without trying too hard—funny, quick-witted, and surprisingly attentive. He kept your cup full, deflected drunk teammates who tried to hit on you, and somehow made you feel like the only person in the room.

When someone bumped into you hard enough that beer sloshed over your hand, Dean’s palm settled at the small of your back to steady you. The touch burned through your thin top.

“You okay?” he asked, voice quieter now.

“Yeah.” You swallowed. “Just crowded.”

His thumb brushed once, almost absently, against your spine before he pulled away. But the ghost of the touch lingered.

Tucker appeared sometime after midnight, looking flushed and happy. His eyes narrowed the second he saw you standing close to Dean.

“Di Laurentis,” he said flatly. “Why are you breathing on my sister?”

Dean raised both hands in mock surrender, but his smirk didn’t fade. “Just keeping her company, man. She’s cool.”

“She’s off-limits,” Tucker said, pointing a finger. “Don’t even think about it.”

You rolled your eyes. “I’m right here.”

Tucker ignored you, glaring at his teammate. “I mean it, Dean. Not her.”

Dean’s jaw flexed, but he gave a lazy nod. “Message received, Tucker.”

The rest of the night passed in a blur of music and stolen glances. Every time you looked up, Dean was watching you. And every time your brother turned his back, Dean found an excuse to touch you, brushing your arm, leaning in to speak against your ear and his lips grazing the shell so lightly it could have been accidental.

It wasn’t.

By the time Tucker walked you back to his apartment, your skin was buzzing and your thoughts were dangerous.

The next morning, you woke up on Tucker’s couch to the smell of coffee and the sound of male voices arguing in the kitchen.

“…she’s my sister, dude.”

“I didn’t do anything,” Dean’s voice, calm and amused. “We talked. She’s funny. Sue me.”

“You looked at her like you wanted to eat her alive.”

A pause. Then Dean, quieter: “She’s beautiful. Hard not to look.”

Your heart slammed against your ribs. You stayed very still on the couch, pretending to still be asleep.

Tucker groaned. “She’s not one of your hookups. She’s family. If you hurt her, I’ll kill you. Slowly.”

“I hear you,” Dean said. There was something heavier in his tone now. “Loud and clear.”

You heard the front door open and close. A few minutes later, Tucker stuck his head into the living room.

“You awake?”

“Barely,” you lied, sitting up and stretching.

He studied you. “Dean’s an idiot. Don’t let him flirt with you. He doesn’t do serious.”

You shrugged like it didn’t matter. Inside, something twisted.

That afternoon, you went to the hockey arena to watch practice. Tucker had given you a guest pass, mostly so he could keep an eye on you. You sat in the stands, chin in your hand, watching the players fly across the ice.

Dean was impossible to miss. Fast, aggressive, graceful. Every time he slammed someone into the boards, your breath caught. When practice ended, most of the team headed for the locker room, but Dean skated over to the boards near where you sat, helmet off, hair damp with sweat.

He looked up at you and grinned. “Enjoying the view?”

“It’s alright,” you called down, trying to sound unaffected.

He laughed. “Liar. You were staring.”

“So were you last night.”

His expression shifted, something hotter and more intense. “Yeah. I was.”

Tucker shouted something from the tunnel. Dean’s jaw tightened.

“Meet me tonight,” he said suddenly, voice low enough that only you could hear. “There’s a bar off campus. The Dime. Ten o’clock. Tell Tucker you’re meeting an old friend from high school or something.”

Your pulse spiked. “You’re really trying to get me to lie to my brother?”

“I’m trying to spend time with you without him threatening to castrate me every five seconds.” His green eyes locked on yours. “Say yes.”

You shouldn’t. You really, really shouldn’t.

“Yes,” you whispered.

His smile was slow and victorious. “Good girl.”

You told Tucker you were grabbing coffee with a girl you’d met at last night’s party. He bought it, mostly because he was exhausted from practice.

The Dime was dim, warm, and surprisingly quiet for a Saturday night. Dean was already there, tucked into a back booth wearing a black Henley that clung to his shoulders and chest. He stood when you approached, eyes dragging over your jeans and soft sweater like he wanted to peel them off.

“You came,” he said, voice rough.

“I did.”

He bought you a drink. Then another. Conversation flowed easy, about your classes, his hockey season and the ridiculous rules Tucker lived by. Hours disappeared. At some point his knee pressed against yours under the table and stayed there.

When the bar started closing, he walked you outside. The night air was cold, but Dean radiated heat.

“I should get back,” you said, even as you turned toward him.

“Yeah.” He stepped closer. “You should.”

Neither of you moved.

His hand came up, cupped your jaw. His thumb brushed your lower lip. “Tell me to stop and I will.”

You didn’t tell him to stop.

Dean kissed you like he’d been starving for it. Deep, hungry, one hand sliding into your hair while the other gripped your waist, pulling you flush against him. You tasted beer and mint and pure want. When his tongue stroked yours, you moaned softly into his mouth and felt him shudder.

“Fuck,” he breathed against your lips. “You have no idea what you do to me.”

You kissed him harder.

He pressed you back against the brick wall of the alley beside the bar, one thick thigh sliding between yours. The friction made you gasp. His mouth moved to your neck, sucking lightly, then harder, like he wanted to leave a mark.

“Dean…” you whispered.

He pulled back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, breathing hard. “Not here. Not like this. Come back to my place.”

You knew what he was asking. You knew what it meant.

You said yes anyway.

His off-campus house was dark and quiet when you slipped inside. His roommates were all out. The second the door closed, Dean had you against it, kissing you like he’d die if he stopped.

Clothes came off in a trail down the hallway, your sweater, his Henley, your jeans and his sweats. By the time you reached his bedroom you were both in underwear. He lifted you like you weighed nothing, laying you on his bed.

Dean took his time.

He kissed down your body, slow and deliberate. Mouth on your collarbone, your breasts—tongue circling your nipples until you arched and whimpered. Lower, across your stomach, until he settled between your thighs.

“Look at me,” he ordered softly.

You did. The sight of his golden head between your legs, green eyes dark with lust, nearly undid you.

He licked a long, slow stripe up your center, then focused on your clit with devastating precision. Two thick fingers slid inside you, curling just right. You came hard, gripping his hair, his name falling from your lips like a prayer.

He didn’t stop until you were trembling.

Then he crawled up your body, kissing you so you could taste yourself on his tongue. His cock was heavy and hot against your thigh.

“You sure?” he rasped.

“Yes. Please.”

He rolled on a condom with shaking hands. When he pushed inside you, slow and deep, the stretch was perfect. Both of you groaned. He stayed still for a moment, buried to the hilt, forehead pressed to yours.

“Fuck, you feel incredible,” he whispered.

Then he started moving.

It wasn’t gentle. It was years of tension and one weekend of forbidden want unleashed. Dean fucked you like he needed it, deep and steady strokes that hit every perfect spot. You wrapped your legs around his waist, nails digging into his back.

He whispered filthy praise against your ear. So tight. So wet for me. Good girl, taking my cock so well. Every word pushed you higher.

You came again, clenching around him. He followed right after, groaning your name like it hurt.

Afterward, he pulled you against his chest, stroking your hair. For a long time, neither of you spoke.

“I’m not supposed to want this,” he said finally, voice quiet in the dark. “Tucker’s my brother on the team. My friend.”

You traced a pattern on his abs. “I know.”

“But I do want it.” He tilted your chin up. “I want you. Not just tonight.”

Your heart squeezed. “This is complicated, Dean.”

“I know.” He kissed you softly. “But I’m not ready to let you go.”

The weekend blurred into stolen moments.

You snuck out again the next night. Dean took you to his bed and worshipped you for hours—on your back, on your knees, riding him slow while he watched you with reverent eyes. He was insatiable and generous, making you come until you were hoarse.

On Sunday morning, before you had to drive back to your own campus, he kissed you against his car in the driveway, slow and deep and aching.

“I’ll text you,” he promised. “We’ll figure this out.”

Tucker came outside just as you pulled away. He waved, oblivious.

You waved back, lips still tingling, heart in your throat.

The secret lasted six weeks.

Texting turned into late-night calls. Dean drove to your campus twice, fucking you in your tiny dorm bed while your roommate was away. You drove to Briar once, letting him bend you over his desk in his room while music played loud enough to cover your moans.

Every time was better than the last. Every time you fell a little harder.

Until the night it all shattered.

Tucker showed up at Dean’s unannounced. Walked in on the two of you in the kitchen. Dean’s hands under your shirt, your back against the counter, kissing like the world was ending.

The silence that followed was deafening.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” Tucker said, voice low and furious.

Dean stepped in front of you protectively. “Tuck—”

“No.” Your brother’s eyes were blazing. “I told you she was off-limits. I trusted you.”

You stepped around Dean. “This isn’t just him. I wanted this too. I still want this.”

Tucker looked at you like you’d betrayed him. “He doesn’t do relationships. He’s going to break your heart and I’m going to have to watch.”

Dean’s voice was steady. “I’m in love with her.”

The words landed like a bomb.

You turned to stare at him. He was looking at you, not Tucker. Green eyes serious, jaw set.

“I’m in love with her,” he repeated, softer. “Have been since the night at the party when you told me not to look at her. I tried not to. I couldn’t.”

Tucker ran a hand over his face. “Jesus Christ.”

You reached for Dean’s hand. He laced your fingers together immediately.

Your brother watched the gesture. Something in his expression shifted, anger giving way to reluctant acceptance.

“You hurt her,” he said to Dean, voice rough, “and I don’t care how good you are on the ice. I will end you.”

Dean nodded. “If I hurt her, I’ll let you.”

Tucker looked at you. You gave him a small, hopeful smile.

He sighed. “I need a fucking beer.”

Six months later, you were official.

Dean still kissed you like he was starving every single time. Tucker still grumbled about it, but he’d stopped threatening violence. The team had taken to calling you “Di Laurentis’s girl” with varying degrees of teasing and respect.

One night after a big win, Dean pulled you onto the dance floor at the victory party. Arms around your waist, forehead against yours, swaying even though the music was fast.

“I love you,” he murmured against your lips.

You smiled, heart full. “I love you too.”

He kissed you slow and deep, right there in front of everyone—including your brother.

Some lines were worth crossing.

[darkkdamsel00]

Missing your Ilya content so much 🥹

More is coming soon trust me 🤞🏾

[darkkdamsel00]

I HATE YOU, UGH

Pairing: Garrett Graham x Female!Reader

Summary: Two lifelong enemies, you and Garrett Graham, are forced to work together on a college project and slowly realize your constant rivalry has always hidden deep attraction and love.

You had hated Garrett Graham since the second grade, and the feeling had always been completely mutual. It started over something as ridiculous as a crayon, but that single moment set the tone for more than a decade of rivalry. Your favorite crimson crayon, the one that made every drawing feel alive with fire and passion, disappeared from your desk during art class.

When the teacher asked who took it, Garrett raised his hand with that cocky little smirk and claimed it was his all along. You cried hot tears of frustration while he shrugged like it was nothing. From that day forward, he became your nemesis, and you became his.

Elementary school was a series of small battles. He knocked over your carefully built block towers during recess, laughing as the pieces scattered. You retaliated by “accidentally” spilling water on his science fair poster board, ruining hours of his work. Teachers separated you in class more than once, but the playground and hallways always brought new opportunities for conflict. By middle school, the rivalry had grown more sophisticated. Group projects turned into battlegrounds where Garrett would deliberately do the bare minimum, forcing you to stay up late fixing his sloppy contributions while he bragged to everyone about his latest hockey victory. You called him lazy and entitled. He called you a stuck-up perfectionist who needed to loosen up.

