They move in together full time and Ilya notices that Anya acts differently with Shane than she does with him, more quiet and less playful, and he worries that means she doesn’t like Shane or is jealous, so he hires a dog trainer to come over and see if there’s anything they need to do to help
After a while of talking about how Anya acts the trainer says there’s nothing to worry about, Anya likes Shane just fine, it’s just that she sees him as the boss and is acting accordingly
And Ilya is like. But. I’m the one who adopted her? And raised her before Shane got here?? And the trainer is just like yeah well she sees you more like an equal. And Ilya is like WAIT she thinks Shane is in charge of both of us?? And the trainer is just like well do you interact in a way that would make her think that?
Ilya’s life flashes before his eyes as he thinks of all the times Shane has come over with a snack for Ilya and a treat for Anya, or all the times Shane has announced they’re all going for an after dinner walk, or pets Ilya’s hair and tells him he did a good job at practice, or the fact that he uses the same warning tone with Anya when she misbehaves as he does with Ilya when he’s causing problems on purpose
Shane comes home to Ilya with his face in his hands going oh god I’m not Anya’s dad I’m her brother and she thinks we’re both your pets. And Shane just goes. What.
we all know ilya is living drapery. the bisexual lean, the clinging to shane. but depression clingy is different from autistic clingy.
so i posit for your consideration:
autistic shane who becomes like a cat when he's comfortable with someone (speaking from personal experience)
yes, draping himself on ilya at every opportunity, biting ilya's face and then tearing off laughing when ilya jumps up to chase him, leaning his full weight on the top of ilya's head when he's trying to answer emails or be even slightly professional, sneaking his hands under ilya's tank or shorts just to self-soothe on his husband's warmest, softest skin
but also
leaning with his arms dangling over hayden's chest like a living backpack while talking to jackie (probably with the twins on his back), and hayden ignoring it completely
curling up against Yuna's side, shoulders touching, while they watch a game together, each person used to subconsciously dodging the other's wildly swinging arms at a bad call or goal
laying with his head on rose's lap when they go on a "bffcation" to cabo, each on their phones with drinks at their knees, showing each other memes and tipsy giggling
curling his arms around harris's neck and putting his cheek gently against harris's while harris scrolls through the photos he took for the latest social media campaign, talking excitedly about them
and some reporter asks ilya if he thinks shane is cheating on him bc ofc the tabloids have caught wind of this behavior and his face gets that particular smirk that means someone is about to be verbally defenestrated. "genius observation. they hire you at top of your class? breaking news: man is affectionate with loved ones. congratulations your pulitzer will arrive in mail in 6-8 weeks. no, truly brilliant idea for next Centaurs social media campaign. adopt a hockey player. ‘shane hollander: domesticated but not trained. may climb into pockets unsupervised.'"
of course it goes viral. of course shane reams ilya bc what was all that media training for??? and ilya just shrugs and gives him the big eyes like no one talks shit on you but me, but also fuck toxic masculinity and shane sighs and pets his hair and grumbles i knew i shouldn't have let you on tumblr
and of course harris absolutely loves the idea and begs shane to let them do it, which he acquiesces to.
shane's has an entire reel of him hanging off of people and shane is mortified bc he didn't even realize he was doing it but he's not actually mad bc it proves how many people he can be open and loving with, and the response is insanely positive
and then ilya's goes live and it leads with that infamous image of him skating away smirking with blood running down his chin.
and the caption says "ilya rozanov: feral. will bite. has bitten. will never be remorseful. beautiful fur, though." and the last picture is him in the locker room, gear half-stripped off, grinning at the camera with his curls wild and his lower half gear sitting just a little too low, the v of his hips framing his happy trail and nobody's quite sure which fur they're talking about.
Sometimes when Ilya is having a not so great day he sends Shane a dick pic because he knows it will give him a boost of serotonin to see those three dots bounce for an obnoxious amount of time only to get some fuckass response like "Ok" or "You can't send me that without warning" and then Ilya will say "You like?" and Shane will say "Yeah." WITHOUT FAIL. It's their little fucked up version of a kiss on the cheek.
Obsessed with the idea of Shane randomly encountering Bad Bunny at a bar just like he encountered Rose. (Because he has the BEST luck.)
But he doesn't know who Bad Bunny is, and Bad Bunny doesn't know who Shane is... So they're both just making small talk with this hot guy they met at the bar while they wait for their drinks. They're enjoying talking to someone who doesn't know their celebrity status. And Shane is getting a little flustered despite being married, because damn if this guy isn't his type, and Bad Bunny is lowkey flirting with him.
And then Ilya shows up and has a heart attack. Alternating between fanboying over Bad Bunny and wanting to fight him. Just standing there frozen with this bonkers expression on his face.
And Shane is completely oblivious. "Hey, you're back! I ordered you a beer. Oh, and this is Benito. Benito, this is my husband Ilya........... Baby, are you okay? Why do you look like that?"
shane is chronically offline and the only post on instagram about his and ilya relationship is from their wedding that he has asked ilya how to pin it.
ilya on the other hand is an unofficial fan page of his husband. all his posts before the outing were already about shane, now he can just post shane and he does, not in an extreme amount.
the fans were a little concerned about it at first because ilya is always posting shane and shane has just one single post. but all the solo pictures of shane on ilyas page, he has the ultimate heart eyes cus he’s never looking at camera and is always looking at his husband taking the picture of him.
so yeah, shane is chronically offline but he’s chronically down bad in love with his husband
Summary: Weeks after Dean's party, you encounter Logan by accident when you're asked to take pictures of the guys during a hockey interview.
Pairing: John Logan x fem!reader
Word count: 5.1k
Warnings/tags: mentions of childhood bullying, parental issues, reader has food sensory issues and trouble understanding social cues. leaning hard into her being ND just fyi <3 dean and garrett being kinda annoying but they mean well. hannah being a cutie. photographer!reader. this is kind of a slow burn so nothing really happens tbh except logan being a nice young man :)
Notes: this is a series now? maybe?? i have no idea what's happening but thank u for all the support on the first fic! i guess if u guys are still interested, i'll keep writing these two!
i don't do taglists but you can follow @sanguinelibrary for all fic updates
the divider
“Yo. Hey, Logan. Loooogan. Dude.”
Logan peeks one eye open. Dean is crouched in front of him, at the side of his bed, shirtless, which is pretty much the last thing he wants to see ever.
Dean smiles with all of his teeth. “Hey, sunshine. Drain's clogged again.”
Logan grunts. “What'd you do this time?”
“Absolutely nothing. It was Garrett.”
“It was not, asshole,” Garrett says, strolling into Logan's room. He throws a shirt at Dean. “I just got home. Someone thought it'd be a great idea to pour bacon grease down the drain.”
“Why are you both in here? This doesn't feel like a conversation that requires a town hall meeting,” Logan grumbles.
“Well, I don’t cook, so it can’t have been me. Must’ve been Tucker,” Dean says.
Tucker walks in then, as if on cue. “If you're spreading bullshit about me, Dean, I'm here to defend myself. For the record: yes, I did make bacon, and there's a plate downstairs. But I was not the one who poured grease down the drain, because I'm not a fool.”
They all look at Dean, who bobs his head. Logan really wishes he had a stack of pucks to chuck at them right now.
“Yeah, I lied earlier,” Dean says. “It was me. I wanted to use the cup.”
Logan smiles flatly. “I already knew it was you, dumbass. You clog every drain in the house once a week. Vote time. Everyone in favor of kicking Dean out forever?”
The three of them say aye. Dean squawks like a big blond bird.
“Nay! It's not my fault. How am I supposed to know what to do with bacon grease?”
“Yeah, how's the little prince supposed to know?” Tucker says, rolling his eyes.
Then he bolts for the door, Dean on his heels. Logan sighs and lies back, staring up at the ceiling. He dreamt about you again. You were on the ice, skating with him, telling him how much you like Taco Bell. He kissed you.
Then Dean clogged the drain and woke him up.
“Hey, don't forget that we still have that interview at the stadium today,” Garrett says, typing on his phone. No doubt texting Hannah. Logan is proud to say that he no longer has a crush on Hannah Wells, as fleeting as that was. No, he has a crush on her friend, who is smart and beautiful and who probably hasn't given him another thought since the party three weeks ago.
He missed you in class this week. He even stayed behind and pretended he had a question in order to scan the room to check if maybe he didn't see you the first time. But you were nowhere to be found. And it's not like he can text you. He scoured Instagram, Snapchat, and even Facebook for your account, until he felt like a fucking creep and stopped, the search fruitless. Hell, Logan would write you letters if it meant talking to you beyond the two sentences you exchange in class.
You did wave at him last week. Usually, you pack up your things as fast as possible and run out of the lecture hall. So when you lingered long enough to smile at him… well, that was pretty fantastic.
“Yeah, thanks,” Logan says.
Garrett nods. “I'll see you there. Wellsy wants to study.”
Logan lets his head fall back against the pillow as Garrett leaves. He thinks what Garrett's doing with Hannah will probably end with one or both of them getting hurt, especially since they’re both so obviously such soft hearts. Logan saw Garrett listening to Hannah’s Instagram songs more than once. Garrett’s absolutely in denial about how much he likes her. But at least they talk to each other.
“Fuck,” he says to himself, palms on his eyes.
You lost your silica gel.
It's not terrible… no, it is. It's thrown off your whole week, actually. You've been on websites longer than usual, looking at fidget toys, sorely tempted. You're especially taken with a moldable squishy with beads inside. It's like the mother of silica gel, and your fingers itch with anticipation of how it would feel.
But you can't. It's eighteen dollars, which is certainly one reason why you shouldn't buy it, but it also would make noise. And even if you used it outside of class… what if someone found it or caught you using it? How do you explain that?
And you hate feeling like you need a toy to keep you grounded. Your stomach hurt so badly that you skipped class on Monday, which sucked because you didn't see Logan. But you were thinking about having to see your mother during the break and your upcoming finals and nothing, not even listening to music, helped the resulting pain in your stomach.
Your mother has always told you that it's psychological, and treats your anxiety like a moral failing on your part. If you would just try harder… but you don't know how to do that. You're already trying so hard. It's difficult enough to eat everyday, and go to class, and sleep enough, and not rot in your dorm.
Your mother would be pleased if you told her you went to a party. She'd dismiss the fact that a guy harassed you. She wouldn't believe you if you told her about Logan and his pretty curls and mouth. No man is looking to just be friends with you.
She was the one who wanted you to go away for college. You didn't mind staying local, but she said you'd never “grow into yourself” if you didn't move away.
Your nails have been bitten to stubs. You've been growing them for a month, and all your hard work is lost. The silica gel occupied your hands but now that it's gone, you've fallen back to nail biting.
Hannah said she would meet you at the stadium after her class this morning. Two days ago, you told one of the editors of the Briar newspaper that you bought a new camera. You've taken pictures for them before, but never during an event. Stupidly, you revealed your new purchase, and the editor excitedly asked you to attend an interview that some of the Hawks players were giving today, and take pictures for the paper.
If only you knew when to keep your mouth shut. Taking pictures of people is stressful. You hate it. They often want you to turn them into someone they're not through the camera lens. People can never just be themselves on camera. That's why you take pictures of birds or buildings or sunsets. They just are, and you can capture them in all their candidness. Most of the world doesn't perform for a camera—only people do.
Hannah is the first one to greet you when you get inside the stadium. You walk to the bleachers together, where a video crew is setting up.
“This is great,” Hannah says. “People are gonna see your pictures, as they should.”
You shrug. “I guess so. I didn't really want to do this.”
“Your photos are really good,” she says. “And getting them published in the school paper is huge. What are you worried about?”
You sigh. “I don't know. It's kind of scary when people see you through the camera.” Fourth wall breaks unnerve you for the same reason. “And what if the players hate the pictures?”
“Well, Garrett's doing the interview, and he wouldn't let anybody on the team say anything to you about your pictures. But it's only a few of them, I think. Do you want me to stand with you?”
You nod, the pit in your stomach loosening a little. Hannah always seems to know what to say.
She beams. “Of course I'll stay.”
But as everyone finishes setting up, Coach Jensen approaches you. Hannah explains that she's Garrett's tutor, and Coach tells her that she can stay, but only in the bleachers.
“I'm here to support my friend,” she says. “It’s her first time photographing for the team. Please?”
“Sorry. Only press and photographers can be here.”
She looks at you sympathetically. “I'll be right over there, okay? You'll be great.”
You watch Hannah go sit, wishing you had the silica gel.
Garrett is the first player interviewed. You take many pictures, so there are lots of options to choose from when you send them to the paper. He doesn't look at you once, which is splendid.
Next is Dean. He's fired up in his interview, swearing that Briar will crush the competition. Then it's Tucker, who seems a little nervous in front of the camera. You understand completely.
You lower your camera as you see Logan approach the local reporter. He shakes her hand and says something you can’t hear. Then he looks in your direction. He pauses, then grins widely, waving at you. You wave back, face suddenly warm.
“So John,” begins the reporter. “How is the team preparing to win the next three games? You’ll need three wins to keep Briar’s ranking.”
“Yeah, you know, we work really well as a team, and Garrett’s a great captain, of course, so I have no doubt we’ll win. We’ve been putting in plenty of hours of practice.”
He glances in your direction. Click. You’re not supposed to snap pictures when people are looking at the camera, but you can’t help it. You won’t send that one to the paper.
“How are you personally feeling about the season?” the reporter asks.
You take more pictures. Logan keeps glancing in your direction, so much so that the reporter eventually holds her hand up.
“John, sorry, but we really need you to look at the camera,” she says. “Is there something distracting you? A light? A noise?”
“Nope,” Logan says, standing straighter, shaking his head. “All good.”
He answers a few more questions. The reporter thanks all of them for their time and then the crew packs up. You put the lens cap on your camera and pack it up in its case.
“Hey.”
You look up from your case. Logan’s in front of you. This close, you can really take in his appearance: his swoopy hair, his azure jacket with the Hawks emblem on the chest. He smells like apples, as always.
“You’re here,” he says, before you can say hi back.
You nod, confused. “Um. Yes?”
“I didn’t know you were a photographer.” He’s smiling as hard as he does when the Hawks win a game. “I haven’t seen you photographing games.”
“I don’t. The paper’s editor asked me to take pictures for their article on the team.”
“Can I see?”
You hesitate. “I can’t retake pictures.”
“I know. I’m asking because I want to see your pictures, not ‘cause I care about how I look in them. You don’t even have to show me the pictures from today. Do you have more?”
“You want to see my other photos? They’re of birds and stuff like that.”
“I fucking love birds. And I mean that.”
You blink. “Oh. Okay. Me too.”
“I didn’t see you in class this week,” he says.
“I was sick.”
“That sucks, I’m sorry.”
You nod. You don’t tell him why you were sick. He doesn’t need to know. No one knows except Hannah. And speaking of, you can see her walking down the bleachers.
She stops next to you. “Hey! How was it?” She looks at Logan, and seems a little startled. “Hi, Logan. What’s up?”
“Hey, Wellsy,” he says. You try not to frown. It’s stupid to want Logan to have a nickname for you. Wellsy isn’t even his invention.
“Logan wants to see my photos,” you say.
Hannah raises an eyebrow. “Oh, really? I didn’t know you liked photography, Logan.”
“Oh, big time,” he says, looking at you.
Hannah widens her eyes at you. You have no idea why. She pats your back.
“You did great,” she says. “I’ll see you later?”
“I thought you wanted to get lunch together,” you say.
“Uh…” She glances between you and Logan. “I’ll catch up with you. I have to tutor Garrett anyway. He canceled on me yesterday.” She rolls her eyes. “Hockey players.”
“Ouch,” Logan says, nudging her.
Hannah smiles sweetly. “You and Tucker are the best players, and you can quote me on that.”
“Garrett will definitely be hearing that.”
“Good.” She squeezes your arm. “I’ll see you later, okay? Have fun.”
You watch her go, feeling lost. “She said we were going to eat lunch together. Why did she change her mind?”
“Oh, um, I don’t think Hannah meant anything by it,” Logan says. He chews his lip for a second. “Garrett’s such a diva, honestly—he’d probably whine about not studying today even though he canceled on her yesterday.”
You do know how important the philosophy midterm is to Garrett, especially since he’s currently failing. And Hannah has complained about how stubborn he is.
“I guess that makes sense,” you say. “I’ll go eat by myself then. It’s one o’clock, so it’s lunchtime.”
“I could come with you.” Logan clears his throat. “Uh, if you want, I mean. No pressure. You can say no.”
“Oh. No, I’d like that.” You smile. “And I can show you my photos, right?”
“Yeah,” he says, sounding breathless. “Please do.”
Logan has three chicken thighs on his plate.
“Hockey season,” he explains as he sits. He bought your food with one of his meal swipes. You told him he didn’t have to; he said he wanted to.
You sit opposite him with your own food. Nothing had seemed appetizing, but you have a headache, which is your body’s way of telling you that you really need to eat. Sometimes you don’t feel hungry, but logically you have to eat at least three meals, so you try to time eating around the same time, so you don’t have to rely on faulty signals that never arrive.
And when Hannah eats with you, it helps, because then you aren’t distracted by other things, like listening to music or watching a show. You can’t do those things in front of another person, because it’s rude. When you eat alone, you frequently forget you’re supposed to be eating. And by the time you remember, the texture or temperature of the food has changed, and it’s no longer appetizing.
“Eating that much chicken doesn’t make you feel sick?” The thought of eating that much meat in one sitting makes you want to vomit. Not to mention the chicken ick. Chicken is an extremely unsafe food—if you detect a hint of tendon or fat, you can’t eat it.
Logan shakes his head. “Nah, I’m hungry. Dean can easily tear up, like, five of these.”
He starts eating, scooping the chicken with the gravy, peas, and potatoes in one forkful. You watch, fascinated. Eating probably wouldn’t be such a chore if you could eat like that.
You were going to try and convince Hannah to go to Taco Bell with you today because that’s the only thing that sounds edible today, but since you’re with Logan, you can’t do that. Probably you can’t go to Taco Bell every time you see him… still, you’re tempted. Maybe you can just sit here until Logan’s done eating, and then you can go get what you want.
You take a deep breath. No, you should eat. You should eat like a normal person. You want your headache to go away—it’s too hard to talk to people when you have a headache, and you really want to talk to Logan.
You unwrap the foil your turkey burger is in. You take it out and remove the whole wheat repulsive bread, then put the meat on your plate. You cut it into small triangles with your knife and fork.
“Not a fan of the bun?”
You look up at Logan, hunched over the plate. You eye him suspiciously.
“This bread tastes like cardboard,” you say slowly, watching him for judgment. “I like fluffy white rolls only.”
“That’s my favorite too. Garrett’s always on me to eat more whole grains.”
“Maybe another brand would taste good. School food tastes like slop sometimes.”
Logan laughs. “Seriously. I think I’m spoiled by Tucker’s cooking. He’s a master chef.”
You squeeze a packet of mayo, then hot sauce, then mustard. This is your trick for when you don’t want to eat: you overdo it with sauces you like, to mask whatever you’re eating. At least you don’t have to taste the turkey burger, though that doesn’t dismiss the possibility of a bad texture.
You chew, staring at your plate. You forget you’re not alone until Logan taps your shoulder. You jump.
“Sorry,” he says. “Again. Seems like I’m always doing that.”
“I zoned out.”
“Yeah, you’re really focused on your food there.”
“I have to be, or I won’t finish it,” you say. “Nothing’s appetizing right now, so I have to make myself eat.”
You quickly finish the burger, which isn’t the worst, to be fair, but you’re not happy to eat like you were yesterday with the tater tot casserole the cafeteria served. They serve that once every two weeks, and it’s your favorite day on campus.
“Okay,” you say. “Now I can talk to you.”
Logan smiles. “Awesome. Can you show me your pictures?”
“Oh, right. Yes, I can.”
You get out your camera and move to sit next to Logan. He leans in to look at your camera’s screen, but he doesn’t touch you. You kind of wish he would. You bet he’s warm and solid.
“Wait, go back,” he says.
You were skipping through the pictures from today’s interview. You press the left arrow to go back.
“There! Oh my God, that’s so funny. Please use that picture for the paper,” Logan says, snickering.
It’s a picture of Garrett, mid-yawn. His face is scrunched, mouth wide open.
“That was a mistake,” you say, but you’re smiling too. You can’t avoid Logan’s infectious giggles.
“No, that was a gift from above,” Logan says, still laughing. “God, that’s perfect. If you don’t send it to the paper, please at least send it to me.”
“How?”
“Do you have Instagram?”
“No,” you say. “I deleted it. It made me feel bad about myself.”
“Honestly? Good for you. I’m not on it that much either.”
“The only people who I want to talk to have my number anyway,” you say. “So it doesn’t really matter. I don’t care about random students’ lives.”
“You rock,” Logan says. “Seriously. You’re my hero.”
You can’t take it when he says things like that. All you can do is look away, your face heating up.
“Well, uh,” he continues. “This might be presumptuous of me, but… d’you wanna exchange numbers?”
“It’s not presumptuous,” you say. “I like talking to you.”
He lights up. “Same here.”
You type your number into his phone.
Hi :) says the message on your phone.
Hi, you text back. You change his contact to Logan 🏒.
“I’ll send the picture when I upload them tonight,” you say.
“I’m gonna terrorize him with it in the group chat. Show me more pictures? You said you saw some birds.”
“I did.” You shuffle through the photos until you find one of a hawk flying low. It’s one of your favorites; you were so proud to capture it. It’s only a little blurry too.
“That is so fucking cool, whoa.” Logan scoots closer to look, his arm touching yours. You don’t move away. “You’re amazing at this. What else did you capture?”
You show him pictures of the nearby lake, sunsets, a deer, the Boston skyline. Logan loves them all, and tells you many times how good of a photographer you are.
“You could do this professionally, seriously,” he says. “Like, you should photograph our games. You could get paid for it.”
You shrug bashfully. “I don’t know. It’s not even my major. It’s just a hobby.”
“So what? You’re really good.”
You gnaw the inside of your cheek. “Maybe.”
“Yeah, think about it. I could talk to Coach, see what’s open.”
You and Logan are pretty much curled up next to each other by now. Your arm and thigh are pressed against his. He is indeed warm, and you can feel his muscles shift against you. You think of him in the gray sleeveless shirt at the party. You couldn’t stop staring at his biceps. You want to hold them, trace the veins on his forearms.
And when he turns to talk to you, he’s so close. Close enough to—
“Yo, Logan, you started without us?”
Raucous laughter breaks the moment. As soon as you see Logan’s teammates, you put a foot of distance between you two, shifting to the next chair over.
“Hey, man,” Garrett says, tapping Logan's shoulder. “I thought you said you were gonna hit the gym.”
“Plans changed,” Logan says. He doesn’t look very happy to see them. You’re puzzled.
“Hi,” Tucker says, waving at you, saying your name. You wave back.
And then Garrett and Dean seem to notice you. Dean grins, looking between you.
“Ah,” he says. “Plans changed. Got it.”
You don’t like the tone of his voice. You don’t like the way he and Garrett are smiling at each other.
“How do you know Logan?” Dean asks. “You a hockey fan?” He winks.
“I’ve only been to one game. Logan and I are in developmental psychology together.”
“You guys study together?” Garrett asks, glancing at Logan. The table shakes, and Garrett winces. “Ow! What the fuck, man? Why’d you kick me?”
“Because you’re both asking idiotic fucking questions,” Logan says. “Lay off. She’s not a suspect.”
Your skin itches. You don’t like being watched. And they’re watching you, you can tell. They’re studying you. Figuring you out.
“Actually, I should go,” you say, getting up. You try not to eye the others as you say it.
“Are you sure?” Logan asks, getting up with you.
“Yes, I have finals to work on.” You gather your things, putting your backpack over your shoulders. “Thank you for the meal swipe.”
“Yeah, anytime,” Logan says. “I’ll see you in class on Monday?”
You nod. “You will. I’ve taken two unexcused absences and the syllabus said that Dr. Jenkins will demote us by a letter grade for any more than that.”
“‘S not a real threat,” Garrett says around a mouthful of rice. “They have to put that on the syllabus, but a lot of professors don’t care. Dean was absent eight times in that class.”
“And I still got a B minus,” Dean says, fist-bumping Garrett.
Tucker shakes his head. “Yeah, and you failed the subsequent course because you missed so much of the semester, dude.”
“A win is a win.”
“So Dr. Jenkins lied?” you ask, brows furrowing.
Garrett shrugs, digging his knife into his chicken. “Kinda. More like a bluff.”
You squeeze your backpack straps, your chest feeling tight. “Why does everyone know the secret rules but me?”
All week you’ve been anxious about potentially missing a third class because of your stomach. You were prepared to chug as much Pepto Bismol to avoid that as you needed to. Has everyone else been living without a care in the world, not forcing themselves to go to class when they feel sick? You’ve gone when you were sure you’d throw up. You went to class in the throes of the worst gallbladder pain you’ve ever felt, right before you got it removed.
Garrett stops chewing, looking at you. In fact, they’re all staring at you. Fuck.
“Whaddya mean, secret rules?” Dean asks.
Fuck, fuck. You’re being weird. Stop it. Stop.
“Hey,” Logan says gently, drawing your attention to him. He moves so he’s the only person you can see, blocking out the rest of the cafeteria. “If you don’t feel well, you should skip, but you aren’t, like, losing out on some grand life experience if you miss half the semester. That’s what college is for. You’re doing the right thing. It’s not a secret rule, it’s just a loophole that some assholes like to exploit.”
Dean scoffs. “Excuse me?”
Logan ignores him. “So I hope you come on Monday, but if you feel sick, rest up, okay? Tucker’ll make you soup and I’ll bring it over.”
Tucker leans around so you can see him and gives you a thumbs-up in confirmation. Your breathing gets a little easier; your shoulders soften.
“Okay,” you murmur. You drift towards him, and Logan brushes your fingers. You aren’t brave enough to take his hand, so you touch and step back.
“Can’t wait to see your pictures in the paper,” Logan says.
You smile. “They’re of you.”
“Yeah, but you took ‘em. Who cares what they’re of?”
You duck your head, feeling shy again. It’s a residual shyness, but sometimes you get so aware of how nice and handsome Logan is, and the fact that he goes out of his way to talk to you. Not that you’ve ever cared much about the college social hierarchy, but you aren’t immune to the charms of a hockey boy who sings praises about your photography. You’ve been trying to shake this aching want for more ever since the party. You can’t.
“Well, um, bye. I’ll drop off your wings soon,” you say.
“Stop by anytime.”
“See ya around,” says Tucker.
“Yeah, see you,” Garrett says. Dean nods.
You mumble a short goodbye to them, still feeling flustered. You hope Logan won’t hold it against you.
Once outside, you take out your camera outside and flip through some of the shots of Logan. You’re not sure what he likes so much about your photos, but now you’re a little glad that the editor asked you to take pictures.
“Hey, wait up!”
You turn around. Logan’s jogging toward you.
“What are you doing?” you ask as he stops in front of you.
“Uh.” He puts his hands on his hips, breathing hard. “Um. Hm. Good question. I don’t know, actually. I just feel like we ended on a weird note in there.”
You frown, nodding. “I know. I’m sorry I was weird and freaked out in front of your friends.”
“What? You didn’t—”
“I did, Logan. I know I did. I saw Dean and Garrett’s faces. They thought I was weird. And I was, to be fair. I reacted too strongly to the absence thing. Sometimes I do that, and I don’t realize until someone’s really obvious with their face that I, you know, emoted wrong.”
“You did not emote wrong,” Logan says, shaking his head in disbelief. “You didn’t, okay? I promise that Garrett and Dean didn’t think that. They were probably just confused. You and Hannah are, you know…”
“Nerds?” you finish.
“Smart, studious, all that. And I know we keep it hidden, but we’re actually not winning any Nobel prizes in between practice. They’re not used to knowing people who worry about attendance. That’s all it was, I promise.”
You purse your lips, trying to figure out if he’s telling the truth. You can’t, so you just ask. “Do you mean it?”
“Yes,” Logan says. “I mean it.”
“It’s okay if you don’t. I wouldn’t hold it against you. Lots of people have thought I’m weird. Lots of boys. Lots of athletes. I was terrible at kickball in middle school, and people hated me for it. I would sit out early so they wouldn’t purposely kick the ball at me.”
His eyes get sad. That’s an expression you recognize on Hannah too.
“That’s fucking awful,” Logan says. “We aren’t all like that. I’m not, anyway, and the guys I hang out with aren’t either. Even if you are weird, it’s not a bad thing. Not at all.”
No one’s ever told you it’s okay to be weird. They’ve only ever denied that you are, even though you’re pretty sure you are. You can’t help it either. But Logan doesn’t mind. You’re still good. He still likes you. No one is going to kick a ball at you.
“Okay. Can you tell me how to get to the Hawks house? I’m going to drop off your wings before Monday.”
“Sure, so you’re gonna walk down this little path here, Cooper Avenue. Then you’re gonna turn left, onto Montgomery. Then you’ll walk all the way down till you get to Pickett Lane. It’s like a dirt path. And you’ll turn right onto that. We’re the first house on the left.”
You nod, even though you’ve already forgotten all that. You’re terrible with street names. “I’ll be there.”
“I look forward to it,” Logan says, grinning.
You start to walk away, then you turn around and return. “I actually don’t remember anything you’ve just said. I’m bad with streets and directions. Can you tell me in terms of landmarks?”
“I can absolutely do that,” Logan says softly. “Okay, you know the statue of the guy on the horse?”
“Yes, the famous horse wrangler who carried children on horseback to Briar’s first schoolhouse in 1846.”
He tilts his head. “How do you know that?”
“It’s on the plaque.”
“Huh. Embarrassingly, I’ve never stopped to read one of those plaques. I should do that.”
“He brought children to school for eighteen years. One of them ended up founding Briar University.”
“Shit, wow. That’s cool.”
“History is cool.”
Logan hums. “You’re cool. And that mentality is why Dean’s the loser for missing half the semester and you aren’t.”
You smile. “I guess so.”
“Okay, so, horse wrangler. Turn left when you get to him. Then you’re gonna walk past that student vegetable garden you photographed. Keep walking until you see that giant oak tree with the knots in the trunk. The one that students make out under. Or, uh… study?”
“Attempt to study, anyway.” You know the struggle well.
“There’s a path there, and you’ll walk until you see our house on the left.”
“Got it,” you say. “For real, this time.”