High school amplified everything. Garrett transformed into the undisputed star of the Briar High hockey team, tall and broad even then, with messy dark hair, piercing gray eyes, and a smile that made half the girls in school swoon. He led the team to state championships and walked the halls like he owned them. You threw yourself into academics, joining every club, maintaining a flawless GPA, and volunteering for extra projects. Every shared class became a competition. He would lean back in his chair during English discussions and make snide comments about your overly detailed presentations. You would publicly correct his grammar or fact-check his half-baked opinions in front of everyone. In the hallways, he would mouth “Loser” when your eyes met. You responded with a middle finger or a withering glare. The tension crackled between you like electricity, but neither of you ever acknowledged the strange undercurrent beneath the hatred.

By the time you both enrolled at Briar University, you hoped the distance of campus life might finally dull the edge of your animosity. It did not. You spotted him constantly across the quad, his athletic frame even more imposing now thanks to college-level training. His shoulders had broadened, his jaw had sharpened, and those gray eyes still found yours with unerring accuracy. He would lift one brow, flash that infuriating smirk, and the old fire would ignite instantly. You flipped him off and kept walking, telling yourself the flutter in your stomach was pure irritation.

Then came Advanced Communications with Professor Langford, and everything changed.

The course required a semester-long group project: developing a complete multimedia campaign for a fictional nonprofit organization. The catch was groups of exactly two, assigned randomly by the professor. When Professor Langford read your name paired with Garrett Graham’s, a ripple of surprised murmurs swept through the lecture hall. Someone in the back row actually laughed out loud. Your stomach dropped. You turned slowly in your seat and found him three rows behind you, sprawled casually in his chair with his long legs stretched out. His hockey jacket hung over one shoulder, and his dark hair looked freshly tousled from practice. That signature smirk was already curving his lips, gray eyes locked on yours with pure challenge.

“Well, well,” he drawled loudly enough for the entire room to hear. “Looks like fate finally decided we should play nice, sweetheart.”

“Don’t call me that,” you snapped, gripping your notebook tighter. Your pulse hammered in your ears.

Professor Langford raised her hand for silence. “No switching partners. This assignment is designed to teach real-world collaboration, even with people you might find… difficult. Deadlines are clearly listed on the syllabus. I expect professional work. Good luck, everyone.”

The moment class ended, you bolted toward the exit, heart racing with a mix of dread and annoyance. Heavy footsteps caught up to you before you even reached the stairs outside the building.

Garrett fell into step beside you, his long strides effortlessly matching yours. The crisp autumn air carried the scent of fallen leaves and distant rain. He smelled annoyingly good, like fresh soap mixed with that woodsy cologne he had worn since high school. “Your place or mine for the first planning session?” he asked, hands shoved into the pockets of his hoodie.

“Library,” you replied curtly. “Neutral ground. Tomorrow at 6 PM. Don’t be late, or I’ll complete the entire project myself and leave your name off everything.”

He chuckled, the low, rough sound sending an unwelcome shiver down your spine. “Still as bossy as ever. See you there, partner.”

You arrived at the library at 5:45 PM the next day, claiming a quiet table on the second floor with a nice view of the campus green. Your notes were neatly organized, laptop open, highlighters color-coded. At 6:12 PM, Garrett finally strolled in carrying two coffees. His hair was still damp from a shower, and he wore a Briar Hockey hoodie that stretched appealingly across his broad chest and shoulders.

“Peace offering,” he said, sliding one cup toward you. Black coffee with exactly two sugars.

You narrowed your eyes suspiciously. “How do you even know how I take my coffee?”

“Years of careful observation, sweetheart. You’re not as mysterious as you think.” He dropped into the chair across from you, his knee brushing against yours under the table. You pulled back sharply. He noticed and his smirk widened.

The first hour was surprisingly productive despite the tension. Garrett’s ideas were actually solid. He suggested strong storytelling angles for the nonprofit’s social media and creative ways to integrate video content that you had not considered. But every suggestion came wrapped in that teasing, cocky tone that set your teeth on edge.

“You always this wound up during study sessions?” he murmured after you rejected one of his tagline proposals. “Or is it just me that gets you this flustered?”

“It is definitely you,” you shot back without hesitation. “You have been under my skin since the day you stole my crimson crayon in second grade, Graham.”

He paused, gray eyes flickering with genuine surprise. Then he laughed, the sound rich and unexpectedly warm. “The red one? Damn, you really still remember that after all these years?”

“I remember every single thing you have ever done to annoy me.”

His expression softened for just a moment, the cocky mask slipping to reveal something almost vulnerable beneath. “Yeah,” he said quietly, voice low. “Me too.”

The air between you grew thick and charged. You looked away first, cheeks warming, and forced the conversation back to the project outline.

Over the following weeks, your meetings fell into a strange but consistent rhythm. Three times a week you worked together, sometimes in the library, sometimes in empty classrooms after hours. His ideas consistently pushed yours to be sharper, and your high standards forced him to dig deeper than his usual effortless charm allowed. You learned details about him you had never wanted to know. Garrett was majoring in business because his father, the legendary NHL player Phil Graham, demanded it, but his true passion remained hockey. The weight of living up to that legacy showed in subtle ways: the way he rubbed his left shoulder after intense practices, the tightness in his jaw when the topic of the upcoming draft arose.

In return, he saw you more clearly than anyone else ever had. He noticed how you stayed up until three in the morning perfecting slides because anything less than excellence felt like failure. He saw the pressure your family placed on you to be perfect. One particularly late night, after the library closed early, he convinced you to continue at his off-campus house.

“It is closer,” he argued when you hesitated on the front porch. “Logan, Tucker, and Dean are all at a party. The house is empty.”

His bedroom was surprisingly neat for a college athlete. Hockey gear was stacked tidily in one corner, a large bed dominated the room with dark sheets, and several trophies gleamed on a shelf beside a few framed family photos. Because the desk was too small, you both ended up sitting cross-legged on the bed with laptops between you. The proximity was dangerous. His knee kept brushing yours. His clean, masculine scent wrapped around you.

As the hours passed, project discussion gradually faded into real conversation.

“You genuinely hated me all this time?” he asked softly, the lamplight casting warm shadows across his sharp jaw and high cheekbones.

“You made my life hell whenever you got the chance, Garrett.”

He ran a hand through his dark hair, looking almost guilty. “I did not know any other way to get your attention back then. You were always so perfect. So smart and focused and completely untouchable. I was just this dumb kid with a massive crush and no idea how to handle it except by pissing you off constantly.”

Your heart slammed hard against your ribs. “You are lying.”

“Am I?” He leaned in closer, one strong arm bracing beside your hip on the bed. “Tell me you never felt it too. That spark underneath all the fighting and bullshit.”

You opened your mouth to deny everything, but the words would not come. Because deep down you had felt it for years, in stolen glances across crowded assemblies, in the way your stomach flipped when he scored during high school games and his eyes searched the stands. You had buried those feelings under layers of resentment because admitting attraction to Garrett Graham felt far more terrifying than hating him.

“I…” Your voice cracked.

“Tell me to stop,” he whispered, his gaze dropping to your lips, “and I will.”

You did not tell him to stop.

Garrett kissed you like a man who had been starving for years. His mouth claimed yours with fierce hunger, hard and demanding at first as all the pent-up frustration poured out between you. One large hand cupped the back of your neck, tilting your head as he deepened the kiss. You kissed him back just as fiercely, fingers threading through his soft hair and pulling him closer. He tasted like mint and coffee, and the low groan that rumbled from his chest sent heat flooding through your body.

When he finally pulled back, forehead resting against yours and breathing ragged, he whispered, “Fuck. Finally.”

Nothing was the same after that kiss, but the bickering never fully stopped. It simply evolved. You still argued passionately over every element of the campaign, from color schemes to video concepts to slogan wording. The difference now was that those arguments frequently ended with his hands sliding around your waist, your back pressed against the nearest wall, and your mouths fused together in desperate need.

Study sessions at his house became increasingly risky. His roommates quickly caught on. The first time Dean walked in on you straddling Garrett’s lap on the living room couch, mid-makeout session with his hands under your shirt, Dean let out a long, appreciative whistle. “Holy shit, Graham. You finally wore down the ice queen.”

“Fuck off, Di Laurentis,” Garrett growled without pulling away from you, his arms staying locked possessively around your body.

You buried your burning face in the crook of Garrett’s neck, mortified but undeniably thrilled by the new reality.

The physical aspect of your relationship escalated quickly and intensely. One evening after an especially brutal hockey practice, Garrett came home tense and moody. A minor disagreement over a project detail spiraled into old patterns.

“You are still the same arrogant asshole you have always been,” you snapped.

“And you are still impossible to please,” he fired back, eyes flashing.

The anger dissolved as quickly as it had ignited. He hauled you against his chest and kissed you with raw need. Clothes were shed in a frantic rush. He lifted you onto his desk, stepped between your thighs, and trailed hot, open-mouthed kisses down your neck while his skilled fingers worked you open. You gasped his name, nails digging into his muscular shoulders as pleasure built rapidly.

“Say it again,” he murmured against your skin, curling his fingers deeper. “My name. Only mine.”

You came hard around his fingers, crying out. Then he was pushing inside you, thick and perfect, stretching you in the most delicious way. His eyes stayed locked on yours with breathtaking intensity as he thrust deep and steady. You moved together until you shattered again, this time with him following right behind, groaning your name like a prayer.

Afterward, tangled together in his sheets and still catching your breath, he traced lazy circles on your bare back. “When did you stop hating me?”

“I never fully stopped,” you admitted with a breathless laugh. “I just realized that loving you felt a lot stronger than the hate ever did.”

His arms tightened around you. “I have loved you since that stupid crayon incident, you beautiful pain in my ass. It just took me way too long to admit it out loud.”

The project itself became far more than an academic requirement. It served as the foundation for your evolving relationship. Late nights turned into sleepovers where you fell asleep in his arms. You started attending his home games, cheering loudly despite yourself when he dominated the ice with powerful strides and precise shots. He began showing up at your study groups with snacks, enduring the teasing from your friends with surprising good humor.

Family pressures tested the new bond between you more than once. Garrett’s father called frequently, critiquing game footage and questioning whether his son was truly focused enough for the draft. One particularly bad night, the stress made Garrett short-tempered with you. Old defensive habits nearly caused you to walk out.

“I am sorry,” he said later, pulling you back into his bed and holding you close. “This draft process is messing with my head. But you make everything better. You make me better.”

You kissed him softly at first, then deeper, straddling his hips and riding him with slow, intentional movements until all the tension melted from his powerful body. “We are a team now, Graham. Start acting like it.”

Presentation day arrived amid blooming cherry trees and nervous energy. Your completed campaign was polished to perfection: engaging videos, cohesive branding, compelling storytelling, and innovative social strategies. Professor Langford awarded you an A+ and publicly praised the “remarkable chemistry” between you two in front of the entire class.

Garrett grabbed your hand right there on the stage, tugging you close with pride shining in his eyes. “I could not have done any of this without my favorite rival turned partner in every sense.”

The class erupted in cheers and whistles. Your face heated with embarrassment, but you smiled brightly as you leaned into his solid chest, his arms wrapping around you tightly.

Later that afternoon, walking hand-in-hand across the blossoming campus, Garrett stopped beneath a particularly beautiful tree and turned to face you, expression suddenly serious.

“Summer is coming up fast. I have development camps and training, but I want you there with me. As my girlfriend. My partner in every single way that matters.”

You raised an eyebrow, heart soaring with happiness. “Are you officially asking me, hotshot?”

“Girlfriend. Future wife. Whatever label you want to give us. I am done pretending you are not the very best part of my entire life.”

You pretended to consider it for a moment, then broke into a wide grin. “Only if you swear never to steal my crayons again.”

“Deal.” He sealed the promise with a deep, claiming kiss right there in the middle of campus, his hands gently framing your face as if you were the most precious thing in the world. No more hiding. No more using rivalry as a shield.