“Good. Then I’ll see you at some point, before class. If you want to stop by.”
You look at the cafeteria. “They won’t mind?”
“Nah, we always have people come over, don’t worry. Hey.” Logan bumps your arm gently. “They won’t bother you. And if you want, text me, so you’ll know I’ll be home.”
The sun is in his eyes. Speckled tree bark. Rich, black tea. You want to kiss him so badly.
“I really do like talking to you,” you say.
“Me too.” Logan steps closer. Your heart is in your throat.
“Okay, well, see you!” And you’re gone.
There’s a photo from this morning’s interview you took of Logan. He’s looking at you—well, the camera—smiling, a curl falling into his eyes. You don’t send it to the editor, even though it’s one of your best photos. Instead, you set it as his contact picture on your phone.
Just imagining Ilya admitting to Shane during their first year as a couple post-cottage, that it's always been his dream to have an arcade in his house one day, because it was so rare that he was ever allowed to go to one growing up. And Shane immediately starts secretly reaching out to his contractors, asking how possible it would be to build an extension on his games room. For the rest of the year, Shane spends every free moment checking the building progress, sourcing machines, finding people to restore the ones that are a little beat up, pushing to get everything done before the season ends.
He gets to the cottage a day before Ilya's due to arrive to get all the groceries and snacks they'd need for their two weeks, but also to check the new arcade and it's absolutely perfect. He's so excited going to fetch Ilya he can barely contain himself. He thinks that he'll like it, but there's a small part of his mind that's like is it too much though?
"Excited to be going back?" Ilya asks, taking the hand Shane's been nervously drumming against the wheel. And Shane can't even really speak. He just nods, and brings Ilya's hand up to his lips to kiss it.
When they get to the cottage, Ilya immediately starts dragging him off in the direction of the bedroom, and Shane digs his heels in. Ilya turns around looking concerned.
"Something wrong?"
"Nothing's wrong," says Shane, giving his hand a reassuring squeeze. "I just have something to show you and I'm not going to be able to think about anything else until I do. Come with me."
Ilya only looks marginally less worried as Shane leads him to the games room.
"See anything new?" he asks, and Ilya dutifully looks around for anything that looks different from last time.
"You have bookshelves now," says Ilya. "I did not know we would be doing so much reading this time."
And Shane laughs and tells him to take a closer look. When Ilya approaches the bookshelf and notices the little wooden loon, Shane knows his plan will work. As soon as Ilya tries to pick it up, presumably to chirp him about it, it tips and the bookshelf springs forward on one side. Ilya turns back to Shane looking like a kid at Christmas.
"You have a secret room now? A sex dungeon? My Shane, are you planning to do wicked things to me in here for the next two weeks?"
"Just go look, asshole," Shane laughs, following Ilya into the room, heart catching when Ilya sees it for the first time.
"An arcade?" he asks, awestruck. "You have an arcade?"
"You have an arcade. Or, I mean, we have an arcade." Ilya turns to look at him. "I know you've always wanted one and I want the cottage to be yours as much as it's mine so I, uh—"
And that's all he can say for the next few minutes because suddenly he finds himself crowded against a claw game being kissed to within an inch of his life.
"You're so fucking crazy, Hollander," says Ilya when they eventually part, pressing his forehead to Shane's. "A fucking secret arcade. Thank you, lyubimyy. I don't even know how to say it. Just thank you. I love you and your big crazy heart so fucking much."
And Shane laughs and presses a small kiss to his lips.
Ilya is a yearner but Shane is NOT a yearner. Shane is a doer and a problem solver. At first he solves the problem of his feelings for Ilya by compartmentalizing and not feeling them. When this strategy stops working he hard pivots to going after his man. This man is not sitting around pining and suffering he is getting things done!
the idea that hollander "tamed" rozanov is really funny to shane because like. ilya finds it hot and is always going along with it, yes of course my husband is so sexy why do you think i moved to this boring fucking city. for dick. meanwhile shane knows the truth which is that ilya tamed himself. he herded shane like a sheepdog until he was exactly in the right position for ilya to flop down at his feet and say i love you, i am a one man guy, sleep with other people if you want but you are it for me, so shane is always there like ??? ilya. what are you talking about. i was literally prepared to be a secret slot on your roster for the rest of time without even admitting that i was gay until you decided to have me over make me lunch and say my name while you come like a love confession and ilya goes lyubmiyy. shut up. i was untamable you tamed the untamable and so shane has to be like yes, baby, i worked so hard, i used all my tricks but he's rolling his eyes because ilya wants to be a wolf shane coaxed inside to sleep on the hearth but instead he's a cat who snuck through the window and fell in love with his prey. self domesticated. and this is just one of the many perfect games they play
hayden getting annoyed by ilya and insisting on a ‘who knows shane better’ game with shane and jackie as judges and he gets completely wiped by ilya. “boohoo pike you should know how many goals your captain scored last season” “pike how do you not know his favourite protein powder i thought you were best friends” “you’re taking too long pike you should know shane’s favourite cities”
I fully believe that Shane and Ilya cannot agree on an anniversary. Shane says it was the All Stars weekend because that's when he thought they were both 100% serious about the relationship because that's when he was, Ilya says it was the cottage when they said "I love you'' because he didn't believe in it until that moment. They find this out the first year with Shane's anniversary date when Shane plans an elaborate secret date the last night of All Stars and gets Ilya gifts, and Ilya has no idea what its for. They agree to disagree on the date, "We will just celebrate twice a year, I guess." It happens again with their wedding anniversary, Shane says its when they legally got married, Ilya says it was when the twins married them because he doesnt care about about being officially married in the eyes of Canadian law he cares about the first time they said "I do". They find this out when a reporter asks them about their wedding and when they had it and they both gave different answers. Once again they agree to just celebrate twice a year. They say it is because the date doesn't really matter and both of them are right in some way, but in reality it is so they can compete on who plans the more romantic, thoughtful, and elaborate anniversary date. And so that they don't fight about who's planning the date this year or making conflicting plans by accident.
Summary | When the Briar hockey team dismisses pilates as an easy workout, she stages a surprise conditioning session that leaves the elite athletes sweating and completely dismantled.
a/n | AFAB x Dean Di Laurentis - we don’t stand for AI in this house
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The debate over whether a workout was legitimate or not usually didn't involve this much yelling, but the Off-Campus house had a way of turning everything into a full-scale NHL playoff argument on a Monday evening.
"It’s a luxury nap, guys. That’s what it is," Tucker insisted, lounging back on the worn-out velvet sofa with a homemade salmon bowl. "You lay on a leather carriage, you use baby weights, and you gossip."
"Do not finish that sentence, Tuck," Dean warned, not looking up from his laptop. Garrett was playing a video game, Logan was scanning his phone, and Hannah and Allie were sitting at the kitchen island, sharing a bowl of popcorn and watching the disaster unfold.
"I’m just saying," Garrett chimed in, moving over his headset. "It’s for people who want to stretch their hips after brunch. No offense to Gigi, you look great, but it’s not the same kind of hard core training we go through."
Sitting right next to Dean on the loveseat, Gigi didn't even look up from her iPad, where she was studying a marketing case study. She just smiled a small, a private smile, soft dimples flashing in her cheek.
Georgia "Gigi" Montgomery was born and raised in South Carolina, her family’s roots ran deeper than the the oaks on King Street, and her father was incredibly close friends with the Di Laurentis family. Dean and Gigi had been attached at the hip since they were children, a pair of gorgeous sweethearts with everyone in their elite bubble already had money on to get married. Currently, Gigi was a marketing major at Briar, but her true obsession was her extracurricular certification program. She had been studying, training, and teaching Pilates for the past year, completely mastering the science of movement.
Dean, who was utterly and completely obsessed with his girlfriend, shifted his weight and pulled her securely against his side. His hand immediately found the soft curve of her waist, his fingers tracing the skin just beneath the edge of her oversized Briar hockey sweatshirt. He leaned down, burying his face in the crook of her neck, inhaling her expensive, floral perfume.
"You guys are absolute idiots," Dean muttered against Gigi's skin, making her giggle softly. He looked up, his golden-boy features tightening with genuine warning. "I tried *one* of her advanced mat classes last month. My obliques felt like they were bleeding for a week. Retract the statement. Retract it before she makes you regret it."
"Gigi wouldn't hurt a fly," Logan joked, waving a hand. "She’s too sweet."
Gigi finally set her iPad down, tilting her head up to look at Dean. The sheer adoration in Dean's eyes was blinding; he instantly bent his head to kiss her lips, his hand moving to cup her jaw. They genuinely couldn't keep their hands off each other, completely tuning out the boys as they shared a sweet, lingering kiss.
When they finally broke apart, Gigi turned her big green eyes toward the living room, her thick, velvety Southern drawl entirely pleasant. "Y'all think my workouts are easy just because we don't sprint on ice?"
"We just think hockey players need heavy weights, Gi," Garrett said, flashing a bright smile.
"Understood," Gigi smiled back, entirely sweet and unbothered. She looped her arms around Dean’s neck, pulling herself onto his lap. Dean’s arms immediately wrapped around her lush, curvy hips, holding her like she was the center of his universe. She kissed his jawline softly. "Well, I hope y'all get some good rest tonight."
Nobody thought twice about the comment.
The next morning at 8:00 AM, the entire Briar varsity hockey roster stood in the weight room, looking completely bewildered. The heavy lifting racks had been pushed back. In their place was a grid of mats.
When the door opened, Gigi walked in, and the boys' jaws collectively dropped.
She looked like a total professional, wearing a matching baby pink set that accentuated every stunning curve of her waist and hips, her long hair tied up in a high, bouncy ponytail. Behind her walked Allie and Hannah, both wearing their own athletic gear and sporting matching, deeply devious smirks.
Gigi had slipped away to Coach Jensen’s office the previous afternoon without a word to anyone, setting up the ultimate surprise.
Dean, standing in the front row, blinked in shock before a massive, proud grin spread across his face. Gigi walked straight over to him, completely ignoring the thirty guys watching them. She slid her hands up his chest, and Dean immediately bent down to kiss her deeply, his hands gripping her waist tightly. "What are you doing here, baby?" he murmured against her lips.
"Giving the boys a little conditioning," she whispered back, giving his chest a playful pat before turning to the room.
Coach Jensen stepped up beside her, crossing his arms. "Gigi told me you boys have been looking stiff in the third period. Tight hip flexors, slow transitions. So today, she’s running your warm-up. Allie and Hannah are here to help demonstrate. Listen up, and don't embarrass me."
"Alright, everyone!" Gigi cheered, her voice bright, clear, and encouraging. "We’re going to do a fast-paced, high-intensity mat flow today. Grab a set of dumbbells over there. Please pick a weight you're genuinely comfortable with! We want to keep the movement fluid."
Tucker, Garrett, and Logan immediately marched over to the racks, confidently grabbing fifteen and twenty-pound weights. Dean, however, walked past them, giving his friends a warning look, and grabbed a pair of tiny, two-pound weights.
"Dean, what are you doing?" Logan laughed under his breath. "Those are for toddlers."
"Trust me, bro" Dean muttered, taking his spot in the front row so he could stay close to Gigi. He knew what was coming. He was dreading it, but he wanted to do well for her.
"Weights in hand, everyone down into a wide second-position plié squat," Gigi instructed, dropping into a flawless, deep squat. Her posture was perfectly upright, her hips open, her core locked. Hannah and Allie dropped right beside her. They weren't as perfectly flexible as Gigi, but they kept up beautifully, their form solid and well-ahead of the men.
"Arms out straight in a T-shape," Gigi said, keeping the pace brisk. "We’re going to hold the squat, and we're just going to do tiny, microscopic circles with the weights. Inward first. Keep it small, keep it moving!"
The hockey players dropped into their squats, holding their heavy weights out. For thirty seconds, it was fine.
"Now, freeze the arms," Gigi called out. "Lower the squat one inch. Lift an inch. Lower an inch. Lift an inch. Just a two-inch range of motion. Now, pulse it out! Pulse. Pulse. Pulse. Don't stop those arms!"
Within ninety seconds, the heavy weights felt like they were made of solid lead. Garrett’s shoulders began to smoke. Tucker’s biceps were shaking so violently his twenty-pound dumbbell was rattling against his grip.
"Oh my god," Logan gasped, his quads locked in a horrific burn.
Gigi walked through the rows, her movements graceful. She stopped by Logan, kneeling down beside him. With an incredibly sweet smile and a gentle touch of her hands, she adjusted his alignment. "Keep those shoulders drawing down your back, Logan. Press into your heels," she said softly, before standing up. "Now, keep holding the squat, flip your palms to the ceiling, and pulse the weights up! Ten, nine, eight... less reps, more pulse! Six, five..."
*THUD.*
Tucker literally dropped his fifteen-pound weights onto the turf. He stumbled blindly toward the back rack, his arms shaking like jelly, and desperately grabbed a pair of two-pound weights. Within five seconds, Garrett and Logan broke down, abandoning their heavy dumbbells to sprint for the two-pounders, their pride completely shattered.
Dean was surviving, but his teeth were clenched so hard his jaw ached. His muscles were screaming, his veins popping out against his skin as he tried to keep up. Gigi walked past him, lightly brushing her fingers against his lower back to remind him to engage his core. The subtle touch made him tighten his abs even harder, pushing through the burn just to impress her.
"Good adjustments, everyone!" Gigi cheered, not missing a beat. "Now drop the weights, grab your resistance loop bands, and slide them above your knees. Everyone down into a forearm plank!"
The room groaned as thirty elite athletes scrambled to slide the tight elastic bands over their thighs.
"Plank position! Feet wide against the band," Gigi called out, transitioning smoothly, only sweating a bit. "We’re going to tap the right toe out, then the left. Fast pace! Tap, tap, tap, tap. Keep those hips steady!"
Allie and Hannah were breathing heavily, but they kept their form tight, doing their best to keep with Gigi and easily outperforming the struggling men.
"Hips down, Garrett," Hannah teased from her mat, panting a little but still looking entirely in control.
Gigi walked over to Garrett, completely gentle but unyielding. She lightly placed her hand on his lower back, guiding his hips down to the perfect level. "Keep that belly button drawn into your spine, Garrett. You've got this. Now hold the plank, everyone! Don't rest! Drive your right knee to your chest, pulse three times, and switch! Pulse, pulse, pulse, switch! Fast transitions, let's go! Less rest, more work!"
The weight room turned into a chorus of agony. Sweat was dripping off their noses; their shirts were soaked. These guys routinely took bone-crushing hits on the ice, but this micro-movement, fast-paced conditioning was completely dismantling them.
Meanwhile, Gigi was flawless, glowing, and totally in control. She grabbed a small, squishy Pilates ball and demonstrated the next move.
"Alright, onto your backs! Put the Pilates ball between your inner thighs," Gigi ordered, her voice sweet but demanding. "Glute bridges! Squeeze that ball! Lift those hips to the ceiling! Now, tiny pulses at the top! Squeeze the ball, squeeze, squeeze, squeeze! Don't let those hips drop an inch!"
Dean’s hamstrings felt like they were being targeted by a blowtorch. He looked over at Logan, whose legs were shaking so hard he looked like a newborn deer trying to walk on ice. Tucker was face down on his mat, actively groaning into the foam.
"Hold at the top!" Gigi encouraged, clapping her hands. "Lift your heels! High heels, boys! Now pulse the hips up! Pulse, pulse, pulse! Ten, nine, eight, seven... give me everything you've got!"
"Gigi, please," Garrett begged, his voice cracking. "I'll take it back. It's so hard."
"You're doing so well, Garrett, keep pushing!" Gigi smiled, completely encouraging as she held her bridge perfectly, her curves looking incredibly toned.
"And... release!" Gigi finally called out.
The entire Briar hockey team collapsed instantly. It sounded like a battlefield. Men were flat on their backs, panting heavily, clutching their glutes and their abs. They were utterly, completely spent, dripping in sweat and staring at the ceiling in shell-shocked silence.
Dean rolled onto his side, breathing hard, his core vibrating from the exertion.
Gigi walked right over to him, stepping gracefully over the mats. She knelt down beside him, completely fresh and pristine. "You did so good, honey," she murmured, leaning down to press a soft, loving kiss to his dripping forehead.
Dean hooked an arm around her waist, pulling her down closer to him. He dragged her lips down to his, kissing her with an intense, breathless heat that made his teammates collectively groan in exhaustion. "You're amazing," he panted against her mouth, his eyes locked on hers with total adoration. "But that never gets any easier."
Gigi laughed, a bright, musical sound, and kissed his lips quickly one last time. She stood up, smoothing down her emerald leggings, and offered him a hand to pull him to his feet. The moment Dean was up, his arm went right back around her waist, pulling her curvy frame flush against his side.
Coach Jensen walked into the weight room, a massive smirk on his face as he looked at his destroyed roster. "Outstanding work, Georgia. Absolutely outstanding. Alright, boys. You're nice and warmed up. Get your gear on. Ice practice starts in ten minutes."
A collective, pathetic groan echoed through the room.
Garrett painfully rolled over, clutching his hip flexor as he looked up at Dean and Gigi, who were practically wrapped around each other. "Dean... your girl... she’s a demon. A beautiful, polite demon."
Dean just smirked, tightening his grip on Gigi’s waist and pulling her in for another kiss. "I warned you guys," Dean said, looking down at his teammates with a smug grin. "Next time, listen to the guy who's has to go through this monthly.”
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- I love this sm. We probably won’t see more of Gigi and Dean for awhile bc I just have one shot story ideas rn and want to get them all out
summary: what's the worst thing that could happen when you start seeing your brothers best friend?
request: yes/no
warnings: swearing, drinking, illusions to smut if you squint?
word count: 4.19k
authors note: when I tell you I love this piece that is an understatement and a half. like I was writing it to set it up to be a series, I liked it that much. it's also to a point where I am ready to make mom and dad a series just so I can get this one. with that being said though I do hope you guys actually like this one.
series masterlist | next part
The first time you kissed Beau Maxwell, he taste like cheap beer and bad decisions.
Which honestly made sense considering the entire thing was one giant mistake.
But the frat party was a mistake before Beau got involved.
You hadn’t even wanted to go originally, but Hannah helped do your hair while Allie dug through her closet for something that was ‘slutty but classy’ which directly translated into tight jeans and some white top that now clung to your skin after some drunk idiot slammed directly into you with a cup full of whatever he had too much of “yo sorry girl!” He called out as he continued walking.
But you stood there staring in horror. Because that once white fabric was see-through now, and that meant that your red bra had to be on full display for everyone to see “shit.” Hannah’s eyes went wide as you let out a huff “I need a drink if I’m meant to deal with this.” You grumbled as both girls followed you.
They swore you would have gone home right when that happened, but instead you opted to fill your cup up again.
Then again.
And again.
Which is how you ended up upstairs half an hour later, annoyed, tipsy and actively trying to find a quieter space after you disappeared from the girls.
You weren’t thinking when you opened the door to the first semi-empty room that you saw. Until you realised it wasn’t empty.
Beau was stood there, leaning against his dresser as he looked for a new shirt for himself to wear, as he too was covered in someone’s drink.
If you had to put your money on it, it was probably your brother’s doing.
His eyes flicked to you immediately, then dropped before they snapped right back up “you okay?” His voice was soft, like it always was when he spoke to you.
You let out a dry laugh “do I look okay?” You asked as you shook your head.
Beau’s jaw tightened slightly. Because he was looking again.
Too long.
Too obvious.
You crossed your arms out of reflex and that almost made it worse pushing your boobs up. So the boy looked away as if it would quickly reset his mind “what happened?” He asked as he scratched the side of his arm.
“Some guy happened.”
His expression immediately darkened “relax.” You saod even though your stomach still felt irritated, “he just spilled his drink on me.” You ran your fingers through your hair.
Beau’s eyes flicked to your shirt again, the fabric clinging and the outline too visible. His throat moved as he swallowed “I can see that.” His voice was rougher; something about it made your stomach flip.
Without thinking, you stepped further into his room. Which was a bad idea, as you were now closer to him.
Close enough to smell him properly, beer, laundry detergent and something sharp yet masculine underneath it all.
Beau shifted slightly as he was suddenly aware of every inch between the two of you “here.” He reached for the Nike hoodie that was behind you “you should probably get out of that shirt so guys don’t look.” His words made your ears turn pink.
Because not once had you ever thought that Beau cared about what other guys did when it came to you.
You stared at him for a second too long “why?” You asked quietly as Beau blinked, “why what?”
“Why do you care?”
Silence.
The music downstairs thumped faintly through the walls. Someone laughed too loudly in the hallway.
Beau’s grip tightened on the hoodie “I just-” He stopped himself as he licked his lips “it’s just annoying, that’s all.” He said it like it was an answer that made so much sense.
You tilted your head as neither one of you moved, the hoodie was between you and Beau already regretted every second of this conversation “you’re drunk.” He gave you this look, as if it explained everything.
You shot back “so are you.“ And that got him.
A faint helpless nod came from the boy before a pause. It was longer this time.
The tension in the room shifted, never disappeared, just changed shape as if it was keeping up with the times.
You stepped closer without thinking.
Beau didn’t move away.
That was the problem.
He never moved away from you “you’re staring again.” You pointed out softly
The boy dropped his hands “you’re in my room in a see-through shirt. What do you want from me?” His question made you quietly laugh.
Because he was right, “fair,” but then you went quieter, “is it bothering you?”
Beau looked at you properly this time, no pretending, “yes he said immediately.
Your breath caught slightly “because of the shirt?” You teased, voice no longer as steady as you wished it was.
He shook his head once “no.” That word changed everything as your stomach dropped “oh.”
Beau stepped forward without warning, it was just one step but ut closed the gap between the two of you.
His voice dropped, “you shouldn’t look at me like that.” His eyes hovered dangerously over your lips.
Your voice was barely a whisper, “like what?” You always thought he was cute, but you knew your brother would kill you if you ever vocalised it.
“Like you don’t know what you’re doing to me.”
Your heartbeat skipped.
That was it. The moment that everything snapped. The floodgates of emotion and desire flew open and everything was about to come tumbling out.
You didn’t think. You just grabbed the front of his shirt and pulled him down slightly. Beau froze for like half a second like he needed to reboot.
Then he kissed you. It was powerful.
Like he had been holding it back since he knew you and stopped pretending he could win.
His hand came to your waist, firm as it pulled you closer, making your back hit the dresser behind you.
You moaned against his mouth, and that only made him kiss you harder.
It was warm, dizzy, and completely unfair.
You didn’t even notice when he dropped the hoodie, or when your arms slid around his neck. All you knew was that Beau kissed you like he’d wanted it for longer than either of you was willing to admit.
When he finally pulled back, it was so he could take in the sight of you, how your lips were now swollen “this is such a bad idea.” He muttered, making you smile, “yeah it is.” Neither of you pulled away.
So when Beau kissed you again, he brought your legs around his waist before he used his foot to shut his bedroom door.
Because this was definitely going to be a cause of night one and not one night.
The two of you had been sneaking around for a while now, and you made it through the summer, sneaking around the house in Cape Cod. You made it through sneaking into each other’s rooms as if Dean wasn’t feet away. And honestly, you were both feeling like you were on top of the world.
Because it was getting too easy, which meant soon that you’d both start playing recklessly.
That’s how you ended up in his car at 2 am after a late-night snack run that you practically had to beg the boy to go on.
You were sat in the passenger seat, one of his hoodies swallowing you whole. Beau was in the drivers seat, turned slightly towards you with his forearm resting on the steering wheel like he needed something to anchor himself to.
The windows were fogging up a little and neither of you acknowledged it “we need rules.” You announced as you sat up straight.
Beau quietly laughed “rules?” He cocked his head as you nodded.
Dean had asked you if you wanted to hang out with him tonight and you didn’t know what you were meant to say when you turned him down “because this is going to get messy.” You insisted even though your voice didn’t sound sure of it.
Beau’s eyes flicked to your mouth for half a second before snapping back up “it’s already messy.” He pointed out as the only thing going through his mind was how he really wanted to kiss you in that moment.
You sighed as you fiddled with your rings “okay what are you thinking?” Beau shifted in his seat to give you his full attention.
You nodded like you were in control of your entire life and not currently sat in his car after sneaking out of your dorm.
One rule should have been obvious: Don’t do this.
But neither of you said it, instead opting for “no public stuff.” You said it carefully as if you were testing the waters.
Beau nodded in agreement and your heart did something stupid because he didn’t even hesitate, “no kissing at parties or touching were people can see.” You continued knowing that it would be the first thing to blow the two of you up if it happened.
Beau’s jaw tightened at the second one but he nodded again “no Dean.” He added, making you laugh.
It earned a smile from him “yeah none of him.” He was the one you were trying to hide this from after all.
The first two felt manageable, the third was where things were going to get tricky ‘no telling anyone.” You knew that this was something he’d tell Joanna, and before you knew it, everyone would know.
Beau didn’t respond and that made you look at him properly.
His expression had shifted to something less joking and more serious, like he was actually thinking about the weight of it all “yeah,” he said eventually, “no telling anyone.” Your stomach dipped as you nodded.
Because telling nobody meant hidden, and hidden meant fragile.
Beau seemed to notice your face changed, his voice softened a little “we’re not doing this because we’re ashamed.” His words lingered in the air.
You licked your lips slightly “then why are we doing it?” Silence filled the car for too long.
Beau’s hand left the steering wheel and rested on your thigh like he was forcing himself not to reach for your hand “because I can’t stop thinking about you.” He said those words so simply.
It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t rehearsed and it wasn’t said as if it just made your stomach do flips.
You swallowed “that’s not a rule.” You pointed it out as your brows furrowed.
“No,” he agreed quietly “that’s the problem.”
The air between you both changed. It was thicker now; it was less about the rules you set to make.
More about everything you were trying not to say out loud. You shifted in your seat slightly, facing him fully, “Beau…” You trailed off as he looked a you immediately.
Always immediate. Always like you were the only thing in the room (or in this case, car) that mattered “are we okay with this?” You asked softly “like actually okay or are we just-“
“Already in it?” The boy finished your sentence as if he had been thinking the same thing.
You nodded, Beau exhaled through his nose, almost like he was annoyed at how true the statement was.
Then he leaned over the centre console, not fast, not rushed, just inevitable.
Your breath stuttered before he even touched you “yeah.” He said quietly as his eyes flickered between yours, “we’re in it.” That was all the warning you got before he kissed you.
Slower this time. Less frantic than before. But deeper in a way that made your entire body go warm instantly, like it had been waiting for him to do exactly that.
Your hand slid into his shirt without thinking, pulling him closer as his hand came up to your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek like he still couldn’t believe that you were real.
The console dug into your thigh as your seatbelt clicked when you shifted.
None of it mattered.
Because Beau Mazwell kissed you like he meant it every time.
When he finally pulled back it was only slightly, resting his forehead against yours like he needed a break “rule four.” You whispered.
It made him laugh against your mouth, “theres more?” He asked as you nodded, “just one.”
He hummed against your lips “go on.”
You looked at him properly, your fingers still hooked into his shirt, “if this goes bad ever.” You said, trying to sound casual and failing completely, “we don’t ever talk about it.” Beau’s expression softened instantly.
He paused, “but it’s not going to go bad.” You gave him a look “you don’t know that.”
Beau smiled “I do.” That made your stomach flip again.
You held your pinky out and Beau stared at it for half a second before he laughed and did the same thing “taking this to the grave.” You said.
Beau squeezed your hand gently “to the grave.” He nodded.
You should’ve let go after that.
You really should’ve. But instead, you pulled him back by his shirt.
And Beau met you halfway, like he always would. Like there was never really going to be a rule strong enough to stop him.
But it was funny how that last rule really didn’t last long.
Because the girls were the ones who found out by accident.
Mainly because Beau was a football player and that meant that stealth didn’t come to him naturally.
It was nearly one in the morning when he showed up at your dorm wearing a dark hoodie and a baseball cap pulled low, “okay Stevie Wonder.” You let out a snort, seeing his sunglasses on him too.
He rolled his eyes “if you didn’t take so long to come get me I wouldn’t need a disguise.” He grumbled pecking your lips.
You grinned as you curled the string of his hoodie between your fingers “hey now I could leave you out here.” You taunted him, licking your lips in the process.
He let out a low whistle “now where would the fun be in making me go home?” His hands rested on your waist as your cheeks turned red “you’re lucky you’re cute.” You grumbled as you grabbed his hand.
It made him grin, “you think I’m cute.” He looked as if he had just been told he was the best looking man in the world “yeah so lets not let that change.”
You got to your floor as you looked around “c’mon be quiet.” You brought your finger to your lips as you had snuck him past the security desk for what felt like the tenth time that week.
Beau rolled his eyes “I know how sneaking works.” He snorted softly right before he walked into one of the random tables that were out.
It made this loud echo “do you now?” You crossed your arms as he grabbed your waist, shoving the two of you behind some corner before the RA had a chance to appear.
You bubbled into this silent laughter as you grinned, “you’re enjoying this too much.” Beau muttered as he shook his head “didn’t think you would be this bad at sneaking.”
“Usually I don’t need to.”
You were still laughing by the time the two of you got to your dorm suite.
Where you froze immediately.
Because the once empty living room now had both Hannah and Allie sit on the couch eating cereal.
With a perfect view of you and the man you were holding hands with “I knew it.” Hannah lowered her spoon as her mouth fell open.
Your eyes closed “Hannah-” Beau squeezed your hand, reminding him he was there with you.
“I knew it!” She shrieked louder as Allie clapped her hands, looking genuinely delighted, “oh my god, its Beau!”
Beau looked like he’d rather be taking a tackling drill to the face in that moment “that’s why Garrett said Dean was going on about you having some mystery girlfriend!” Hannah remembered how the hockey captain pointed it out as you were running to a lecture one day as the two studied in your living room.
Your head snapped “he what now?” Your eyes went wide as Beau groaned from next to you.
Allie gasped as her hand went over her mouth “you’re the one that give her the hickies!” It was after a party where you were in a low-cut shirt and Beau got a little annoyed seeing all the guys look at you.
So he made sure you were left forced to wear borderline turtlenecks in the middle of August “this is humiliating.” You groaned as you leaned into Beau.
Allie scoffed “correction, this is the cutest thing in the world.” She spoke in a duh tone as she placed her bowl on the table.
Beau slid his arm around your waist as your head buried into his chest, refusing to look at anyone.
And the girls noticed that immediately. And the worst part? So did you.