Two years later, you sat in the stands at Garrett’s first professional hockey game, proudly wearing his jersey with “Graham” stitched across the back. When he scored the game-winning goal in overtime, he pointed straight at you with that same cocky wink that still made your heart race.

After the game, in the hallway outside the locker room, still buzzing with adrenaline and smelling of sweat and victory, he picked you up and spun you around, helmet tucked under one arm.

“I told you we would make the best team,” he murmured before kissing you breathless, deep and full of promise.

You laughed softly against his lips. “You win this round, Graham.”

“Baby,” he replied, gray eyes shining with love and a bright future, “with you by my side? We both win. Every single time.”

Your story had never been a simple fairytale. It was forged through years of stubborn fights, petty sabotages, stolen glances, and two hearts that were far too proud to admit the truth sooner. But it was real. It was passionate. It was completely yours.

And as Garrett held you close, his heartbeat steady and strong against yours, you knew with absolute certainty that you would not trade a single moment of your long, winding journey for anything in the world. you swear

[darkkdamsel00]

GRAHAM'S LITTLE SISTER

Pairing: John Logan x Graham!Sister!Reader

Summary: You return to Boston for spring break determined to keep your secret relationship with your brother’s best friend hidden, but one look from John Logan is enough to unravel every boundary you swore you’d keep.

You’d been dreading this trip for weeks, but the second you stepped off the plane and saw Garrett waiting at arrivals with that stupid, familiar grin, your stomach flipped for an entirely different reason. Spring break. One week back in Boston with your brother and his crew. One week pretending John Logan wasn’t the guy who’d been fucking you senseless for the past twelve months.

Garrett pulled you into a bear hug, lifting you clear off the ground like you were still fifteen. “There’s my favorite sister.”

“I’m your only sister, dumbass.”

“Still favorite.” He set you down and ruffled your hair. “Hannah’s waiting in the car. Dean and Allie are already at the house pre-gaming. Logan’s… somewhere.”

Your pulse spiked at his name. You kept your face neutral. “Cool.”

The drive to the off-campus house was loud with Hannah’s laughter and Garrett’s terrible playlist. You sat in the back, phone buzzing in your lap.

Logan: You here yet, baby? I’m losing my mind.

You bit your lip and angled the screen away.

You: Just pulled up. Behave.

Logan: No.

The house looked the same—slightly worse for wear after another hockey season. Dean opened the door shirtless, Allie tucked under his arm, both of them already tipsy.

“Graham’s little sister!” Dean crowed, pulling you into a hug that smelled like tequila and cologne. “Look at you, all NYU sophisticated. Break any Ivy League hearts yet?”

“Only the ones that deserve it,” you shot back.

Then Logan appeared in the hallway behind him.

God, he looked good. Dark jeans, black thermal stretched across his shoulders, Bruins cap backwards. His brown eyes locked on you and the corner of his mouth twitched, the same smirk he gave you right before he buried his face between your thighs.

“Yo, Logan, come say hi to my sister,” Garrett called, oblivious.

Logan sauntered over, casual as hell. “Hey, stranger.” His voice was low, rough. His fingers brushed your waist as he hugged you—quick, friendly, brother-approved. But his hand lingered half a second too long, thumb pressing just above your hip bone where only he knew you were ticklish.

“Missed you,” he murmured against your ear, so soft no one else could hear.

You swallowed. “Missed you more.”

The first night was torture.

Everyone gathered in the living room, drinking, playing cards, telling stories. You sat on the couch between Hannah and Allie, laughing at Dean’s ridiculous impressions, while Logan lounged in the armchair across from you. His legs were spread, one ankle hooked over his knee, eyes never leaving you. Every time you crossed your legs, his gaze dropped. Every time you licked salt off your thumb after a tequila shot, his jaw tightened.

Around two a.m., people started drifting to bed. Garrett kissed Hannah goodnight and clapped Logan on the shoulder. “Don’t stay up too late, man. We’ve got ice time tomorrow.”

Logan’s smile was easy. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

You waited fifteen agonizing minutes in the guest room before your phone lit up.

Logan: Back door. Now.

You crept downstairs in nothing but an oversized hoodie and panties. The kitchen was dark. The second you stepped outside onto the back porch, strong arms yanked you against a hard chest. Logan’s mouth crashed into yours, hungry and desperate, a whole year of secret touches and stolen weekends exploding between you.

“Fuck, I missed this mouth,” he growled, backing you against the siding. His hands slid under the hoodie, palming your ass, lifting you so your legs wrapped around his waist. “Missed how wet you get for me.”

“Logan—” You gasped as he ground his erection against you. “We can’t—not here—”

“Inside. My room. Now.”

He carried you through the dark house like you weighed nothing. The second his bedroom door clicked shut, clothes hit the floor. Your hoodie, his shirt, your panties, his jeans. He pushed you onto the bed, mouth on your neck, your tits, sucking hard enough to leave marks you’d have to hide tomorrow.

“You’ve been driving me crazy all night,” he muttered against your stomach, kissing lower. “Sitting there in those little shorts, knowing I can’t touch you.”

“Then touch me now.”

He did. Two thick fingers pushed inside you without warning, curling just right. His tongue flicked your clit and your back arched off the bed. You shoved a pillow over your face to muffle the moan.

Logan ripped it away. “Let me hear you. Been too fucking long.”

He ate you out like a man starved—messy, filthy, perfect. You came hard, thighs shaking around his head, whispering his name like a prayer. Before you could recover, he was over you, condom on, cock nudging your entrance.

“Look at me,” he ordered.

You did. Blue eyes dark with lust and something deeper. He pushed in slowly, stretching you, filling you until you couldn’t breathe.

“Fuck, you feel like home,” he groaned.

Then he fucked you. Hard. Deep. The headboard banged against the wall and you didn’t even care. You clawed at his back, met every thrust, whispered dirty things in his ear that made him lose control. He flipped you over, pulled your hips up, and took you from behind, one hand fisted in your hair.

“Come on my cock, baby. Let me feel it.”

You shattered again. He followed right after, burying himself deep and groaning your name into your shoulder.

You collapsed together, sweaty and tangled. Logan pulled you against his chest, pressing lazy kisses to your temple.

“I hate hiding this,” he said quietly.

“Me too. But Garrett…”

“Yeah.” His arms tightened. “I know.”

The next three days were a blur of stolen moments. Quick kisses in the hallway when everyone was distracted. Logan’s hand up your skirt under the dinner table. A frantic blowjob in his truck in the driveway at 3 a.m. while Garrett and Hannah slept upstairs.

You almost got caught twice. Once when Dean nearly walked in on Logan fingering you in the laundry room. Another when Garrett asked why your neck looked “weird” and you lied about a curling iron burn.

By day four, the tension was unbearable.

It snapped at the bonfire.

The guys had dragged an old fire pit into the backyard. Beers flowed. Music thumped. You were tipsy, wearing Logan’s hoodie because it smelled like him and because he’d growled in your ear to put it on before you came outside.

Garrett was telling some story about a game last season when he noticed you laughing at something Logan whispered.

His eyes narrowed. “What’s so funny?”

“Nothing,” you said quickly.

Logan leaned back, casual. “Just telling her about the time Dean face-planted during warm-ups.”

Garrett didn’t laugh. His gaze flicked between you and Logan. Something shifted in his expression—suspicion hardening into realization.

Later, when you slipped inside for another drink, Garrett followed.

In the kitchen, he cornered you. “You and Logan.”

It wasn’t a question.

Your heart stopped. “Garrett—”

“Don’t.” His voice was low, dangerous. “I saw the way he looked at you. The fucking hoodie. How long?”

You swallowed. “A year.”

“A year?” He looked like you’d slapped him. “My best friend has been screwing my little sister behind my back for a goddamn year?”

“It’s not like that. We’re together. For real.”

Garrett dragged a hand through his hair. “Jesus Christ. I trusted him. I told him you were off-limits. I specifically said—”

“I’m not a kid anymore,” you snapped. “I’m twenty-one. I make my own choices.”

“Not with him.” His jaw clenched. “Not with Logan. He’s a fucking mess. Hockey, parties, girls—”

“He hasn’t touched anyone else since we started. He loves me, Garrett.”

The back door slammed. Logan stepped in, eyes blazing. “You got something to say to me, Graham?”

Garrett turned on him. “Yeah. Get the fuck away from my sister.”

Logan’s hands fisted at his sides. “Too late for that.”

The first punch came from Garrett. It cracked across Logan’s jaw, sending him stumbling into the counter. Logan roared and tackled him. They crashed to the floor in a mess of limbs and fury—fists flying, grunts, the sound of knuckles on flesh.

“Stop!” you screamed.

Dean and Allie rushed in. Dean grabbed Garrett, Allie tried to pull Logan back, but the two men were too far gone.

“You’re supposed to be my brother!” Garrett shouted, blood on his lip. “I would’ve taken a bullet for you, man!”

“And I love her!” Logan yelled back, shoving Dean off. His eye was already swelling. “I’m in love with her, you idiot. Have been for years. I tried to stay away. I couldn’t.”

Garrett lunged again. Another punch landed. Blood splattered the tile.

You stepped between them, hands out. “Enough!”

Both men froze, breathing hard.

Garrett wiped his mouth, glaring at Logan with pure betrayal. “Break it off. Right now. Or we’re done. Friendship. Everything.”

The silence was deafening.

Logan looked at you. Really looked. The fear in his eyes broke your heart.

“No,” he said quietly. “I won’t.”

Garrett’s laugh was bitter. “Then get the fuck out of my house.”

You found Logan in his room twenty minutes later, packing a duffel with jerky movements. His face was bruised, lip split.

“Logan…”

“I’m not ending this.” His voice cracked. “I can’t. Not anymore.”

You crossed the room and wrapped your arms around him from behind. He turned, buried his face in your neck, holding you so tight it hurt.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered.

“Not your fault. Should’ve told him sooner. Or not at all. I don’t know anymore.”

You kissed his bruised jaw, his split lip, gentle and reverent. He shuddered.

“Stay with me tonight,” you said. “One more night before everything explodes.”

He hesitated, then nodded.

You made love slowly this time. No rushing. Logan laid you down on his bed and worshipped every inch of you, his mouth on your breasts, hands mapping your curves like he was memorizing. When he finally slid inside you, it was deep and unhurried, eyes locked the entire time.

“I love you,” he whispered against your lips as he moved. “So fucking much.”

You came together, clinging to each other like the world outside might tear you apart.

Afterward, tangled in sheets, he traced patterns on your bare back. “Whatever happens tomorrow… I’m not letting you go.”

You believed him.

The next morning was war.

Garrett was in the kitchen nursing coffee and a black eye when you came downstairs with Logan right behind you. Hannah stood beside him, looking torn. Dean and Allie hovered awkwardly by the fridge.

Garrett’s eyes hardened. “You didn’t break it off.”

“No,” Logan said flatly. “And I’m not going to.”

Garrett stood. “Then you’re not welcome here.”

“Garrett, stop,” Hannah said softly. “They’re adults. They love each other.”

“He lied to me. For a year.” Garrett’s voice rose. “My best friend and my sister. Behind my back. How the fuck am I supposed to be okay with that?”

Logan stepped forward. “I know I fucked up the way we did it. But I’m not sorry for loving her. She’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

You slipped your hand into Logan’s. “I love him too. And if you make me choose, Garrett… I’ll choose him.”

The words landed like another punch. Garrett flinched.

For a long moment, no one spoke.

Then Garrett exhaled, long and shaky. “I’m disappointed in you, man. Really fucking disappointed.” He looked at you, eyes glassy. “Both of you.”

He walked out.

The rest of spring break was strained. Garrett barely spoke to either of you. Logan crashed at Dean’s for a couple nights. You spent every free second with Logan, talking, fucking, planning how to make this work when you went back to NYU and he stayed in Boston for the summer.

On the last night, Garrett cornered Logan on the back porch while you pretended not to watch from the window.