Because the tiny movement said more than either of you had yet “wait are you guys serious?” Her eyes darted between you.
You finally looked up from the boy’s chest to see his eyes looking right at yours, “yeah.” He nodded making your stomach flip.
Allie clapped her hands together as she squealed, “you’re dating Beau Maxwell.” It was a massive jump from when you swore you were off of guys last year after another failed hook-up.
You laughed despite yourself, “don’t make it weird.” You groaned, making the girls laugh.
Hannah shook her head “trust me it’s already weird.” She informed you “your brother literally thinks Beau is in love with some random girl while you’re literally sneaking him into our door.” She pointed out making you look up at Beau who sighed.
He knew what he was getting into when he started sneaking around with you “Dean’s gonna kill me.” Beau chewed at the inside of his lip.
Allie shook her head “while you’re probably not wrong.” She trailed off, looking at Hannah, who gasped.
“Oh my god, we can help keep them a secret!”
While the girls offer wasn’t something either of you needed to take just yet, it felt like as the weeks continued, something was changing between the two of you.
Somewhere along the way, the sneaking and fun around turned into something serious.
Beau had texted you all about how he had a bad practice, and that was how you ended up in his room without a second thought.
He was in his ensuite showering, blissfully unaware of what was sitting on his bed waiting for him.
You found his jersey and had kicked your jeans off, leaving you in your underwear and his shirt, “holy shit.” His eyes went wide as he took in the sight of you.
The first went down to your thighs leaving you looking as if you were about to be swallowed whole “hi handsome.” You grinned as you pushed yourself off of his bed.
Beau felt his brain short-circuit as he dropped his towel to the floor, forgetting what to do with himself “couldn’t you have waited until I got dressed?” He asked quietly as he reached for his boxers from his open drawer.
You swore you hadn’t seen him get dressed faster in his life “would that have been more polite?” You tilted your head, watching your boyfriend turn back to face you again.
He was quick to shake his head, “it would have been a whole lot less distracting.” He countered, making you laugh softly.
Beau reached you as one hand automatically wrapped your leg around him. It was a move that made your pulse jump.
His thumb brushed absentmindedly against bare skin while he looked at you like he didn’t know where to focus first “you wore this on purpose.” He mumbled as he licked at his lips, “maybe I missed you.”
It made his expression soften. Every single time it happened. No matter how teasing the moment started, the second you said something genuine, Beau looked at you like you knocked the air out of him.
“I saw you this morning.”
You rolled your eyes, remembering how good he looked in your bed “long time.” Your words made him huff out a laugh before he lay you onto his bed.
The sight always made you squirm as his chain rested on your chin before he kissed you.
The kiss always started slow with Beau first. As he enjoyed the build-up far too much to rush anything.
His hand slid from your thigh to your waist, while your fingers curled into damp hair at the back of his neck.
He tasted like mint and Gatorade.
And god you swore you could feel the smile against your mouth when you tugged at his hair “you’re trouble.” He murmured as he looked away to look at you.
You grinned, “you like it.” He nodded as he caught your lower lip between his teeth “I’m obsessed with it.” Your heart skipped embarrassingly hard at that.
But Beau kissed you again before you could recover, this time going deeper. One hand pressed into the mattress under you while the other slipped under your shirt letting his palm spread against your bare waist.
You made this tiny sound into his mouth that made him shudder, “don’t do that.” He grumbled as his knee dipped into the mattress.
You cocked your head feeling a little confused, “don’t make noises like that unless you want me acting insane.” His warning sound have made you squirm but instead you smirked.
“Maybe I do?”
That line got the boy as he groaned before he kissed you harder again.
His body settled on top of you as his fingers traced up your ribs underneath the jersey, making your breath catch in your throat.
“Beau-“
A loud knock slammed against the door as you both froze “Maxwell!” Dean whined from the other side of the door, making your eyes widen in horror.
Beau dropped his forehead onto your shoulder “you’ve gotta be kidding me.” He groaned as he wanted to hit your brother in that moment.
Another knock came “c’mon Tucker is downstairs waiting for us!” And just like that you remembered why you weren’t meant to be seeing Beau until tonight.
He was seeing Dean and Tucker after practice “hide!” Beau whisper hissed as he motioned you to slide under his bed “not your bathroom?” You scoffed, matching his tone.
The boy panicked, “no time.” He pressed a kiss on your lips before you begrudgingly listened making sure that you hid behind where his practice bag was dropped “why aren’t you dressed?” Dean asked immediately, seeing the lack of clothing that his friend had on.
Beau looked down as he ran his fingers through his hair “sorry bro, the shower ran long.” It was a stupid excuse, but the first one that he could come up with.
Dean nodded as he crossed his arms “well just hurry up.” The blonde let out a dramatic huff that almost made you laugh.
Your brother looked at the bed, hearing your hand slap over your mouth “did your bed just make a noise?” He asked, making Beau’s eyes grow wide.
Dean shook his head as he sighed, “ignoring that are you gonna come out with us tonight?” Your brother asked but quickly groaned seeing Beau remain quiet “c’mon man mystery girl can’t be that special.”
That was the nickname the boys gave you. The reason why Beau smiled at his phone, left parties early, didn’t attend poker nights if the puck bunnies were coming along, and most importantly, stopped flirting with other girls. For weeks now, Dean had been trying to figure out who was the reason his best friend went soft, blissfully unaware that it was the very sister whom he spent mornings ransacking her snack drawer.
Everyone was trying to guess who you were and beyond for you, Beau, Hannah and Allie, nobody was going to be successful for as long as you all could help it.
Beau gripped his hand at his door “look dude I can’t do tonight but give me a sec to get dressed and I’ll be down for Tucker.” He didn’t wait for Dean to answer as he shut his door, making sure he locked it.
His head dropped as he helped you out from under his bed “next time I’m hiding you under my bed.” You grumbled as Beau sighed.
The boy pressed a kiss against your lips “sorry princess your brother would have killed me.” He sighed as his hands rested on your hips “wait for me to come back?” He didn’t want to leave you, he really, really didn’t want to leave you in his jersey looking like that.
But if you both wanted to make it through the night, you really had no other choice in the matter, “you know I will.” You leaned onto your tippy toes to kiss him again.
Can I please get literally anything with garret graham my only thing is I want them in a established relationship
absolutely!!! here is a bunch of stupid social media trends that you & garrett have done tehe
chronically online girlfriend
summary - a bunch of stupid social media trends that you & garrett have done
pairing - garrett graham x gf!reader
word count - 2.5k
Ignoring my boyfriend for 20 seconds
You set your phone up somewhere discreet on the kitchen side so Garrett wouldn’t see.
After double checking it was recording, you continued to chop vegetables. You were making dinner for Garrett, because he’d been at hockey practice all evening and - honestly - you were just that good of a girlfriend.
Garrett always got home first from practice, so you knew when you heard the front door open and shut that it was him.
Okay, brave face.
You heard Garrett drop his bag off his shoulder onto the floor and his chucked his keys onto the counter.
“Hey.” He said tiredly.
This was going to be more difficult than you thought, because you already wanted to cave and just dote on him.
When you didn’t turn around or greet him, he got closer to you. His arms snaked around your waist so he could hug you from behind, his nose briefly inhaling the familiar scent of you at the back of your neck.
“Hello?” He questioned this time, whilst you continued to chop vegetables.
Your eyes darted to your phone and you had to hold back any emotion, which was difficult when your heart was melting at the sight of him pouting. Garrett’s eyebrows were furrowed the longer you went without acknowledging him.
“Baby.” He said a little more urgently this time.
Was that 20 seconds up?
Garrett huffed, unwrapping his hands from around your waist but still keeping you close against him. One hand reached for you to drop the pepper and the other reached to safely put the knife down.
Within a second he had you turned around so he could see your face. “What’s going on?”
His eyes tried to catch yours. You knew you would cave the moment you looked at him, which you did a moment later because you’d had enough of this trend already.
Garrett was frowning when you looked up at him. He looked worried, which only turned into confusion when he noticed you were trying to hold back a smile.
“I’m sorry.” You let out an exasperated sigh, “It’s for a TikTok.”
You turned to point at your recording phone.
Garrett’s whole body visibly softened and the crease between his furrowed eyebrows disappeared. He leaned down to rest his forehead against your shoulder and you brought your hands up to gently stroke through his damp curls.
“You scared me. I thought you were mad at me because I’d done something.”
“No, baby.” You smiled sadly, hating that you’d actually caused him this much panic or stress. “I’m sorry.”
Garrett lifted his head so he could look at you.
“It’s okay. Just don’t ever shut me out, okay? If you are actually mad at me, just talk to me. Please.”
“Yeah, okay.”
Video comments:
deandilaurentis: You got him good L/N
↪️ garrettgraham: Don’t encourage her… I don’t need any more emotional damage
alliecat: Aweeee he’s just a baby
randomgirl1: I would die just a chance to hold Garrett Graham like this
↪️ randomgirl2: Girl same
Ranking his hugs and kisses like a critic
You handed your phone to Hannah, who was already laughing at the outcome of this dumb trend.
You bit your lip, a nervous energy swelling inside of you. Hannah encouraged you with a nod, following you but also keeping herself hidden.
You walked up to Garrett, who was standing at Malone's bar waiting to be served. You sauntered up beside him and hugged him as best you could from the side.
"Oh, hey." Garrett's body melted against yours and he brought his arm instantly around your shoulders, pulling your body close so he could give you a kiss on the top of your head.
You pulled away after about five seconds.
"6.5. Felt like I was more into it than he was." You said, before walking away and leaving Garrett standing there none-the-wiser.
It was a bit later in the night and you were dancing with Hannah.
When she pulled out her phone and started to record you, anyone else would have thought she was just being a good girl-friend and capturing photos of you. Little did they know, she was actually filming you in preparation for your boyfriend approaching you from behind.
You threw your arms up in the air to the beat of the music.
Garrett made romance look so effortless as he slipped his head between your arms, his arms sliding around your waist to hold you close against his front.
Your eyes rolled back at the feeling of his warm hands against your stomach.
Your own hands reached behind you at an odd angle and around the back of Garrett's neck, blushing at the intimacy of it all. You were in the middle of Malone's for fuck sake not a club.
"And cut!" Hannah shouted.
If she hadn't said anything you probably would have forgotten all about this stupid trend you've been trying to do all night. Your eyes opened and you pulled out of Garrett's hold, turning around to face him.
He did not look happy that you'd just escaped him for the second time this evening.
"8.5. Getting better. More passion required." You said, before moving on.
"What the..." Garrett muttered to himself.
Dean swung his arm around Garrett's shoulders then, his other hand coming to pat him a couple times on the chest. "Is she trying to give you blue balls, dude?"
The final straw for Garrett is when you're speaking to some random guy and he's clinging onto every word you say.
The clench of his jaw must have been really obvious, because Hannah pulled out her phone to record just before Garrett stormed his way over to you.
You tried to keep a composed face as you Garrett came up behind the guy who was talking to you about literally nothing interesting.
"Hey man," Garrett tapped the guys shoulder, trying his best to look unbothered, "Can I just cut in here for a minute?" He gestured towards you.
"Oh yeah, of course G."
Garrett gave the guy a look, because only his close friends were allowed to call him 'G' and he had never once seen this guy in his life before.
Before you had the chance to say hello, Garrett's arms pulled on your waist and the back of your neck, towards him, until his lips met yours.
The kiss was messy and hot.
You stopped being shocked two seconds into the kiss and threw your hands into the hair on the back of your boyfriends neck, pulling strands the way you knew he liked.
Garrett kept kissing you, not letting either of you have more than half a second between kisses.
You whimpered when Garrett pulled you even closer into him, your boobs pressing against his chest. Even though you were both still clothed, it was completely overwhelming.
He pulled away with a satisfied smirk when he noticed how hot and flushed you looked. He could tell there wasn't a single thought behind your eyes.
"Was that enough passion for a 10?" He asked.
Your brain had to slowly compute what he had asked, but you gave him a knowing smile when you realised he had caught on to the trend you have been testing on him all night.
"Fuck yeah, that was a 10."
Video comments:
hannahwells: my video skills are unmatched
↪️ yourinstagram: thank you for your help as always wellsy <33
randomgirl1: Garrett Graham the God that you are
randomgirl2: The way he kissed her like there was nobody else in the room smh
itsjohnlogan: Get a room
↪️ garrettgraham: We did.
POV: Distance is temporary
Garrett had been gone for three days now.
He had left on the Friday and it was now Monday. An entire weekend without him had sucked. There had been no one there to make you breakfast in the morning, or pick you up from class or hold you tight when you fall to sleep.
You'd been making a short video documenting the time without him.
It started with you and Garrett in his room, laying on his bed together and laughing over something silly.
"I'm going to miss you." You whispered against his chest.
"I know."
"Did you just Star Wars me?" You chuckled. Garrett's chest rose and fell from laughing too.
"Yes. It's romantic."
"The most romantic, actually." You agreed.
Then the video cut to you waving him goodbye on the team bus, with him throwing you a bunch of kisses through the window.
Another video cut to you watching Garrett at the away game on your laptop, cheering when he scored a goal. When he tapped his glove over his heart, you knew that was his way of saying that the goal had been for you.
Then the video cut to you and Garrett on face-time.
"Aren't you going out with the guys?" You asked.
"In a bit." He yawned as he stretched out on the bed. "Are you at mine?"
"Mhm." You showed him a bit more of the background around you to confirm that you were in his room.
"Fuck I wish I was there too."
Your eyes softened and you couldn't contain the smile that his words brought out of you. "Wish you were here too. But you're not... so go and celebrate your win instead."
"I will. I just want to talk to you first."
Then the video cut to a POV from one of the guys' phone, filming Garrett at the party to celebrate their win.
"This is a party, Graham!" Logan shouted.
Garrett was too focused on texting you to even notice Logan's voice, let alone the camera filming him.
Finally the video cut to you slightly pacing the small length of Garrett's bedside, anticipating him walking through his bedroom door any moment.
When the door creaked open you didn't waste a moment to go over and jump on him for an all-encompassing hug. Garrett chuckled as you koala-beared yourself around him, stuffing you face into his neck to burrow yourself away. His bag fell to the floor with a thump and he walked further into his room so he could shut the door behind him.
Garrett's arms shifted beneath your body to hike you higher up his body.
"Nice to see you too."
Video comments:
itsjohnlogan: He genuinely didn't hear a word I said. He was locked-in on your texts
↪️ yourinstagram: aweee :(((
alliecat: MY FAVE COUPLE
↪️ hannahwells: so true bestie
randomgirl1: when is it my turn /gen
randomgirl2: i'm so sick of my FYP constantly showing me this couples relationship... (*scrolls through entirety of yoursinstagram feed*)
garrettgraham: <3
He's a man written by a woman
The idea of the video was sent to you by Sabrina, who said it was the most Garrett Graham-coded thing ever.
It relied on you montaging together loads of moments from the beginning of your relationship until now - but moments that specifically showed that Garrett Graham was a man written by a woman. If you know, you know.
The first few clips were of Garrett carrying your bags around.
"How many books does one person need?" Garrett's muscles flexed as he lifted the two bags of books out of the trunk of his car.
"Did you really just ask me that." You laughed, filming him pretending to do some bicep curls with the bags.
"I can't even hold your hand now."
"We're literally walking 20 metres from your car to your house."