“I still want to kill you,” Garrett said gruffly.

“Fair.”

“But… if you hurt her, I will kill you. Slowly.”

Logan nodded. “I’d let you.”

Garrett sighed. “She’s happy. I can see that. Doesn’t mean I like it.”

“I know.”

A long pause.

“Don’t fuck it up, Logan.”

“I won’t.”

They didn’t hug. Not yet. But the fist bump was something. A start.

You left for NYU the next day. Logan drove you to the airport. In the parking garage, he kissed you like the plane might leave without you. Deep, claiming, hands in your hair.

“Call me when you land,” he said.

“I will.” You touched his still-bruised cheek. “I love you.”

“Love you more, baby.”

[darkkdamsel00]

Hi👋 I'm a big fan of your stories on wattpad like I love love love your heated rivalry stories (and I read some of your works on ao3 too, loved it!). I just wanted to ask if you are going to continue your 'beyond the lines' story or if it's discontinued or on hold for now?🥹 (I love Marcus sm, need the 3 of them to be all lovey dovey with each other again and get their happy ending (but I really loved the angst too)) but anyway, I love your writing, keep up the good work, you're doing amazing🥹🥰 have a nice day <3

Hey, thank you so much I appreciate it. 'Beyond the Lines' is on hold right now! I love the book to much to discontinue it :) so no worries.❤️❤️❤️

Thank you for all the love have a nice day as well!❤️

[darkkdamsel00]

UPCOMING 'OFF CAMPUS' ONESHOTS

Which one would you guys see first ?

Dean Di Laurentis x Older!Female!Reader

Dean Di Laurentis x Tucker!Sister!Reader

Garrett Graham x LDR!Girlfriend!Reader

Garrett Graham x Wife!Reader

John Logan x Graham!Sister!Reader

John Tucker x Supermodel!Girlfriend!Reader

Voting ended onMay 25

[darkkdamsel00]

PROFESSOR’S DAUGHTER

Pairing: Garrett Graham x Professor!Daughter!Reader

Summary: Garrett Graham, Briar’s star hockey player, breaks every rule he’s ever had when he falls hard for his strict literature professor’s daughter.

Garrett Graham had rules. Simple ones. Keep your head in the game. Don’t fuck around with girls who complicate shit. And never, ever, get involved with anything that could torpedo his shot at the NHL.

But rules were for the locker room. Not for the moment he walked into Professor Langley’s Advanced Lit seminar on a rainy Thursday and saw her.

You.

You were sitting in the front row like you belonged there, legs crossed under a short plaid skirt, a notebook already open, pen tapping absently against your lip. Your hair was pulled back in a messy bun, a few strands loose like you’d given up fighting them halfway through the day. When Professor Langley—tall, stern, tweed-jacketed—walked in and immediately said, “Everyone, this is my daughter, visiting for the semester. She’s auditing. Be nice,” Garrett felt the floor tilt.

Your eyes met his for half a second. You smiled. Polite. Curious. Completely unaware that you’d just become the most dangerous distraction on campus.

Garrett dropped into his usual seat near the back, heart hammering harder than it did before a championship game.

Fuck.

The first real conversation happened two weeks later.

Garrett was in the library at 11 p.m., half-dead from practice, trying to finish a paper on The Great Gatsby that he’d been avoiding like the plague. You were three tables away, surrounded by highlighters and open books, earbuds in, nodding along to whatever you were listening to.

When the library lights flickered in warning—closing soon, you glanced up, caught him staring, and pulled one earbud out.

“Garrett Graham, right?” Your voice was softer than he expected. Warm. “Hockey guy. My dad complains about you missing deadlines more than he complains about the Bruins.”

Garrett grinned despite himself. “That sounds about right. You here to rat me out?”

You laughed, low and genuine. “Nah. I’m here because my apartment’s too quiet and I needed caffeine and bad decisions.” You held up a half-empty iced coffee like evidence. “Also, Gatsby’s kind of an asshole, but I can’t stop reading.”

“Same,” he admitted, sliding into the chair across from you before he could think better of it. “Daisy’s worse, though.”

You tilted your head, studying him. “Most jocks don’t read Fitzgerald for fun.”

“Most professors’ daughters don’t sit in the back of the library looking like they’re plotting a heist.”

You smirked. “Touché.”

That night you talked for forty minutes until security kicked you both out. You argued about whether Nick Carraway was reliable, about hockey versus literature, about how your dad once made you read Moby Dick at age twelve as “character building.” Garrett walked you to your car even though it was pouring, hoodie pulled over his head, laughing when you cursed at the rain ruining your notes.

He went home and jerked off in the shower thinking about the way your wet shirt had clung to your chest. Then he felt like an asshole.

It became a thing.

You started showing up at the same library table. Sometimes you brought snacks. Sometimes he brought coffee. You teased him about his messy handwriting. He teased you about the color-coded notes that looked like a NASA control room. You told him about growing up with a literature professor dad and how every dinner was a debate, how you’d moved away for undergrad but came back this semester because your mom was sick and someone needed to be close.

Garrett told you about the pressure. The draft. The way his father still called him weekly to remind him not to “fuck it up like he did.” He’d never told anyone that shit, not even his boys on the team.

One night, after a brutal loss, he found you waiting outside the rink in a Briar hoodie two sizes too big. You didn’t say anything about the game. Just handed him a hot chocolate and said, “Walk with me.”

You ended up at the pond behind campus, sitting on the cold bench while the moon cut silver across the ice. Your shoulder pressed against his. He could smell your shampoo, something citrusy and clean.

“I hate losing,” he muttered.

“I know.” Your hand found his, tentative. “But you’re still Garrett fucking Graham. Even when you lose, you’re still… you.”

He turned his head. Your faces were inches apart. Breath visible in the cold. For a second he thought about kissing you. Really thought about it, about how soft your mouth looked, how your eyes had gone dark and wide.

Instead he squeezed your hand and walked you home.

The tension built like a storm.

You started coming to games. Sitting in the stands with a scarf and a Briar hat, cheering like you’d been doing it your whole life. After one particularly ugly win, the team went to Malone’s. You showed up because Logan texted you (traitor), and suddenly you were squeezed into the booth between Garrett and Tuck, laughing at their stupid stories.

Dean kept shooting Garrett knowing looks. “Prof’s daughter, huh? Bold, G.”

“Shut up,” Garrett muttered, but his hand had found your knee under the table. You didn’t move it away.

Later, when the bar was loud and warm and everyone was half-drunk, you leaned into his side. “My dad would kill you.”

“I know.”

“I don’t care.”

Garrett’s heart slammed against his ribs. He looked down at you, at the way your lips parted just slightly, and he was gone. Completely, stupidly gone.

He kissed you outside in the freezing parking lot, pressed you against his truck, hands in your hair, tongue sliding against yours like he’d been starving for it. You made this soft, surprised sound that went straight to his dick. When you tugged his jacket closer, he groaned into your mouth.

“Fuck, baby,” he whispered against your lips. “I’ve wanted this for weeks.”

You smiled, breathless. “Then stop talking and do something about it.”

He didn’t take you home that night. Too risky, your dad lived ten minutes from campus. Instead he drove to the team house, snuck you up the back stairs while the boys were still at the bar, and locked his bedroom door.

The second the lock clicked you were on him. Hands under his shirt, mapping the ridges of his abs, the V that disappeared into his jeans. Garrett walked you backward until your knees hit the bed and you both tumbled down, laughing into each other’s mouths.

He took his time undressing you. Reverent. Kissing every inch he uncovered—collarbone, the swell of your breasts, the soft skin under your ribs. When he pulled your panties down and saw how wet you already were, he cursed.

“Jesus Christ. Look at you.”

You were flushed, breathing hard, eyes glassy. “Garrett… please.”

He ate you out like a man possessed. Slow, filthy licks, two fingers curling inside you while his tongue worked your clit. You came with your thighs clamped around his head, biting your own wrist to stay quiet. He didn’t stop until you were shaking.

Then he was inside you.

Raw and bare. He knew he should grab a condom but the thought of anything between you felt wrong. You didn’t stop him. Just wrapped your legs around his waist and whispered, “I’m on the pill. I want to feel you.”

Garrett fucked you deep and steady, one hand braced beside your head, the other gripping your hip hard enough to bruise. Every thrust dragged a moan out of you. The bed creaked. Your nails raked down his back.

“Look at me,” he growled when your eyes fluttered shut. “Want to see you when you come on my cock.”

You did. Eyes locked on his, lips parted, crying out his name as you clenched around him. He followed right after, burying himself to the hilt and spilling inside you with a groan that sounded like it hurt.

Afterward he held you against his chest, fingers stroking your spine. Neither of you spoke for a long time.

“I’m fucked,” he finally whispered.

You laughed softly. “Yeah. Me too.”

The secret lasted three weeks.

Stolen moments in his truck. Quickies in empty classrooms after hours. Late nights where he’d sneak into your apartment when your dad was at a conference. You’d ride him slow on your tiny couch, whispering dirty things in his ear while he gripped your ass and tried not to come too fast.

You were addictive. The way you quoted poetry while he was balls-deep inside you. The way you wore his jersey to bed. The way you looked at him like he was more than hockey, more than the next big draft pick.

But secrets on a small campus don’t stay secrets.

Your dad found out on a Wednesday.

Garrett was in Langley’s office for a paper extension when the professor’s phone buzzed. A text. From you.

Running late. Garrett’s coming over for dinner tonight. Be nice.

Langley stared at the screen. Then at Garrett.

The silence was lethal.

“You’re seeing my daughter.”

It wasn’t a question.

Garrett didn’t flinch. “Yes, sir.”

Langley removed his glasses slowly. “She’s not some puck bunny, Graham. She’s brilliant. She’s going to grad school. She doesn’t need a distraction who’ll be gone to some NHL city in six months.”

The words landed like checks into the boards. Garrett felt every one.

“I’m not going to hurt her,” he said quietly. “I love her.”

The admission shocked him as much as it did Langley. But it was true. He’d fallen so hard he didn’t even remember the fall.

Langley studied him for a long moment. “Prove it.”

That night at dinner was the most awkward hour of Garrett’s life.

You sat beside him, thigh pressed to his under the table for courage. Your mom—sweet, sharp-eyed—kept the conversation going. Your dad grilled him about everything from his GPA to his future plans. Garrett answered honestly. No bullshit.

After dessert, when your parents went to the kitchen, you dragged him onto the back porch.

“He’s not going to kill you,” you whispered, hands on his chest.

“He might.”

You kissed him softly. “I love you too, you know. I didn’t say it back earlier.”

Garrett’s chest cracked open. He pulled you in, kissing you deeper, tasting the pie on your tongue and the future on your lips.

Spring came.

Garrett’s team made it to the Frozen Four. You were there in the stands for every game, screaming his name. When they won the championship, he skated straight to the boards, pulled you down for a kiss in front of twenty thousand people and the ESPN cameras.

Your dad was in the family section. He didn’t smile. But he didn’t look murderous either.

Later, in the hotel room, Garrett stripped you out of your Briar gear and made love to you slow and sweet. No rush. Just skin and breath and the certainty that this was real.

“I’m getting drafted,” he murmured against your neck. “But wherever I go, I want you with me. Grad school. Long distance. Whatever it takes. I’m not doing this without you.”

You cupped his face, eyes shining. “I’m in, Graham. All the way.”

Two years later, Garrett was playing for the Bruins. You were in grad school in Boston, living in a tiny apartment that smelled like books and his cologne. Your dad still gave him shit at family dinners, but there was respect there now.

Garrett proposed on the ice after a home game. Same spot where he’d first kissed you in front of the world. He dropped to one knee in full gear, ring box in his gloved hand.

You said yes before he even got the question out.

Later that night, tangled in sheets, sweaty and laughing, he kissed the ring on your finger and whispered, “Told you I’d prove it.”

You smiled, the same smile that had ruined him in that lecture hall years ago.

“Best bad decision I ever made.”

[darkkdamsel00]

SURPRISE APPEARANCE

Pairing: Garrett Graham x Black!Actress!Reader

Summary: You are an up-and-coming actress attending your boyfriend Garrett Graham’s Briar University hockey game for the first time, finally proving to his skeptical teammates that your relationship is real.

You adjusted the oversized sunglasses on your face, pulling the brim of your baseball cap a little lower as you stepped out of the tinted SUV. The arena parking lot buzzed with college students in Briar University colors, blue, red and white everywhere. Your heart hammered against your ribs, not from the crowd, but from the knowledge that tonight was the night Garrett’s friends finally stopped thinking he was full of shit.

For four months straight, Garrett Graham had been telling his teammates he was dating you. The upcoming actress who had just wrapped a supporting role in a major streaming series and landed a lead in an indie film making the festival circuit. A Black woman with a growing name, curves that made red carpets dangerous, and a smile that lit up screens. His boys laughed every time. Logan especially. “Bro, if you’re pulling a famous actress, I’m the starting goalie for the Rangers,” he had said last week over FaceTime while you were cuddled against Garrett’s chest in his off-campus apartment, trying not to laugh.

Garrett had just smirked, kissed your forehead, and said, “Wait till you see her at the game.”

Now here you were.

You wore a fitted Briar hockey hoodie, Garrett’s of course, with his last name and number stitched on the back, dark wash jeans that hugged your hips, and limited-edition sneakers. Your braids were pulled into a high ponytail with red ribbons threaded through them, matching the team. Minimal makeup, but enough to glow under arena lights. You wanted to look like you belonged to him, not like you were here for cameras.

Security recognized you immediately. A quiet word, a nod, and you were escorted through a side entrance toward the family and friends section near the glass. The arena was filling fast. Students chanted, music thumped through the speakers, and the scent of popcorn and ice filled the air.

You spotted them before they spotted you.

Garrett’s crew was in the front row of the friends section: Logan, Dean, Tucker, and a few other guys from the team. They were laughing about something, probably roasting Garrett again. Your man was on the ice already, warming up. Even from a distance, his broad shoulders and powerful strides made your stomach flip. Number 44. Yours.

You took a breath and walked down the steps.

Logan noticed first. His eyes widened, then narrowed as he took in the hoodie. “No fucking way.”

Dean turned. His jaw actually dropped. “Holy shit.”

Tucker blinked like he was seeing a hallucination. “Graham wasn’t lying? That’s her?”

You smiled, a little shy but mostly amused, and gave them a small wave. “Hi. I’m…”

“Baby!”

Garrett’s voice cut through the noise. He had spotted you from the ice and was skating full speed toward the boards, helmet off, dark hair messy with sweat already. The grin on his face was pure sunshine, wide, unfiltered, the kind he only wore when it was just the two of you in his bed or when he scored a goal. He reached the glass, yanked off a glove, and pressed his bare hand to it.

You mirrored him, palm to palm through the clear barrier. “Hi, superstar.”

His eyes, those gorgeous blue-green ones, drank you in. “You came. Fuck, you look good in my number.”

“Always do,” you teased.

He leaned in as close as the glass allowed. “Kiss me when I come out after warm-ups. I want everyone to see.”

You laughed softly. “Possessive much?”

“Very. Especially when my idiot friends thought I was catfishing them with Photoshop for four months.”

Behind you, Logan was still staring. “This is insane. Garrett Graham bagged a movie star. I need to reevaluate my entire life.”

You turned slightly and offered them a warmer smile. “Nice to finally meet you guys in person. Garrett talks about you constantly. Logan, Dean, Tucker, right?”

Dean recovered first, flashing his trademark charming grin. “In the flesh. And you’re really… wow. I mean, respectfully, damn.”

Tucker elbowed him. “Smooth, Di Laurentis. Real smooth.”

You chatted with them for a few minutes, light, easy banter. They asked about your latest project, the indie film premiering next month, whether the rumors about a big franchise audition were true (they were not… yet), and how the hell Garrett managed to keep you a secret for so long. You told them the truth: it was not a secret, not really. Just private. You both wanted something real before the spotlight got too bright. Four solid months of stolen weekends, late-night calls from sets, and quiet nights in his apartment had made it feel even more precious.

Then the buzzer sounded for the end of warm-ups.

Garrett came barreling off the ice like a man on a mission. He barely stopped to hand off his stick before he was through the tunnel and into the friends section, still in full gear except for the helmet and gloves. His cheeks were flushed from exertion, eyes locked on you like you were the only person in the arena.

He did not hesitate.

Garrett’s big hands cupped your face, calloused from years of hockey, and he kissed you like he had been waiting years instead of hours. Deep, hungry, a little possessive. His mouth moved against yours with that perfect mix of softness and heat that always left you breathless. One hand slid down to your waist, pulling you flush against his padded chest. The team hoodie bunched under his grip.

Catcalls erupted from his friends.

“Get a room, Graham!”

“Jesus Christ, he wasn’t lying!”

You smiled into the kiss, then pulled back just enough to rest your forehead against his. “Missed you.”

“Missed you more,” he murmured. His thumb brushed your cheek. “You good? Crowd’s not too much?”

“I’m perfect. Go win the game so I can kiss you again later without all the gear in the way.”

His grin turned wicked. “Promise?”

“Promise.”

He kissed you once more, quicker this time, then turned to his stunned teammates. “Told you assholes. This is my girl. Y/N. Actress. Smart as hell. Way out of my league. Be nice or I’ll check you into the boards myself.”

Logan stepped forward first, offering a hand. “Logan. Huge fan of your work. Also, sorry for calling Garrett a delusional liar for four months.”

You shook it, laughing. “Apology accepted. He said you’re the one who can actually keep up with him on the ice.”

“Flattery will get you everywhere,” Logan winked.

Dean introduced himself with a dramatic bow. “Dean Di Laurentis. Resident pretty boy. If Graham fucks up, you know who to call.”

Garrett shoved him. “Back off.”

You giggled. Tucker was next, more chill, genuine smile. The rest of the guys on the periphery stared like you were an alien. A couple asked for pictures “for the group chat to prove this is real,” and you obliged, laughing the whole time. No paparazzi here, just college kids and hockey players geeking out.

Garrett stayed close, arm around your shoulders even in his pads, until the coach yelled for the team to get back. He kissed your temple. “Root for me.”

“Always.”

The game was electric. Briar dominated from the first period. Garrett played like a man possessed, two assists and a gorgeous goal in the second where he deked out two defenders and sniped it top shelf. Every time he looked toward your section, he pointed his stick at you. You cheered louder than anyone, braids swinging, voice hoarse by the end of the second period.

By the final buzzer, it was 5-1. The arena erupted.

You waited with the other friends and WAGs near the locker room area. When Garrett emerged, freshly showered, hair damp, wearing a hoodie and sweats, he made a beeline straight for you again. This time the kiss was slower, sweeter, his hands sliding under your hoodie to rest on the bare skin of your lower back.

“Couldn’t stop thinking about you in the stands,” he said against your lips. “Best motivator.”

His friends piled out behind him, still buzzing from the win. Someone suggested heading back to the off-campus house for beers and pizza. Garrett looked at you for confirmation.

“I’m in,” you said. “As long as no one asks me to do any celebrity impressions.”

“No promises,” Dean grinned.

The house was loud and chaotic in the best way. Music thumped. Pizza boxes covered the coffee table. You sat on Garrett’s lap on the big couch, his arms wrapped around your waist like he still could not believe you were here. His chin rested on your shoulder as he listened to the guys retell the best plays of the game.

Logan dropped into the armchair across from you, nursing a beer. “Okay, real talk. How did this even happen? Garrett’s not exactly Hollywood material.”

Garrett flipped him off without looking away from you.

You smiled, threading your fingers through his. “We met at a charity event last summer. Some hockey foundation thing in LA. I was there because my manager made me. He was there because… well, he’s Garrett Graham. We talked all night. He did not ask for a picture or an autograph. Just wanted to know what books I was reading and if I liked hockey. Four months later and I still cannot get enough of him.”

“Corny,” Dean declared. “I love it.”

Tucker raised his beer. “To Garrett finally having taste.”

Laughter filled the room. You leaned back into Garrett’s chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart. His hand slipped under your hoodie again, tracing lazy circles on your stomach. Innocent enough for company, but the occasional squeeze promised more later.

Hours passed in easy conversation. The guys asked smart questions about acting, how you prepped for emotional scenes, what it was like working with certain directors. You asked them about hockey strategy, about their seasons, about what it was like playing for Briar. Logan and Garrett got into a heated but friendly debate about who took the better shot in the third period. You mediated with kisses to Garrett’s jaw until he melted and conceded.

Eventually the crowd thinned. People headed to bedrooms or other parties. Dean disappeared with a girl who had been eyeing him all night. Tucker and Logan stayed up a little longer, but even they tapped out around 1 a.m.

You and Garrett retreated to his room.

The second the door closed, he had you against it. Not rough, just eager. His mouth found yours, hands roaming like he had been starving for this since the kiss at the glass.

“Been wanting to do this since I saw you in my hoodie,” he murmured, voice low. He lifted you effortlessly, hockey players and their strength, and you wrapped your legs around his waist. “Fuck, baby. You have no idea what you do to me.”

You tugged at his hair, smiling. “Pretty sure I do. You scored that goal for me, did not you?”

“Every goal’s for you now.” He carried you to the bed and laid you down gently, crawling over you. His eyes traced your face like he was memorizing every detail. “I’m so fucking proud of you. All this success coming your way and you still showed up for my dumb college game after four months of putting up with my schedule.”

“It’s not dumb,” you whispered, pulling him down for another kiss. “It’s important to you. That makes it important to me.”

Clothes came off slowly. His hoodie first, yours technically, then his shirt. You took your time exploring the hard planes of his chest, the ridges of his abs earned from endless practices. He worshipped every inch of your skin, murmuring how beautiful you were, how lucky he was, how he could not believe his friends finally saw you with their own eyes.

When he finally slid inside you, it was slow and deep. You gasped his name, nails digging into his back. He moved like he had all night, rolling his hips, whispering praise against your neck. “My girl. So perfect. Love you like this.”

You came first, trembling beneath him. He followed soon after, groaning your name like a prayer.

Afterward, you lay tangled together. His fingers played with your braids while you traced patterns on his chest.

“They like you,” he said softly. “Not that I doubted it. But Logan already texted me saying you’re way too good for me.”

You laughed. “Tell him I said he’s right.”

Garrett pinched your side, making you squeal. “Traitor.”

You snuggled closer. “I’m keeping you anyway. Famous actress or not, this, us, is my favorite role.”

He kissed the top of your head. “Good. Because I’m not letting you go. Not ever.”

Outside, the off-campus house settled into quiet. Inside Garrett’s room, the world felt small and perfect. Just you, your hockey player, and the future stretching out like an open script, full of possibility, love, and maybe a few more surprise appearances. said softly

[darkkdamsel00]

THE BREAKING POINT

Hidden in Plain Sight Mini Masterlist

Pairing: Shane Hollander x Pike!Brother!Reader

Summary: Hayden’s excitement about a future lake house forces you and Shane to keep pretending everything between you is normal, making the strain of your secret relationship worse.

The lake house idea, once a specter in the dark, becomes a relentless topic. Hayden, ever the enthusiastic planner, bombards your group chat with real estate links, photos of docks and fire pits, and excited voice notes. Each notification is a tiny shock to your system. You and Shane develop a silent, grim routine: a non-committal thumbs-up emoji from him, a “Looks cool!” from you. The lies are becoming architectural, building a fantasy future you’ll never inhabit.