"I agree - It's outrageous."
The next clip was you holding your phone up in front of the bathroom mirror. You had just taken some photos with him, because you liked the lighting in here and you were always looking for an excuse to have more photos together.
You quickly pressed record when you noticed Garrett fiddling with your necklace, frowning when he saw that the small letter 'G' was at the back of your neck rather than the front. He moved it around, carefully.
"There. Much better." He kissed your cheek.
It was clips like that where Garrett had been paying such close attention to you that he never even noticed you filming.
Your favourite video clip was barely visible, because you'd taken it at night.
Garrett and you were tucked well underneath his duvet.
"Stop."
You were still attempting to shove your camera in his face rather than listen to him. "Hold still."
"No. You'll film me and send it to the guys and I will forever lead a sad and regretful life." He continued to swat your arms away.
"Baby, please! You look so cute."
"Cute? I'm not cute."
"Your hair is literally scraped back, with a bright pink elastic, into a tiny ponytail right now." You tried to reason with him. That sentence alone should allow you to film without any restrictions.
Garrett groaned and lay flat on his back, staring up at the ceiling. You curled up next to him and brought the camera to hover above both of you so you could show off his hair styled.
You giggled again.
It was only when you went to upload the video and subsequently watched it back, that you noticed Garrett's whole demeanour soften when you laughed and he stopped pretending like this moment was the bane of his existence.
Video comments:
hannahwells: he's so book boyfriend coded
↪️ alliecat: agreed
↪️ sabrinaaa: agreed
↪️ itsgraceivers: agreed
↪️ garrettgraham: What does this even mean?
deandilaurentis: Setting the bar WAY to high G
↪️ itsjohnlogan: Preach
Interviewing him
It felt like Christmas day when your mini-microphone arrived in the mail.
After setting it up, you immediately went to try it out on your boyfriend.
Garrett was grabbing a snack from the fridge, shirtless and grey sweatpants - because he knew they were your weakness and he was a masochist.
Your phone was recording him as you spoke into the microphone behind the camera, "How does it feel dating the funniest girl alive?"
You pointed the tiny microphone over to Garrett, who looked at you like you'd grown a third eye.
"What?" He smiled, shutting the fridge with his leg and a bunch of things to make a sandwich in his hands.
"How does it feel dating the funniest girl alive?" You asked again.
Garrett shook his head over your antics, before giving in - because honestly who even was he if he wasn't giving you anything you wanted?
"Honestly, it’s a lot of pressure. I have to laugh at least 65% of the time just to keep her ego in check."
You scoffed behind the camera. The video caught the beginning of Garrett laughing out loud, but you walked off in a huff to avoid giving him the satisfaction of winning this conversation.
Video comments:
alliecat: Was this the day that you ignored Garrett for the entire day and he followed you around like a lost puppy because he genuienly thought you were upset?
↪️ yourinstagram: yes
↪️ garrettgraham: Still trying to get her to love me again...
Summary: You transferred to Briar U to become a ghost, desperate to outrun your controlling ex. When your past finally catches up to you in the middle of a lecture hall, Dean Di Laurentis makes one thing perfectly clear: you are under his protection now.
Hurt/Comfort
Warnings: not proofread yet, probably shitty because I haven't written anything in months, mentions of toxic/controlling relationships, stalking, anxiety, graphic violence, Protective!Dean in full force
A/N: I don't know how good it is because it's been a while since i've last written something and tbh I didn't finish the first season, only read the books 5 times. But I hope you like it and after my finals I will be back with more fics. You can totally spam my box with requests if you's like. But I won't be writing anything for like 3 whole weeks. I am so stressed I can't even exist. Anyway. Feedback is much appreciated. Take care of yourselves and lots of love! What do we think of a part 2?
Words: 2.6k
Requested here!
The booth at Malone’s was designed to comfortably fit six people. Currently, it held four massive hockey players, Hannah, and you. Which meant you were practically sitting in Dean Di Laurentis’s lap.
Not that he was complaining.
"I’m just saying," John Logan argued from across the sticky table, pointing a french fry at Tucker, "if you actually passed the puck instead of trying to be the hero, we would’ve scored in the second period."
"I was open!" Tucker shot back. "You’re just blind, Johnny!"
Garrett Graham, wedged next to them, rolled his eyes and stole a sip of Hannah’s beer. "You’re both idiots. Just drink."
You tuned out the hockey talk, mostly because Dean’s fingers were currently drawing lazy, distracting circles on the denim of your jeans, right at your knee.
When you transferred to Briar to escape the wreckage of your last relationship, your plan was simple: keep your head down, go to class, and stay invisible. You didn't plan on meeting Dean Di Laurentis. You definitely didn't plan on sleeping with him.
Twice.
The problem? The sex was mind-blowing, and Dean was shockingly attentive, which meant you had to pull the emergency brake. Two hookups could be written off as a fluke. Three times was a pattern. Three times meant you were knocking on the door of a relationship, and you didn't do boyfriends anymore. Not after the suffocating mess you’d left behind in your hometown.
You’d drawn a hard line.
Dean, however, treated that line like a mild suggestion.
"I'm going to grab another round before Logan and Tuck start throwing punches," Hannah announced, sliding out of the booth. "Don't kill each other."
"You're ignoring me," Dean murmured. He dropped his arm over the back of the booth behind your head, leaning in so close you could smell his expensive cologne mixed with draft beer.
"I'm listening to Logan and Tuck," you replied, keeping your eyes on your cup. "It’s very educational."
"I can think of better things to do than listen to Logan." Dean's voice dropped to that low, raspy pitch he knew exactly how to use. His thumb dragged a fraction higher on your thigh."You're wearing that perfume again," he murmured, a sound that completely bypassed your brain and went straight to your stomach.
"Shut up, Di Laurentis," you shot back, taking a desperate sip of your drink.
"I know you have this ridiculous rule about a third time meaning we're suddenly married, but come on, beautiful," he chuckled, his breath ghosting over your jaw. " You can’t stop thinking about it either. I promise I’ll make you forget why you ever made that rule in the first place."
"Read my lips, Di Laurentis," you said, turning your head just enough to give him a flat look. "We are done."
He just smirked, his thumb pressing a little firmer against your thigh. "Liar."
You opened your mouth to tell him his ego was writing checks his charm couldn't cash, but Hannah suddenly slid back into the booth, thumping a heavy plastic pitcher onto the table.
"Malone's is officially a zoo," she announced, dropping into the space next to Garrett. She wiped condensation off her hands, then paused, her eyes darting over to you. "Hey, did you tell someone we were coming here?"
You frowned. "No. Why?"
"Because some guy just stopped me by the bar," Hannah said, her brow furrowed. "Tall, dark hair, preppy polo shirt. He had this crazy intense look on his face. He asked if I knew a Y/N who just transferred here. I told him no, but... It gave me the creeps, honestly."
The buzz from the vodka evaporated.
Your stomach did a horrific, Olympic-level flip. It was an instant, violent spike of adrenaline. A cold sweat broke out across the back of your neck, and suddenly the loud, chaotic noise of the bar felt like it was pressing against your eardrums.
He’s here.
You stared at the condensation pooling on the wooden table, your brain short-circuiting.
Beside you, Dean completely misread the situation. He thought you were just giving him the silent treatment. He leaned his weight against you, his chest pressing into your shoulder.
"Come on, beautiful," Dean coaxed, his voice dropping right into your ear. "Stop playing hard to get. Let's get out of here."
The feeling of being boxed into the booth suddenly shifted from annoying to terrifying. You felt trapped.
You snapped your head up to tell Dean to back the hell off, your heart hammering against your ribs. But as you looked past him, your eyes landed on the front entrance.
Standing by the bouncer, looking exactly like the entitled prick he was, was your ex-boyfriend.
Your breath caught in your throat. Fight or flight kicked in, and your body chose flight.
You didn't care about looking cool, and you didn't care about explaining yourself. You just needed to get out of his line of sight before he spotted you.
You shoved Dean’s arm away and scrambled to get your feet under you.
"Move," you choked out.
Dean looked startled. "Whoa, hey, what—"
"Dean, let me out!" you snapped, practically climbing over his knees. You abandoned your jacket, hit the sticky floor, and bolted toward the back hallway. You pushed past a group of frat guys and burst through the heavy metal door into the freezing alleyway.
A second later, the heavy door swung open again. You heard Garrett swearing under his breath, followed by Hannah’s worried voice.
The night was officially over.
The heavy front door of the house slammed shut, cutting off the biting wind.
Garrett took one look at you—at the way your arms were wrapped tightly around your ribs, your face completely bloodless—and didn't ask a single question.
"Upstairs. Now," he muttered, shoving Logan and Tucker down the hall before they could open their mouths.
Hannah hesitated, giving you a tight, worried smile, before following Garrett's lead.
You walked straight into the kitchen on autopilot, grabbing the edge of the marble island to keep your knees from buckling. You were shaking like a leaf, and it definitely wasn't the weather.
Footsteps squeaked against the hardwood floor.
Dean walked into the kitchen and stopped a good five feet away, leaning his hip against the opposite counter.
The silence stretched, thick and suffocating.
"I’m an ass," Dean said.
His voice was flat, totally stripped of its usual lazy drawl. You looked up. He was running a hand through his blond hair, his jaw tight, looking genuinely stressed.
"Dean—"
"No, let me finish," he interrupted, holding up a hand. "I'm an idiot. I completely misread that," Dean dragged a hand down his face, dropping his gaze to the floor. "We had a deal—you said two times was it, and I kept pushing. I crowded you in that booth, and you looked like you were suffocating. I crossed a line, and I’m sorry."
You let out an exhausted breath. Dean Di Laurentis—actual playboy extraordinaire—was standing in his kitchen apologizing because he thought his flirting had sent you into a panic attack.
"Dean," you said softly, your voice shaking. "It wasn't you."
His brow furrowed, his hazel eyes snapping up to meet yours. "What are you talking about? You couldn't get out of that booth fast enough."
"I wasn't running from you," you admitted, hugging yourself tighter. "I panicked because of what Hannah said. And because when I snapped my head up to tell you to back off... I saw someone."
Dean went perfectly still. The confusion on his face lingered for a split second before sharpening into intense focus. "Saw who?"
"My ex-boyfriend." The words tasted like ash. "The guy I transferred here to get away from."
Dean didn't move. "He was at Malone's?"
You nodded, a humiliating tear spilling over your lashes. "I didn't move to Briar for a fresh start. I came here because I was running away from him."
Dean stayed quiet, letting you set the pace. He didn't pace the room, and he didn't raise his voice.
"He didn't hit me," you said, your voice cracking. "I know people always assume that's what it takes to run. But he just... he owned me. If we had an argument, he would literally stand in front of the door so I couldn't leave the room until I gave in and apologized. He alienated my friends. He made me feel like I was crazy for wanting to exist outside of his control. By the time I finally packed my car and left, I felt like a ghost."
You wiped angrily at your cheek, staring at the marble counter. "I moved here to be invisible. I thought I was safe. And he was standing right there by the bouncers."
The air in the kitchen completely changed.
The guilt that had been weighing Dean down evaporated, swallowed up by a profound, heavy stillness. You could see the exact moment the pieces clicked together in his head—the realization of why you hated feeling cornered, why you were so fiercely independent, why you put up so many walls.
Dean was a hockey player; he had a temper. You could see the anger flare in his eyes, dark and sharp, but he brutally forced it down. He seemed to understand, instinctively, that you didn't need to see another man lose his temper right now.
"Okay," Dean said softly. His voice was incredibly calm, level, and steady. "Did he see you?"
You shook your head, "I... I don't think so."
"Good." He took a slow, deliberate step forward, keeping his hands visible and his body language completely relaxed. "He doesn't know where you live. He doesn't know who you're with."
Dean slowly reached out. He just offered his hand, palm up, resting it on the marble counter between you. An invitation, not a demand.
You stared at his large, calloused hand for a second before slowly sliding yours into it. His fingers immediately wrapped around yours in a warm, solid grip.
"I know we have an arrangement," Dean said, his thumb brushing a slow, rhythmic circle over your knuckles to help ground you. "You call your own shots. I respect that."
He paused, making sure you were looking him in the eye.
"But you are my friend," Dean continued, "And you are standing in my house. Which means you are officially under my protection. I don't care how annoying this guy is. He doesn't get to breathe the same air as you."
The quiet, absolute certainty in his voice did more to calm your racing heart than any loud threat ever could. He wasn't posturing for his own ego; he was just stating a fact.
A small, surprised laugh escaped you. "You're going to act like my bodyguard now, Di Laurentis?"
A faint, familiar smirk finally touched the corner of Dean's mouth, though his eyes remained entirely serious. "Somebody has to keep the country club rejects away from you. Besides, Garrett would kill me if I let a guy in a polo shirt terrorize our house."
It had been four days since Malone’s, and you were almost convinced you were safe.
You were sitting in your Tuesday morning Psychology lecture, tucked into your usual seats near the back. Dean slouched next to you, his long legs stretched out into the aisle. He tapped his pen rhythmically against his notebook while the professor droned on about cognitive dissonance.
The heavy doors at the front of the lecture hall swung open.
A guy walked in and handed a slip of paper to the professor. A transfer student.
One look at the arrogant set of his shoulders, the dark hair, and the expensive preppy sweater sent all the blood rushing out of your head. The air vanished from your lungs. You shrank back against your plastic chair, your hands immediately curling into tight fists in your lap as a cold sweat broke out across your skin.
He had actually enrolled at Briar.
Beside you, Dean felt the violent shift in your posture. The tapping stopped. "Hey," he whispered. "What is it?"
You gave a tiny, almost imperceptible shake of your head, keeping your eyes fixed on the front of the room.
Dean followed your line of sight. He studied the new guy finding a seat three rows down. The pieces clicked together instantly in Dean's head—the preppy clothes, the dark hair, and the sheer terror radiating off you. He recognized the guy from the door at Malone's.
Dean sat up straight, locking his jaw into a hard, rigid line. For the remaining forty minutes of the lecture, he remained terrifyingly still, his eyes burning a hole into the back of your ex's head.
"Class dismissed," the professor finally announced, snapping his laptop shut and briskly walking out the side door.
The hall erupted into the chaotic noise of zippers, scraping chairs, and overlapping conversations. You shoved your notebook into your backpack with shaking hands, desperate to blend into the crowd and escape through the back doors before he spotted you.
But your ex was already turning around. His eyes locked onto yours.
That familiar, entitled smirk crawled onto his face. He grabbed his bag and marched up the stairs, heading straight for your row.
Dean stood up. He slung his backpack over his left shoulder and stepped smoothly out of your row, planting his massive, athlete frame directly in the middle of the aisle to block the stairs.
Your ex stopped a few steps below him, letting out an annoyed sigh. "Excuse me, buddy. You're in the way."
Dean held his ground, staring down at him with a look of cold, absolute apathy.
Your ex scoffed, his ego flaring up. "Hey, deaf guy. Move. I need to talk to my girlfriend."
Dean dropped his backpack, shifted his weight, and threw a brutal, devastating right hook.
The sickening crack of Dean's knuckles connecting with bone echoed sharply in the thinning lecture hall.
The force of the punch lifted your ex entirely off his feet. He flew backward, crashing hard into a wooden desk before crumpling to the linoleum floor in a heap. A few remaining students gasped, freezing in their tracks. Nobody dared to intervene.