The strain starts to show in minute cracks. At a family barbecue, Shane flinches almost imperceptibly when Hayden throws an arm around his neck, the casual affection now feeling like a lie-by-proxy. You catch yourself over-correcting, being too loud, too jovial with Shane, a performance so transparent it makes you cringe internally.

The breaking point comes from an unexpected direction: Ilya Rozanov.

Shane’s legendary, infuriating, captivating rival. The man whose name is forever paired with Shane’s in the press, sometimes for their on-ice battles, sometimes for whispered, speculative gossip neither of you have ever dared to fully dissect. Rozanov is in town for a game, and he’s at the same exclusive charity gala you’re attending with your parents and Hayden. Shane, as the hometown star, is a guest of honor.

You see them from across the crowded, glittering room. Shane and Ilya, standing a little apart from the throng. They aren’t fighting. They’re talking, their heads close together, and the intensity of their conversation is a live wire. Ilya says something, a sharp, Slavic gesture punctuating his words. Shane runs a hand through his hair, a gesture you know means he’s frustrated, agitated, 'seen' . Then Ilya does something astonishing. He puts a hand on Shane’s forearm, not a grab, but a steadying, intimate touch. And Shane doesn’t shake him off.

A cold wave washes over you. It’s not jealousy, not exactly. It’s the terrifying recognition of a truth you’ve avoided: Shane lives in a world of secrets. You are his biggest, but you may not be his only. The carefully constructed walls of your hidden life feel paper-thin.

You must make a sound, or your stare burns too hot, because Shane’s eyes suddenly find yours across the room. He pales. He steps back from Ilya, the connection severed. Ilya follows his gaze, his sharp, assessing eyes landing on you. A slow, knowing smirk touches his lips before he melts back into the crowd.

The rest of the night is a special kind of torture. You can’t get to Shane. You’re trapped playing the dutiful son while he plays the charismatic athlete, the gulf between you feeling wider than the St. Lawrence River. Your texts go unanswered.

It’s three in the morning when the soft knock comes at your own apartment door, not the condo. He’s never come here before. It’s too risky. You open it to find him leaning against the doorframe, still in his tuxedo pants and a rumpled white shirt, tie gone. He looks wrecked.

“I had to come,” he says, his voice ragged.

You let him in, the door closing on the normal world. The second it clicks shut, the dam breaks.

“What was that, Shane?” you ask, the anger and fear you’ve bottled for months finally boiling over. “What was that with Rozanov?”

“It’s not what you think,” he says, pacing your small living room like a caged animal.

“It looked like you two were sharing state secrets! He 'touched' you. And you… you looked…”

“He knows,” Shane interrupts, stopping dead. The words hang in the air, lethal and quiet.

The floor seems to tilt. “Knows? Knows 'what'?”

“About us. Or… he suspects. Strongly.” Shane sinks onto your sofa, head in his hands. “He’s been… needling me for years. Tonight, he cornered me. Said he sees the way I look into the stands. Said he’s seen you, the same guy, at different games. He called it ‘a lonely way to live.’”

The air leaves your lungs. Ilya Rozanov, of all people, has seen through you. The fear is instant, icy. “Is he going to say something? To the press? To—”

“No,” Shane says, looking up. His eyes are haunted. “He’s not a monster. He just… he sees it. The hiding. He lives a version of it himself.” He lets out a bitter laugh. “My greatest rival is the only person in this godforsaken league who seems to understand.”

The absurdity of it, the sheer cosmic irony, doesn’t escape you. But it’s overshadowed by a more immediate, personal terror. “And what did you do when he ‘understood’? You let him touch you.”

Shane stands, crossing to you in two strides. He takes your face in his hands, his grip almost desperate. “Listen to me. There is nothing. There has never been anything with him. It was a moment of… God, of weakness. Of having someone look at me and see the strain without me having to say a word. It was five seconds of not being alone in this. That’s all.”

You want to believe him. You do. But the image is seared into your mind. “And what about us, Shane? When do 'we' get to not be alone in this? When does this stop being a secret I keep from my own brother?”

He flinches as if struck. “You think I don’t hate it? You think I don’t lie awake imagining just… telling him? Telling everyone?”

“Then why don’t we?” The question, finally voiced, is terrifying.

“Because!” he explodes, dropping his hands. “Because it’s not just about us! It’s my career, the endorsements, the team, the fucking legacy! It’s your family! Hayden… God, Hayden would feel betrayed by both of us. He’d think every moment for the last five years was a lie. And he wouldn’t be wrong, would he?”

The truth of it is a physical blow. He’s right. The secret has become a cancer, and revealing it might cut it out, but it would also mutilate everything around it.

“So what’s the plan, Shane?” you ask, exhaustion seeping into your bones. “We just keep doing this? We watch Hayden plan a future with us that’s a fiction? We let Ilya Rozanov be our confessor? Until when? Until you retire? Until we’re old men who built a life on omissions?”

He has no answer. The great Shane Hollander, who can solve any power play, is utterly defeated by the simple, devastating geometry of his own heart.

“I don’t know,” he whispers, the admission costing him everything. “I just know I can’t… I can’t picture a world without you in it. Even if you’re in the shadows.”

You pull him to you, not in passion, but in a shared, profound grief. You hold each other in the dim light of your apartment, two ghosts clinging to solid form. The secret is no longer just something you keep. It’s something that is slowly, inexorably, consuming you both. And you have no idea how to stop it, or if stopping it would destroy the very thing you’re trying to save.

Taglist: @needjoekeery @buckleyandco @kheurwen @azurequacks @sleamer @o-kingston @l3v1us @haeden03 @akasunareads @skydrain @artis-artie @bonk3rs @sstrangerthanparadise @miya-111 @ilocuras24

[darkkdamsel00]

ONE NIGHT, ONE FOREVER

Pairing: Ilya Rozanov x Female Reader

Summary: After a tense first meeting, you and hockey player Ilya Rozanov share one impulsive night together that results in an unexpected pregnancy. Afraid of hurting your cousin Svetlana, you keep the secret while you and Ilya quietly prepare for the baby and slowly grow closer.

The first time you met Ilya Rozanov, you knew he was trouble. Not the kind that came with a leather jacket and a motorcycle, though he certainly had the look for it. No, Ilya’s trouble was quieter, more insidious. It was in the way his ice-blue eyes seemed to see right through you, in the lazy, confident smirk that played on his lips as your cousin Svetlana introduced you at her, vibrant Boston apartment.

“This is my cousin, fresh from conquering Atlanta,” Svetlana announced, throwing an arm around your shoulders. “Be nice, Ilya. She’s family.”

Ilya extended a hand, his grip firm and warm. “A pleasure. Svetlana talks about you all the time. The brilliant graphic designer.”

“She exaggerates,” you said, extracting your hand a little too quickly. You’d heard about Ilya, of course. Svetlana’s best friend since childhood days in Russia. The brilliant, brooding hockey player for the Boston Raiders, a star defenseman with a reputation on and off the ice. Seeing him in person, all six-foot-three of solid muscle and arrogant grace, was different. He was a living provocation.

“She doesn’t,” Ilya countered, his gaze sweeping over you with an appreciation that felt like a physical touch. “Says you have a killer eye and a temper to match.”

The night was a blur of Svetlana’s friends, loud Russian pop music, and the clink of vodka glasses. You tried to stay in your cousin’s orbit, a safe harbor in the storm of Ilya’s distracting presence. But he had a gravitational pull. He’d find you by the balcony, offering a fresh drink. His laughter would ring out across the room, and your eyes would betray you, seeking its source. There was a heated rivalry in every glance you exchanged, a silent challenge you hadn’t agreed to but were determined to win.

“You don’t like me,” he stated later, cornering you near the bookshelf as you pretended to examine Svetlana’s collection of Russian novels.

“I don’t know you,” you corrected, not looking up from the spine of 'Doctor Zhivago'.

“You’ve made up your mind, though. I see it. You think I’m just another jock. A spoiled athlete who coasts on talent.”

His perceptiveness annoyed you. “And are you?”

He leaned a shoulder against the shelf, invading your space. The scent of him, clean soap, faint sweat, and something uniquely spicy, wrapped around you. “Why don’t you find out?”

It was stupid. Reckless. A product of one too many drinks and the intoxicating thrill of the challenge. When he murmured, “My place is quieter,” against your ear an hour later, you didn’t say no. You told yourself it was about proving a point, about taking control of the undeniable, frustrating attraction. You told yourself it was just one night.

His apartment was a minimalist’s dream in Tribeca, all sharp lines and breathtaking views of the city. There were no whispered confessions, no tender words. It was a collision, all hungry mouths, clutching hands, and the sheer, overwhelming physicality of him. It was exhilarating and infuriating, and when you left before dawn, slipping out while he slept deeply, you vowed it was done. A mistake never to be repeated.

You buried the memory, focusing on your new job and building your life in Boston. You saw Ilya occasionally when you hung out with Svetlana, at a Raiders game in her company seats, at a quiet brunch. The tension was still there, a live wire humming between you, but you both ignored it with practiced precision. He was polite, almost detached. You were coolly friendly. Svetlana, blissfully unaware, was just happy her two favorite people were in the same city.

Then the nausea started. Not just morning sickness, but an all-day, rolling wave of it. The fatigue that felt like lead in your bones. The missed period. The positive test, bought with a pounding heart at a CVS three blocks from your office, felt less like a revelation and more like a sentence.

Pregnant. By Ilya Rozanov. Your cousin’s best friend. The man you’d shared exactly one antagonistic, silent night with.

Panic was a cold, sharp stone in your gut. You couldn’t tell Svetlana. The shame was too acute, too humiliating. How could you explain that you’d slept with her brother-from-another-mother, the man she trusted implicitly, in a fit of petty rivalry and lust? You pictured her face, the betrayal, the confusion and the disappointment. You couldn’t bear it.

You told yourself you’d figure it out alone. You were strong, independent. You’d built a career from nothing. You could do this. You scheduled a doctor’s appointment, researched prenatal vitamins, and started a secret savings fund, all while dodging Svetlana’s increasingly concerned calls about why you were 'ghosting' her.

The person you couldn’t avoid forever, however, was the father. You knew you had to tell Ilya. It was his responsibility too. You tracked him down after a home game, waiting near the players’ entrance, your heart a frantic drum against your ribs. When he emerged, hair damp from a shower, a duffel bag slung over his shoulder, he stopped short at the sight of you.

“You,” he said, his expression unreadable. “This is a surprise.”

“We need to talk. Somewhere private.”

He studied your face, the usual smirk absent. He nodded, leading you to a nearby, nearly empty diner. In a back booth, under the harsh fluorescent lights, you delivered the news bluntly, a clinical statement of fact, armor against the vulnerability threatening to crack you open.

“I’m pregnant. It’s yours. The night at your place.”

For a long moment, he said nothing. He just stared at you, his blue eyes wide, then dropping to the table, then finding yours again. The cocky hockey star was gone, replaced by a man who looked, for the first time since you’d met him, completely blindsided.

“Bozhe moi,” he finally breathed, running a hand through his hair. “You are sure?”

“Very.”

He was silent again, processing. You braced for anger, for denial, for him to throw money at the problem and walk away. Instead, he asked, “What do you want to do?”

The question threw you. “I… I’m keeping it. I’m not asking you for anything. I just thought you should know.”

His jaw tightened. “Not asking me for anything? What does that mean?”

“It means I’m handling it. I don’t expect anything from you.”

A flash of something like anger sparked in his eyes. “It is my child, too. You do not get to make that decision alone.” He leaned forward, his voice low but intense. “We will do this. Together. But Svetlana…”

“We can’t tell her,” you interrupted, desperation sharpening your tone. “Not yet. Please, Ilya. I just… I need time.”

He watched you, the conflict clear on his face. His loyalty to Svetlana warring with the staggering new reality you’d just dumped on him. Finally, he gave a single, curt nod. “For now. But not forever. This is a big secret to keep from her.”

It was the first of many uneasy truces. You began a strained, secretive partnership. He insisted on coming to the first ultrasound. Sitting in the dim room, watching the grainy, flickering image of a tiny, bean-shaped being on the screen, hearing the rapid, galloping heartbeat—it changed something. The abstract concept became real. You stole a glance at Ilya. He was utterly still, his eyes fixed on the monitor, his expression one of such raw, stunned awe that it stole your breath.

Afterwards, in the parking lot, he said, “I will help. With everything. Doctor visits, money, whatever you need.” His tone was businesslike, but his hands were shoved deep in his pockets, shoulders tense.

“Thank you,” you said, the words feeling inadequate.

“Do not thank me. It is my job.” He paused, looking at you, really looking, perhaps for the first time since the diner. “You are okay? You look tired.”

The unexpected concern, so simply stated, undid you a little. You nodded, afraid to speak around the sudden lump in your throat.

This was the new pattern. Brief, logistical meetings. Transfers of money you were too proud to accept but too practical to refuse. Text messages about prenatal class schedules and vitamin brands. A careful, emotionless coordination around the life growing inside you. You told yourself it was enough. It had to be.

But secrets have weight. Yours grew heavier by the day, a stone of guilt and isolation that you carried alone. You pulled further from Svetlana, making excuses, cancelling plans, your laughter with her tinged with a hollow note. The distance you created was a prison of your own making, and the warden was your own shame. You were so busy building walls to protect yourself from judgment that you didn’t see the foundation of your most important relationship beginning to crumble. And you certainly didn’t notice the way Ilya’s gaze lingered on you a little longer each time you met, the businesslike edge in his voice softening just a fraction, the careful space between you feeling less like a boundary and more like a bridge neither of you knew how to cross.

The secret held for five months. Five months of strategic loose clothing, of claiming a new workout regimen when Svetlana commented on your “glow,” of dodging her attempts to drag you to the spa or the pool. Five months of clandestine meetings with Ilya that slowly, imperceptibly, evolved.

It was no longer just spreadsheets and appointment reminders. He started asking questions. “What are you craving today?” he’d text, and later a delivery of bizarre pickles and premium vanilla ice cream would arrive at your door. He sent you articles about prenatal yoga studios near you. Once, after a check-up where the doctor mentioned back pain was common, a high-end pregnancy pillow appeared on your doorstep with no note.

You found yourself texting him things you wouldn’t tell anyone else. 'The baby kicked for the first time today. It felt like a butterfly.' His reply was immediate: 'A strong butterfly. Like its mother.'

The rivalry was still there, but its edges had blurred, transformed into something else, a sharp, intimate awareness, a constant and low-grade current of something you refused to name. You caught him watching you sometimes when he thought you weren’t looking, his expression contemplative, the usual arrogance replaced by a quiet intensity that made your heart stutter. You’d quickly look away, focusing on the ultrasound photo in your hand or the list of baby names on your phone, pretending you didn’t feel the heat of his stare.

The breaking point came at what was supposed to be a small, casual dinner at Svetlana’s. You’d tried to get out of it, pleading work deadlines, but she’d been insistent, her voice tinged with a hurt you could no longer ignore. “You’re my family. I never see you anymore. Please.”

So you went, wearing the most forgiving black dress you owned, a flowing, empire-waist number you hoped disguised the gentle but definite curve of your belly. Ilya was there, of course. The moment you walked in, his eyes went straight to your midsection, then flew to your face, a silent question in them. You gave a minute, desperate shake of your head.

Dinner was agony. Svetlana was in top form, regaling you with stories from her advertising job, pouring wine for herself and Ilya, pushing a glass toward you.

“None for me, thanks,” you said, placing a hand over the glass. “Just water.”

“Since when?” Svetlana laughed. “You love a good Malbec.”

“Just… taking a break,” you mumbled, avoiding Ilya’s gaze from across the table.

The conversation turned to future plans. Svetlana was talking about a group trip to Miami in the winter. “We’ll all go! Sun, sand. You’ll need a break from your screens, cousin. Ilya, you can get us into those fancy clubs.”

“I do not think—” Ilya began, his voice tense.

“I probably won’t be able to travel then,” you interjected too quickly.

“Why not?” Svetlana’s smile faltered. “You’re your own boss. You can work from anywhere.”

“I just… have a big project. It’ll be a busy season.” The lie tasted like ash.

Svetlana put her fork down. She looked from you, fidgeting with your napkin, to Ilya, who was staring fixedly at his plate, his knuckles white where he gripped his water glass. The lively atmosphere in the room seemed to freeze and crack.

“Okay,” Svetlana said, her voice dangerously calm. “What is going on? With both of you. You’ve been weird for months. You,” she pointed at you, “are never around, you’re dressing like a monk, you won’t drink. And you,” she turned to Ilya, “you’ve been jumpy and quiet all night. You’ve been weird ever since…” Her eyes narrowed, her sharp mind, the one that crafted million-dollar campaigns, connecting dots in real time. Her gaze dropped to your hand, which had instinctively moved to rest on your stomach. Your flowy dress had shifted, betraying the rounded swell beneath the fabric.

The color drained from her face. She looked at your belly, then at your guilty, terrified expression, then at Ilya’s pained, resigned one. The truth landed in the silent room with the force of a physical blow.

“No,” she whispered. “Tell me you did not.”

“Svetlana—” you started, your voice trembling.

“You and Ilya?” Her voice rose, sharp with disbelief and burgeoning anger. “You’re 'pregnant'? And neither of you… 'neither of you told me'?” She stood up so quickly her chair screeched back. The betrayal in her eyes was a knife to your heart. “My cousin. And my best friend. For 'months'.”

“It was not planned,” Ilya said, standing as well, his voice low. “It was one time. A mistake.”

“A mistake you hid from me!” Svetlana shouted, tears of fury springing to her eyes. “I talk to you both every week! I asked you if you were sick!” she said to you. “I asked you if something was wrong!” she rounded on Ilya. “And you both lied to my face!”

“I was embarrassed!” you cried, the tears you’d been holding back for months finally breaking free. “I was ashamed! I knew how it would look, how you’d feel! I didn’t want to disappoint you!”

“Disappoint me?” Svetlana laughed, a harsh, broken sound. “You think 'this' is disappointing? This… this secrecy? This is not disappointment, this is betrayal! You didn’t trust me! You went through this alone because you didn’t trust me!” She turned her fiery gaze on Ilya. “And you. You’re like my brother. How could you not tell me? How could you let her go through this alone?”

“She asked me not to,” Ilya said, but it sounded weak, even to him.

“And you listened? Since when do you listen to anyone?” Svetlana swiped at her tears angrily. “I need… I need air. I can’t look at either of you right now.”

She stormed out of the apartment, slamming the door behind her. The sound echoed in the devastating silence she left behind.

You crumpled, sobs wracking your body, the guilt and fear and months of stress pouring out. You felt a hand on your shoulder. Ilya. You shook it off.

“Don’t,” you choked out. “This is all… this is a mess.”

“It is,” he agreed, his voice rough. He didn’t try to touch you again, but he didn’t leave. He sat heavily in the chair Svetlana had vacated, his head in his hands. “But it is our mess. And she is right. We should have told her.”

The fallout was brutal. Svetlana didn’t speak to you for a week. The silence was a physical ache. Ilya bore the brunt of her wrath over the phone, you heard his side of the conversations, terse and apologetic. Finally, she agreed to meet you both, at a neutral, quiet café.

She looked tired, the vivacious light in her eyes dimmed. “Start talking,” she said flatly.

And you did. You told her everything, from the charged rivalry of that first meeting, to the reckless night, to the panic and the shame. You told her about wanting to handle it alone, about being terrified of her judgment, of fracturing your family. Ilya spoke too, haltingly, about his shock, about his sense of duty, about respecting your wishes even when he knew it was wrong.

When you finished, Svetlana was quiet for a long time. “I am hurt,” she said finally, her voice thick. “Deeply. You shut me out during one of the biggest things that will ever happen to you. Both of you.” She looked at you. “You are my sister. There is nothing you could do that would make me love you less. Nothing.” Her eyes shifted to Ilya. “And you. You are an idiot. But you are my idiot. And you’re going to be in this child’s life? Properly?”

“Yes,” you and Ilya said in unison.

She took a deep, shuddering breath. “Okay. Then we move forward. But no more secrets. From anyone. Ever. Understood?”

The relief was so profound it made you dizzy. The wall was down. The prison door was open. You had your cousin back, even if there was a new scar on the relationship. It was a scar you could learn to live with.

In the new, painful honesty, the arrangement between you and Ilya was forced to evolve. With Svetlana as a sometimes-mediator, sometimes-observant spectator, you formalized a co-parenting plan. You found a four-bedroom condo together in a family-friendly part of Boston. It was a practical decision—proximity for the baby, shared costs, a way to present a united front. It was not, you told yourself firmly, about anything else.

Moving day was a study in awkward coordination. His things—hockey gear, sleek modern furniture, Russian books, mingled with yours—colorful art, plants, design magazines. You argued over where the sofa should go, which shelves would hold baby books, what to do with his intimidatingly large television.

“It stays,” he insisted. “Playoff season.”

“It’s the size of a small car! It’s oppressive!”

“You will learn to love it.”

It was during one of these debates, as you stood in what would be the nursery, surrounded by unassembled furniture, that he did something that changed the axis of your world. You were struggling to align the sides of the crib, frustration mounting. He walked over, his hands covering yours on the wooden slat, his chest a solid, warm presence at your back.

“Like this,” he murmured, his voice a low vibration near your ear. He guided your hands, his touch firm and sure. “You have to angle it.”

In that moment, with his body surrounding yours, his scent enveloping you, the memory of that one night surged back with shocking clarity. But it was layered now with new memories, his awe at the ultrasound, the careful way he asked about your health, the silent, solid way he’d stood beside you during the confrontation with Svetlana. Your breath hitched. You felt him go very still behind you.

You pulled away abruptly, turning to face him. The air between you was charged, crackling with everything unsaid. His eyes were dark, searching your face.

“We should… stick to the instructions,” you said, your voice unsteady.

He held your gaze for a heartbeat longer, then nodded, stepping back. “Da. The instructions.”

But the line had been blurred. The careful, emotionless coordination was gone. In its place was a shared space, a shared life hurtling toward a shared responsibility. And in the quiet moments—passing in the hallway, sharing a tired smile over a successfully assembled dresser, his hand brushing yours as he handed you a glass of water, you felt it. The rivalry had long since burned away, leaving behind an ember of something far more dangerous. Something that felt dangerously, terrifyingly, like the beginnings of love. And from the way he’d look at you, then quickly away, the way his touch lingered just a second too long, you knew he felt it too. The unspoken agreement to co-parent was now accompanied by a new, silent pact: to ignore the growing warmth between you, to pretend the foundation you were building was only for the child, and not for the two lost souls slowly, inevitably, finding a home in each other.

The final trimester passed in a blur of nesting, prenatal classes, and a fragile, new normal. Svetlana, true to her word, moved forward. She was there, helping paint the nursery a soft, neutral yellow, her laughter slowly returning, though her eyes would sometimes watch you and Ilya with a knowing, worried look you chose to ignore.

Living with Ilya was a constant exercise in suppressed tension and unexpected domesticity. He was surprisingly neat, if possessive about the kitchen. You learned he made excellent 'blini', and that he hummed old Russian folk songs under his breath while doing the dishes. He learned you needed absolute silence with your first coffee, and that you cried at the most mundane television commercials.

The baby—a girl, you learned at the 20-week scan, was a constant and active presence. Her kicks became your secret language. Ilya would sometimes, tentatively, place his large hand on your belly when she was moving. The first time he felt a strong kick against his palm, he’d jerked his hand back, his eyes wide with wonder, before slowly settling it back again. You’d watch his face, the arrogant mask completely gone, replaced by a soft, vulnerable awe that made your chest ache.