Your ex groaned, rolling onto his side. He clutched his face, blood instantly pouring from his shattered nose and dripping onto his pristine sweater. He looked up at Dean, his eyes wide with genuine shock and pain.
"What the hell?!" your ex yelled, his voice thick and nasally. He scrambled backward against the desks, staring at Dean like he was a monster. "What the hell was that for?! I don't even know you!"
Dean stood over him, breathing evenly, casually rolling his shoulders. He flexed his right hand once, his eyes dark and completely devoid of mercy.
"You know why," Dean said. His voice was deathly quiet, carrying a promise of so much worse if the guy ever tried to get up.
Dean held his gaze for three agonizing seconds, making sure the message was received loud and clear. Your ex stayed frozen on the floor, too terrified to reach for his fallen bag.
Satisfied, Dean smoothly bent down and picked up his backpack by the strap. The cold, lethal hockey player vanished in a fraction of a second as he turned back to you.
His hazel eyes softened instantly. He stepped back into your row, gently placing his uninjured hand on the small of your back.
"Come on," Dean murmured, his voice warm and perfectly calm, acting as if he hadn't just committed assault in front of a dozen witnesses. "Let's go get some lunch."
I absolutely loved your last Dean story!! I was wondering if you would be able to write about a reader who has never been able to finish, with herself or anyone else, and dean helps her learn.
Beautiful writing!
I would've done that sober
Pairing: Dean Di Laurentis x childhood best friend!reader
⟡ Main Index | ⟡ Archive for Earth-66
a/n: Well that was long, but such a delight to write and soooo so sexy
Classification: Smut +18 | Talks of ex's and sexual dysfunction/insecurity, emotional vulnerability, recreational drug use (NOT DURING SEX), dry humping/grinding, getting caught, fingering, tension and arousal descriptions, orgasm, praise and partial undressing/lingerie.
Word count: 12k
Divider by me ;)
You sat across from the fire pit in the boys’ backyard, elbows resting on the armrests of your chair while the flames cracked softly in front of you both. The night air had turned colder hours ago, but neither of you had gone inside. Dean kept talking and you kept letting him or trying to.
Every time he opened his mouth, you exhaled slowly through your nose as if physically releasing air might stop you from interrupting him.
“He’s an arrogant son of a bitch,” Dean repeated for probably the fifth time that night. He took another drag from the blunt before passing it toward you, smoke curling past his lips as he leaned back deeper into the chair.
“That’s what pisses me off the most,” he continued, staring hard into the fire like your ex-boyfriend personally offended him. “He had no clue what he was doing in the relationship from day one and still had the confidence to ask you out.” His jaw tightened slightly. “Usually I respect delusion like that, but that guy’s a fucking disaster.”
You accepted the blunt with a quiet sigh.
Dean had been ranting for nearly a week straight now. Anyone overhearing him would’ve assumed he’d been the one publicly dumped in the cafeteria instead of you but he’d been there when it happened, front row seats to your ex fumbling through excuses while half your friends sat frozen around the table pretending not to listen. Maybe that was enough for Dean.
Now, instead of being out partying with the rest of the team, he sat outside with you night after night, sharing weed and acting personally victimized by your breakup.
“Dean,” you finally interrupted, tone firm.
He stopped talking immediately.
You inhaled slowly before looking over at him through the smoke, holding his gaze while you exhaled. “It’s okay.”
Dean’s expression flattened instantly. “We have very different definitions of okay.”
His eyes drifted back toward the fire for a second, replaying the memory again. You could practically see it happening behind his eyes, the cafeteria, your expression and your ex stumbling through his speech.
“You should’ve let me talk to him,” he muttered.
“What good would that have done?” You brought the blunt back to your lips, inhaling before handing it over again. “It’s not his fault.”
Dean’s head snapped toward you so fast he nearly dropped the thing. “The fuck does that mean?”
You almost rolled your eyes at the offense in his tone. Instead, you looked away toward the fire again, watching orange light flicker against the patio stones.
“I’m lost here,” he scoffed. “Is being wrapped around another girl at a party three hours after dumping you not a dick move now?”
A laugh slipped out of you before you could stop it. “Dean,” you said gently, finally turning your head toward him again. “I think I’m the only person who wasn’t surprised by the breakup.”
His brows furrowed.
You shrugged one shoulder lightly. “He just beat me to it.”
“Oh.” The word left him quietly. Dean looked away immediately afterward, dragging a hand over his mouth while he gathered his thoughts before glancing back at you. “That’s the first time I’m hearing about that.”
He passed the blunt over again.
You took it carefully, staring down at it between your fingers for a second before answering.
“Yeah, well...” You inhaled deeply, smoke burning pleasantly in your lungs before you let it back out slowly. “You’ve got other business to worry about.”
Dean huffed out a laugh instantly. “You are my business.” The certainty in his voice made your lips curl before you could stop them. “So start talking.”
He always did that. Dean had this way of making honesty feel inevitable. The two of you talked about everything, always had. He knew things about you your closest friends didn’t. Hell, he’d bought condoms for you the first time you planned on sleeping with someone because you’d been too embarrassed to walk into the store yourself.
You moved deeper into the chair, pulling one leg beneath you while you searched carefully for the right words. “Um…” You inhaled again, then blurted it out before your brain could stop you. “I suck at the sex thing.”
Dean’s face twisted immediately in disagreement as you passed the blunt. “Bullshit.”
You laughed softly. “No, seriously. I do.” You rubbed awkwardly at your neck before continuing. “Turns out not being able to cum eventually becomes an issue when your partner realizes you never actually have with them.”
Dean’s expression changed instantly. Every conversation you’d ever had about sex clearly started replaying in his head at once because confusion hit him violently.
“But you told me–”
“I lied.” The words came out easier than expected. You shrugged lightly, though your stomach still tightened. “I’ve been lying for years...Faking it until I got tired of faking it and started bruising egos.” A humorless smile tugged briefly at your mouth. “Including mine.”
Dean stayed quiet now so you stared into the fire instead.
“I just…” You exhaled slowly. “I don’t think sex is really my thing.” Your shoulders lifted. “I like the idea of it. I enjoy parts of it…but everyone talks about this huge explosive ending and I just…” You shook your head. “Don’t get there…naturally people stop believing you when you say it was still good.”
Dean watched you carefully. “Was it?”
“The sex?” You let the silence drag for a second before shrugging again. “I think so.” Your lips twitched faintly. “It was good enough to build better stories around afterward.”
Dean stopped smoking entirely after that. The blunt burned slowly between his fingers while he stared down at it, suddenly looking far more sober than either of you probably were. He looked like he was trying to organize his thoughts before speaking again.
“How about alone?” The question came softly, carefully.
If you didn’t know him so well, you might’ve mistaken the look on his face for pity. Thankfully, you did know him, which meant you recognized concern immediately.
You shook your head slowly. “That’s why I’m saying it’s not his fault.”
“It’s not yours either,” Dean argued as he flicked the rest of the blunt into the fire pit before continuing. “It just hasn’t happened yet.” His voice softened further. “Doesn’t mean it never will.”
You let out a slow breath, eyes closing briefly as the weed finally started loosening the tension sitting on your shoulders. “It’s definitely not from lack of trying.”
You could feel him staring at you even with your eyes closed.
The silence stretched comfortably after your confession, softened by the crackling fire and the distant chorus of crickets surrounding the backyard. The flames had started dying down, wood collapsing inward with quiet snaps while smoke drifted lazily into the cold night air.
Dean still hadn’t looked away from you. “So what now?” he asked finally.
You swallowed slowly, still keeping your eyes shut. For a second or maybe an entire minute, Dean genuinely thought you’d fallen asleep mid-conversation.
Then your lips twitched. “Celibacy.”
The offended sound that tore out of him made your smile widen. You heard him trying to hold it back too, which honestly made it funnier but this was Dean. Subtle outrage had never once existed in his body.
“Think I’d look hot as a nun?” you asked lazily.
“You’d look hot in a banana costume wearing clown shoes six sizes too big,” he replied instantly. “And you’re absolutely not dropping out of Briar to become a nun. End of discussion.”
His tone came out firm enough to sound ridiculous considering he had absolutely no authority over your life whatsoever.
You finally peeled your eyes open to look at him. The weed had settled into your bones now, leaving you heavy and relaxed against the chair. Dean looked hazy too, hair falling perfectly while the firelight flickered warm across his face.
“You’re not giving up because some five-eleven idiot couldn’t be patient long enough to figure you out.”
You grinned. “He’s six-one.”
Dean scoffed. “He tried out for the Hawks freshman year. Trust me, he’s five-eleven.”
Your brows lifted. Dean kept going without needing encouragement, already slipping into that protective streak he pretended wasn’t there. He always collected information about people around you, quietly filing it away for future use whenever he deemed necessary.
“He was wearing lifts during tryouts,” Dean added smugly. “One bad pivot and the guy almost snapped an ankle.”
A laugh escaped you softly.
“If you wanna stop having sex altogether, God forbid–”
“You should become a priest,” you interrupted.
Dean barked out a laugh, tipping his head back. “Yeah,” he nodded. “It’d probably take a year and a half to cleanse my sins.” He pointed toward himself loosely. “And that’s assuming I don’t burst into flames the second I walk into a church.” His eyes drifted back to you. “Can I continue now?”
“Yes, Father,” you replied through a chuckle.
Dean shook his head, smiling despite himself before settling deeper into his chair again.
“If you really wanna do the celibacy thing, fine.” He shrugged dramatically. “I’ll support you. We’ll find support groups together and hold hands through the trauma.” His mouth twitched. “Though personally, I’d go through withdrawals first.”
“How solidary of you.”
He nodded solemnly. “Exactly. Plus I can probably add it to my extracurriculars somehow.”
You laughed harder at that, shoulders shaking slightly as you leaned back into the chair. “You’re so fucking stupid.”
Dean watched you carefully while you laughed. The sound came out lighter than anything he’d heard from you all week, chest rising and falling unevenly while your eyes squeezed shut again for a second and suddenly the conversation stopped feeling funny to him.
Because underneath the jokes, underneath the weed and the teasing, he kept thinking about what you’d actually said earlier. About you trying and nothing happening.
Dean loved sex. Everyone knew that much about him but you did too or at least you loved wanting it, loved feeling desired, loved the intimacy, the heat and everything wrapped around it and now all he could think about was how frustrating that must’ve been for you. Wanting something everyone else talked about so easily only for your body not to cooperate no matter how hard you tried.
The thought sat badly in his chest. Dean looked down at the dying fire for a second before his eyes lifted back to you.
“Use me,” he blurted out.
Your laughter faded gradually after his words, the smile still lingering at the corners of your mouth while your eyes settled back on him even more carefully this time.
“What do you mean?”
Dean didn’t even hesitate. “I’ll be your last resort,” he repeated easily, like he’d already thought this through far more than he probably had. “Aren’t you always telling me to make myself useful?”
You narrowed your eyes, blinking slowly through the haze settling heavier behind them.
“What exactly are you suggesting?” You rubbed at one eye with the heel of your hand. “Because I’m starting to think I hallucinated that sentence.”
“I hold my weed better than you,” he reminded you smugly.
That part, unfortunately, was true. Dean leaned forward in his chair, elbows resting against his knees now, all lazy amusement gone strangely sincere beneath the teasing.
“You wanna quit? Fine.” He shrugged. “Quit when you’re actually out of options.”
A quiet huff left you, somewhere between disbelief and laughter. “Didn’t realize Six Flags counted as an option.” Your lips twitched faintly. “I hate rollercoasters.”
Dean nodded decisively. “Then I’ll go out of business.”
“You’ll close the park?”
“I’ll shut the whole thing down,” he promised solemnly. “Just so you can ride the teacups.” The grin spreading across his face warned you half a second too late. “Remember when you threw up on the–”
“Yes,” you cut him off immediately, flat and horrified. “I remember.”
Dean laughed anyway. Full-bodied, warm and entirely too pleased with himself as he pointed at you. “You were crying,” he accused through the laughter. “You kept saying your stomach hated you–”
“I was fifteen.”
“And dramatic.” He added. “But so cute…less mouthy too.”
“You held my hair while I threw up into a trash can behind the funnel cake stand.”
Dean’s laughter softened slightly at that memory. Back then he’d been genuinely terrified something was wrong with you. He’d hovered beside you the entire night looking pale enough to pass out himself while you recovered on a bench wrapped in his sweatshirt. Now he just looked fond.
You glanced away first, eyes dropping back toward the dying fire while your thoughts started turning over his earlier suggestion again despite yourself.
It could go horribly. Actually, no, it would go horribly. There were at least seventeen reasons this crossed every boundary imaginable. You already hated rollercoasters, hated fast turns and hated giving up control over literally anything involving your body and Dean…Well, Dean was Dean.
Confident, experienced, annoyingly good-looking and unarguably good at sex if campus rumors counted for anything and unfortunately they definitely did. You hadn’t exactly conducted research firsthand but after years of hearing stories from girls around campus, the reviews were embarrassingly consistent.
“You really think that highly of your dick?” you asked finally.
Dean shrugged lazily against the chair. “Nobody said anything about using it.”
That made your eyes snap back to him fully. “And if nothing works?” you asked quieter this time.
The question slipped out more honestly than intended because suddenly you weren’t thinking about sex anymore. You were thinking about aftermaths, about what happened if this ruined things between you. Dean had woven himself into your life years ago so naturally that imagining him gone felt impossible now.
You genuinely didn’t know how you’d survive losing him too.
Dean studied you for a second and for once the confidence in his face softened into something steadier. “Then we fail,” he decided.
You swallowed.
His grin returned slowly afterward, softer around the edges. “Fail with me,” he corrected. “Fail better.” He pointed between you both lazily. “Fail together.”
A laugh escaped you despite every effort not to give him one.
You rolled your eyes hard enough to make him grin wider, shaking your head while the weed continued smoothing the sharp corners off your thoughts. The night air no longer felt cold against your skin and embarrassment had slowly stopped existing somewhere during the conversation. Maybe that was the dangerous part and not Dean’s suggestion but how easy it suddenly felt to consider it.
You didn’t bring it up again for the rest of the night and neither did Dean.
When the rest of the guys stumbled back into the house loud and half-drunk sometime after midnight, he changed back into normal so smoothly it almost irritated you. He made sure you had food, water, your charger and then bullied one of the sober freshmen into driving you home while standing outside by the car until you pulled away like he always did.
You slept absurdly well afterward.
A heavy sleep and dreamless night, the type that glued you to the mattress the next morning until sunlight was already cutting aggressively through your blinds. By the time you shuffled out with an oversized hoodie you were certain was your ex’s, your phone was buzzing with unread texts from Dean sent hours earlier, probably before morning practice.
You ignored every single one and it wasn’t because of regret. Embarrassment simply crawled into your chest somewhere between the first and third spoonful of cereal and decided to settle there permanently.
The entire conversation replayed so clearly now that you were sober. “Use me,” You nearly groaned into the bowl.
Three hours of class helped, at least temporarily. You sat near the back of the massive amphitheater classroom while your professor rambled enthusiastically about the new book he’d conveniently written himself and would definitely require students to purchase before midterms. You probably would’ve absorbed more information if you weren’t scrolling mindlessly through Instagram the entire lecture.
The doors behind you opened quietly midway through class.