You were a team, but a team with an invisible, electrified fence between them. You discussed daycare options, pediatricians, and sleep schedules with clinical efficiency. You carefully avoided any topic that strayed into personal territory. You didn’t ask about his dating life (though the tabloids occasionally tried to link him to models). You didn’t talk about your fears about motherhood, or your loneliness, or the confusing storm of feelings he stirred in you. He, in turn, offered support but not intimacy. He was the perfect, respectful, frustratingly distant co-parent.

The breaking of this careful détente happened two weeks before your due date, during a late-night scare. A sharp, unusual pain sent a bolt of panic through you. It was 2 AM. You called his name from your bedroom, fear tightening your throat.

He was at your door in seconds, hair mussed from sleep, wearing only a pair of sweatpants. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

You explained, your voice shaky. Without a word, he helped you to the car, his arm strong and steady around you. At the hospital, as monitors were attached and a nurse checked you over, he never left your side. His hand found yours, his grip firm and anchoring. The scare turned out to be false labor, very strong Braxton Hicks and a case of nerves, but the crisis had shattered the pretense.

Back home in the quiet, pre-dawn darkness, the adrenaline faded, leaving you both raw and exposed. You sat together on the large sofa, a blanket over your legs. The city lights twinkled outside the silent apartment.

“You were scared,” he stated softly, not a question.

“Terrified,” you admitted, the truth slipping out in the vulnerable hour. “I kept thinking… what if something’s wrong? What if I can’t do this alone?”

“You are not alone,” he said, his voice fierce. He turned to look at you, his face illuminated by the faint glow from the street. “I am here. I will always be here. Not just for her. For you.”

The words hung in the air, too significant, too heavy with meaning you were both afraid to examine. You looked away, your heart hammering. “I know. The co-parenting agreement is very thorough.”

He made a sound of frustration. “Is that what you think this is? An agreement?” He ran a hand over his face. “The paperwork, the schedule… that is for the courts, for the lawyers if they ever need to see. This,” he gestured between the two of you, then placed a hand over your belly, “this is not an agreement. This is my family.”

The word 'family' landed in the center of your soul. You looked at him, really looked, seeing the exhaustion, the worry, the unwavering commitment, and beneath it all, the same confusing, desperate longing you felt.

“Ilya…”

“I catch feelings,” he blurted out, the English idiom sounding strangely formal in his accented voice, but his eyes were blazing with sincerity. “I have… caught them. For you. Not just because you are the mother of my child. For you. The woman who argues with me about television sizes and cries at dog commercials and is the strongest person I know.” He took a breath, his vulnerability terrifying and beautiful. “I am in love with you. And I think… I hope… maybe you feel this, too.”

The silence that followed was absolute. All the walls you’d built, all the denials, crumbled to dust under the weight of his confession and the terrifying truth of your own heart. You had tried so hard to hide it, to box it away with the baby clothes and the parenting books. But you couldn’t anymore.

Tears welled in your eyes. Not tears of fear or sadness, but of profound, staggering relief. “I tried not to,” you whispered. “I told myself it was hormones, or proximity, or just… gratitude.”

He leaned closer, his forehead almost touching yours. “And what is it?”

You let out a shaky breath, your hand coming up to cradle his jaw, feeling the rough stubble under your palm. “It’s you,” you confessed, the words freeing. “It’s always been you. Since that first stupid, competitive night. I just didn’t want to lose. And then I was afraid to hope I’d already won.”

He didn’t smile. His eyes searched yours, as if verifying a miracle. Then, with a reverence that stole the air from your lungs, he closed the last inch between you and kissed you.

It was nothing like the first time. That had been a clash, a conquest. This was a surrender. A homecoming. It was slow, and deep, and poured months of suppressed longing, respect, and burgeoning love into a single, perfect point of connection. When you finally pulled apart, breathless, his thumb stroked your cheek, wiping away a stray tear.

“No more hiding,” he murmured, his voice a vow. “From Svetlana, from the world, from each other. We do this together. All of it.”

The arrival of your daughter, Sasha, two weeks later, was the final, beautiful seal on your truce. The labor was long and intense, but Ilya was there for every moment, his hand to crush, his voice a steady, encouraging presence in your ear. When they placed the tiny, squalling, perfect baby on your chest, you both looked down at her, then at each other, and you saw your future reflected in his tear-filled eyes.

Svetlana was the first visitor. She took one look at the three of you in the hospital room—you exhausted and radiant, Ilya holding your hand like a lifeline, tiny Sasha swaddled in your arms—and her own eyes filled with tears. This time, they were tears of joy. She hugged you both, whispering, “It’s about time,” into your hair.

The heated rivalry that had sparked this journey was a distant memory. In its place was something infinitely more complex and durable: a deep, abiding partnership forged in secrecy, tested by fire, and solidified by love. You were no longer just co-parents bound by obligation. You were a family, built not on a single night of passion, but on a thousand subsequent moments of choice, patience, and the courage to finally lower your guards. The game had changed. And this time, you were both on the same winning team.

[darkkdamsel00]

THE SECRET KEEPER

Hidden in Plain Sight Mini Series Masterlist

Pairing: Shane Hollander x Pike!Brother!Reader

Summary: For five years, Shane Hollander, the Montreal Voyageurs’ star and Hayden’s lifelong best friend, has been hiding a secret relationship from the people closest to him.

The roar of the Montreal arena is a physical thing, a wall of sound that vibrates in your chest. On the ice, number 11 for the Montreal Voyageurs is a blur of controlled fury, weaving through defenders with a grace that still, after all these years, makes your breath catch. Shane Hollander. The league’s golden boy. Your brother Hayden’s best friend since peewee hockey.

Your secret. For five years.

You shift in your seat, the familiar knot of anxiety tightening in your stomach. You’re here in your usual spot, two rows behind the home team’s bench, flanked by your parents. Hayden is down by the glass, his face painted with the team’s colors, screaming himself hoarse. The perfect picture of a supportive best friend and brother. None of them have a clue that every time Shane wins a face-off, his eyes flicker, just for a millisecond, to the section where you sit. A silent, electric connection that arcs across the chaos, meant for you alone.

It started the summer Shane was nineteen, a newly-drafted phenom buzzing with a future too bright to look at directly. You were twenty-two, freshly graduated and feeling adrift. He was staying at your family’s house for a week, a buffer between the draft and rookie camp. Hayden had dashed out to some party, leaving the two of you alone in the basement rec room, a hockey game murmuring on the TV.

The conversation had been easy, then intense. He wasn’t the cocky kid the sports channels portrayed; he was nervous, fiercely intelligent, and hiding it under a layer of quiet intensity. You’d talked about pressure, about family, about the strange limbo of your own life. And then, in a lull punctuated only by the commentator’s voice, he’d looked at you, really looked at you, and the air had changed. It became charged, thick. The first kiss against the old pool table wasn’t planned. It was an inevitability, a collision that felt less like a beginning and more like a homecoming you never knew you’d been seeking.

“He’s on fire tonight!” your dad bellows, clapping you on the shoulder, jolting you back to the present. Shane has just buried a wrist shot top shelf. The goal light paints his triumphant smile red. He doesn’t look at the crowd; he turns, his gaze finding yours in the sea of thousands. He gives the most imperceptible nod, a tiny quirk of his lips before he’s swallowed by his celebrating teammates.

That’s your life. Imperceptible nods. Stolen moments. A language built in glances and brief, coded texts.

'After the game. Usual place?' you’d sent him this afternoon.

'Always. Need to see you.' came his immediate reply.

The “usual place” is a modest, anonymous condo downtown, purchased under a shell corporation set up by his agent. A gilded cage for your relationship. It’s where you spend most of your time together, a sterile space that never quite feels like a home, because a home is something you could share.

The final buzzer sounds. Voyageurs win. The family descends to the player’s family lounge, a ritual. Your mom fusses over Hayden’s hoarse voice. Your dad replays key plays. You stand slightly apart, a smile plastered on your face, waiting.

He enters, shower-damp hair, dressed in a crisp suit for the press. He smells like soap and cool, clean sweat. He works the room with a practiced ease, hugging your mom, shaking your dad’s hand and trading playful shoves with Hayden.

“Looking good, old man,” Shane says, his voice a warm rumble as he finally turns to you. He claps you on the arm, his grip firm, lingering a second too long for brothers-in-arms, but not long enough to raise suspicion. His eyes, the color of a stormy sea, hold yours. In them, you see the exhaustion from the game, the adrenaline crash, and beneath it, a quiet, desperate hunger that mirrors your own.

“Great game, Shane,” you say, your voice thankfully steady. The most mundane sentence in the world, loaded with everything you can’t say. 'I missed you. I’m proud of you. I hate this.'

“Thanks,” he says, and the corner of his mouth twitches. A secret just for you.

Hayden slings an arm around Shane’s shoulders. “Party at Lucien’s loft. You’re coming, right? Both of you?” He looks from Shane to you.

Shane’s eyes flick to you, a silent question. The party will be loud, full of teammates, friends, women throwing themselves at the star players. You’ll have to watch him, a charming, distant figure in the crowd, unable to touch him, to claim him. The condo, your silent, private space, beckons.

“I’m beat, Hades,” Shane says, using Hayden’s childhood nickname. “Gonna crash. Big practice tomorrow.”

Hayden pouts but nods. “You?” he asks you.

“I should get back, too,” you say. “Early work thing.” The lie tastes like ash.

You exchange a final round of goodbyes. In the parking garage, you walk to your separate cars. His black SUV, your sensible sedan. You don’t look at each other. You drive different routes, a precaution that feels both paranoid and necessary.

Twenty minutes later, your key turns in the lock of the condo. He’s already there, having beaten you. The clinical overhead lights are off; only a lamp by the sleek, unused sofa casts a warm pool of light. He’s out of his suit, in soft sweatpants and a t-shirt, standing by the floor-to-ceiling window looking out at the city lights.

He doesn’t turn as you enter. You lock the door, the final click sealing you in your private world. The tension from the arena, from the lounge, from a lifetime of half-truths, finally snaps.

You cross the room, and only then does he turn. The public Shane Hollander is gone. In his place is just Shane, vulnerable, intense and yours. You don’t speak. You don’t need to. You walk into his open arms, and his mouth finds yours with a desperation that steals the air from your lungs. It’s a kiss that’s part greeting, part apology, part claim. It’s the truth you hide from the world.

Later, tangled in the sheets of the too-big bed, the city humming outside, the reality seeps back in. His head is on your chest, your fingers tracing the faint scars on his shoulder.

“Hayden was talking about us all getting a place together next summer,” Shane murmurs, his voice heavy with sleep and dread. “A lake house. Said it’d be like old times.”

You go very still. The fantasy is a knife to the heart. The three of you, a happy trio. Except you and Shane would be living another lie, just in a prettier location. The secret would be a third person in every room, sleeping between you in every bed.

“What did you say?” you ask, your voice barely a whisper.

“Said it sounded great,” he sighs, the words hollow. “What else could I say?”

The silence that follows is suffocating. This is the messy part. This is the hard part. It’s not just hiding from the media or the league. It’s hiding from your little brother, who loves you both, who trusts you both implicitly. It’s seeing the pure, uncomplicated joy on Hayden’s face when he’s with Shane and knowing you’re poisoning it with a deception he doesn’t deserve.

Shane lifts his head, his eyes searching yours in the dim light. “I can’t lose you,” he says, raw and simple.

“You won’t,” you promise, but the words feel fragile. The weight of the secret grows heavier every day, bending the both of you, threatening to break what you’ve built in the shadows. You hold him tighter, as if you can keep the world at bay through force of will alone. In this quiet, dark room, you can almost believe it. But morning always comes, and with it, the game begins again.

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