You barely paid attention at first since nobody descended the stairs toward the lower rows and a second later the seat beside you groaned softly under someone’s weight.
You recognized the cologne immediately.
“How hard do you think you need to scrub for that scent to leave your skin?” you whispered without looking up.
Dean grinned beside you, leaning closer enough for warmth to brush your shoulder as his eyes dropped toward your phone screen.
You locked it quickly and finally looked at him. “You’re not in this class.”
“I see your phone works perfectly fine,” he replied.
The professor thankfully dismissed class early before you could answer, students immediately growing louder as backpacks zipped and people exited the space.
You stood quickly and started gathering your things. “Did you need something, Di Laurentis?” you asked flatly.
Dean remained seated on purpose, forcing you to awkwardly climb past him to leave the row. The asshole looked entirely too pleased with himself while you muttered under your breath and stepped over his legs.
The second you reached the aisle, he stood and followed.
You walked fast, actually, aggressively fast. Dean almost struggled to keep up at first, his legs clearly still wrecked from morning practice while you marched out of the building like escape itself was the objective. He finally caught you outside near the steps leading toward the quad.
“We need to talk.”
You slowed at last before turning toward him. “What we need is space,” you corrected, motioning firmly between your bodies.
Dean looked down between you both thoughtfully, then took exactly one step backward.
You almost laughed, especially because he looked unbearably smug afterward, standing there grinning in the middle of campus like he deserved a reward for basic listening skills.
“You’ve gone to New York with me enough times to know I don’t need more space,” he pointed out. “But fine.” His expression softened slightly afterward, amusement fading as he studied your face more carefully. “What’s going on?”
Of course, he was right. Dean practically crawled into people’s personal bubbles recreationally, so the fact he’d backed off at all made it harder to flee the conversation entirely.
You exhaled slowly. “We said stuff last night.”
He nodded once, blinking at the tension written all over your face. “Yeah. That’s usually how conversations work.”
“Stuff you might regret,” you clarified.
Dean’s brows lifted before a quiet laugh escaped him. “Regret?” He pointed toward himself loosely. “C’mon. It’s me.”
His voice gentled slightly after and the worst part was he looked relieved, because apparently the phrase ‘stuff you might regret’ translated in Dean’s brain to ‘good, she’s not upset’.
“I would’ve said that sober,” he assured you.
His eyes stayed fixed on yours while your attention darted briefly around campus before returning to him again exactly like he knew it would. Dean stepped closer instinctively, lowering his voice enough that the passing students around you blurred into background noise.
“You want me to repeat it?” he asked quietly. “Let me help you cum.”
Your stomach tightened at his tone of voice. “It might not work,” you reminded him softly.
You hoped your face conveyed the actual problem because this had never been about his ego. Dean could survive failure, he’d probably laugh through it, so that wasn’t what scared you.
Dean shrugged anyway, maddeningly calm. “What if it does?”
“And what if it doesn’t?” Frustration finally slipped into your voice. “Dean, I don’t want us to get weird.” You shook your head hard once. “I don’t need ‘optimistic Dean’ right now,” you muttered. “I need ‘realistic Dean’, so pull him out of your ass.”
“You already are weird,” Dean corrected easily, smiling down at you. “I accepted that years ago.” His grin widened then. “Actually, I encourage it.”
You rolled your eyes, though the corner of your mouth betrayed you.
“Let me try,” he insisted again, the confidence in his voice should’ve irritated you more than it did.
Instead, you found yourself studying him in silence, searching for something off in his expression. Some sign this was ego, curiosity or boredom disguised as concern but he just looked…earnest. Enthusiastic, sure, because he was Dean and apparently incapable of approaching anything halfway but not creepy about it and maybe this was partially your own fault.
You’d spent years talking openly with him about sex, relationships and attraction. About wanting something good someday instead of tolerable, about how when you were old and exhausted with kids running around, you still wanted a partner who looked at you and wanted you back because you were almost certain you’d still want them too.
Dean remembered everything you said…unfortunately.
You sighed heavily. “We need rules.”
“Fine.” He agreed so fast it almost startled you. Dean straightened afterward, nodding once with ridiculous seriousness like the two of you were entering business negotiations instead of whatever disaster this actually was.
You almost reconsidered your next words. Almost.
“No kissing.”
Dean’s shoulders visibly dropped. “Why?”
“Because!” you hissed. “And if we’re doing this, you don’t get to question the rules.”
His face twisted in disbelief. “We’ve kissed before.”
You crossed your arms tighter. “That was different.”
Dean scoffed softly. “We were literally each other’s first kiss.”
Again, he was right. You weren’t just each other’s first kiss either, a few firsts existed between you both scattered through years of friendship and growing up side by side, all except for sex. There was awkward teenage curiosity, truth or dare disasters and one regrettable spin-the-bottle incident Garrett still occasionally referenced against your will.
Which was exactly why kissing now felt dangerous. This couldn’t spiral into some ‘why didn’t we do this sooner’ conversation. It needed boundaries and structure, something detached enough that neither of you accidentally ruined the friendship orbiting underneath all this and selflessly, you also didn’t want the group dragged into the fallout if things exploded.
“We’re adults now,” you said firmly. “So no kissing.”
Dean stared at you for another second before exhaling dramatically.
“Okay,” he relented…Too easily, which immediately made you suspicious he’d already started planning arguments against it for later.
“I’ve also thought about what you said last night,” you continued carefully. “About Six Flags.”
Dean’s brows lifted.
“And shutting down the entire park feels unfair to you,” you explained. “Potentially devastating, honestly.” Your lips twitched slightly. “So you can still hook up with other people if you want. I genuinely don’t care.”
Dean actually looked offended. “Didn’t realize I needed permission.”
“You know what I mean.”
“No, I don’t.” His voice sharpened for the first time since the conversation started. “But no thanks.” He shrugged once. “It makes this more exciting anyway.” A grin tugged briefly at his mouth again. “I’ve got one ride right now and that’s all I need.”
Your face scrunched at his words. “Does weed somehow make you an even bigger asshole?”
Dean ignored that completely. “I’m not doing anything with anyone else until we’re done here,” he repeated firmly. The teasing disappeared entirely from his voice that time and there was no smugness either, just certainty.
You quieted automatically when a group of students passed nearby, a few of them recognizing Dean instantly and greeting him as they crossed the quad. He responded absentmindedly without taking his eyes off you once.
The second they moved far enough away, you continued. “Why?”
Dean’s expression softened at the question. “Because I need you comfortable,” he answered simply. “And I need you to trust me more than you already do.”
You groaned. “Oh my God,” you muttered, dragging a hand down your face. “You’re making this weird.”
He grinned at your reaction while you grabbed his sleeve and started pulling him further across campus before more people stopped to talk to him. Dean let you drag him along without resistance, looking far too entertained by the whole thing.
“We don’t even know how long this will take,” you pointed out.
“My fist works perfectly fine in the meantime,” Dean decided easily.
You looked up at him so fast your neck almost hurt.
Dean pressed his lips together, visibly trying not to laugh at the pure disbelief written across your face. His head tilted slightly, hair strands falling over his forehead while he watched you stare at him like he’d just confessed to tax fraud.
Your gaze dropped away first.
Contrary to what everyone on campus believed, Dean didn’t actually need constant hookups to survive. He liked the reputation, liked exaggerating it even more whenever it annoyed you enough to argue back or laugh at him but underneath all that, he could handle himself perfectly fine.
Unfortunately for you, he seemed almost smug about proving that now.
“Can I add rules too?” he asked.
You sighed dramatically. “Sure.”
The two of you kept walking through campus side by side, your pace slower now that the conversation had moved on from terrifying to merely humiliating.
“No scheduling things specifically for this,” Dean decided. “If it happens, it happens.”
You blinked once before nodding slowly. “Yeah. Okay.” Relief actually loosened something in your chest at that. “That’s good. I’ll stress less.”
Dean glanced sideways at you, probably pleased you agreed so quickly…Except his rule immediately created entirely new problems.
“Uh…” Your steps slowed slightly. “How do you…” You scratched awkwardly at your eyebrow. “Take it?”
Dean stopped walking altogether. “How do I take what?” he asked carefully. “My coffee?”
You groaned. “No.” Your hand motioned vaguely between the two of you in a series of gestures that explained absolutely nothing. “Like…how do you like it?”
Dean’s brows lifted as realization hit him almost visibly.
You looked away at once. “Fuck,” you muttered under your breath. “Do I need to be clean shaven constantly or not?” Your voice lowered progressively through the sentence while your eyes darted around campus to make sure nobody nearby overheard you discussing grooming preferences in broad daylight.
Dean stared at you for half a second too long before answering.
“Y/n.” The seriousness in his tone made your eyes flicker back toward him. “The day I tell you what to do with your body, you better knock me unconscious.”
Your mouth parted slightly.
“I’ll literally kneel for it if that makes it easier,” he continued firmly. “Do whatever makes you comfortable.”
And he meant it. Dean would enjoy it either way, obviously, but that wasn’t what mattered to him here. What mattered was getting you out of your own head long enough to actually enjoy yourself instead of performing comfort for someone else.
You blinked slowly at him because suddenly your ex’s comments replayed in your head with uncomfortable clarity. Little preferences disguised as jokes and suggestions repeated enough times to become expectations and judging by the expression tightening briefly across Dean’s face, he’d realized exactly where your question came from too.
That only made you feel worse somehow. Your attention drifted toward the students moving around campus nearby.
You suddenly wondered if people would notice eventually. The same way older women always claimed they somehow knew when girls became sexually active. Weird comments about posture and confidence, wider hips and glowing skin that sounded fake until suddenly you became the target of them too.
Your stomach tightened faintly. “What are we supposed to tell people?”
Dean barely hesitated. “To mind their own fucking business.”
You snorted softly.
He looked over at you again, entirely serious despite the amusement still lingering around his mouth. “Just like I’m doing mine.”
The rest of the week passed almost painfully normal.
There were parties, late-night food runs, afternoons sprawled around the boys’ house while someone yelled at a video game in the background and hockey games while Dean acted exactly the same as always. You spent time with Hannah and Allie between classes and after them, listened to Garrett complain dramatically about assignments he’d started twelve hours before they were due, watched Tucker cook enough food for six grown men while Logan disappeared upstairs with company more often than not.
Nothing changed.
Dean still touched your shoulder when he walked past you, still stole fries off your plate and still looked at you too long whenever you laughed at something stupid and somehow that made the entire thing worse because half the time you genuinely convinced yourself you’d imagined the whole conversation by the fire pit entirely.
Maybe the weed had made you both insane and none of it was real.
You sat curled up on the floor of the boys’ living room later that week with your knees tucked to your chest, a notebook balanced across your thighs while formulas blurred together across the page. Your back rested against the couch and the TV played quietly in the background though neither of you actually paid attention to it.
Dean sat opposite you in the armchair, long legs spread comfortably while he hunched over his own notebook with far more concentration than anyone would expect from him or maybe not because he took hockey so seriously. He took school seriously too, despite pretending otherwise whenever possible but unfortunately for you, he also looked unfairly good doing homework.
You tried focusing on your own work, tried hard. Instead, your eyes kept lifting toward him between equations, your brain repeatedly snagging on the memory of everything he’d said days earlier and the fact neither of you had taken any of it back…or done a single thing about it.
“What’d you get for number three?” Dean’s voice pulled you from your thoughts but still didn’t look up from his notebook.
You blinked down at your own page, trying to remember where your brain had abandoned the assignment entirely.
“C,” you answered eventually. “But I’m not confident about it.”
Dean hummed thoughtfully. “I’ve done the math twice and I keep getting B.”
You reread the problem slowly, trying to force your attention into place. “Then it’s probably B.”
Dean finally looked up at that, one brow lifting. “You’re admitting you’re wrong?”
You snorted softly. Honestly, it was extremely possible. Your brain hadn’t functioned properly all week because you kept thinking about him offering himself up like some absurdly confident science experiment.
“Don’t need to dig through my family tree to know I’m not descended from Isaac Newton.”
A smile tugged slowly across Dean’s mouth as he leaned back in the armchair. “If you are,” he said, eyes dragging over your face, “I’m glad the ugly recessive genes skipped you.”
Your nose scrunched instantly. “What kind of compliment is that?”
“The kind I’m hoping gets you over here to help me.” He motioned you closer lazily with his pointer and middle fingers.
You sighed before setting your notebook on the coffee table and padding across the room toward him. The house was quieter this late afternoon, though not empty. Hannah was upstairs with Garrett, Logan had disappeared into his room hours ago and Tucker was outside training.
“Let’s see,” you murmured.
You bent slightly over Dean and the notebook resting on the armrest, attention dropping fully to the equations scattered across the page. The movement loosened the collar of your shirt enough for cool air to brush your skin.
Dean noticed and his throat cleared quietly.
Your attention remained on the notebook while his eyes betrayed him completely, dropping for one dangerous second to the visible lace of your bra before forcing themselves back upward toward your face instead.
Dean had promised himself he’d take this slow and naturally because the second he acted weird about it, you would too. You’d overthink every movement, every look and accidental touch and unfortunately for him, you’d always been terrifyingly good at reading him.
He moved the notebook slightly farther from you as one hand settled carefully against your hip, guiding you.
You reached automatically for the notebook before he moved it entirely out of reach, successfully grabbing it just as he tugged you forward enough for your balance to tip. A second later you settled directly onto his lap, knees falling naturally to either side of his thighs.
You blinked once. “Smooth,” you muttered, adjusting yourself carefully without looking at him. “I’ll give you that.”
Dean grinned openly now. You balanced the notebook against his chest like it was a table and reached backward for the pen loosely held in his free hand. His fingers brushed yours before letting go.
“Should be a five,” you corrected while marking over the equation. “Not a seven.” Your brows furrowed slightly. “Your handwriting’s gotten worse over the years.”
“You still read it.”
“I’m not the one grading you.” Your eyes lifted straight into his.
You’d sat on Dean’s lap before, during packed car rides, group trips and random stupid moments over the years where proximity stopped mattering because he was just Dean. This didn’t feel like that, not even close.
“Not in math,” he said quietly.
Only one of his hands touched you still, resting warm and steady against your hip like he was making a conscious effort not to overwhelm you. Whether it was intentional or not, it worked. His eyes drifted downward slowly toward your mouth.
“You should be rating everything else though.” A grin ghosted briefly across his lips. “Pretty sure Six Flags has customer surveys.”
You shook your head once, slow enough that your hair brushed lightly against your cheek. “No ride, no survey.”
Dean’s mouth twitched. His legs spread slightly wider underneath you then, subtle enough that you still felt the change as the apex of your thighs aligned more directly with his. The hand on your hip tightened enough for you to notice. “Go on then,” he murmured.
Your gaze dropped before you could stop it, down to the visible tent pressing insistently against the front of his sweats. Heat climbed your throat immediately.
“Interesting moment you picked,” you muttered softly, eyes flicking briefly toward the rest of the house.
You felt comfortable there. Comfortable enough to leave clothes behind, to wander into the kitchen without asking and to nap on the couch when you got tired during movie nights but knowing the others were still around somewhere made your pulse jump harder instead of calming it.
Dean noticed. “Just focus on me,” he instructed quietly.
Not ‘look at me’, just ‘focus’ which you could do.
You looked at him, seeing the genuine curiosity and lack of judgment in his eyes and for the first time, the wall you'd built around your sexuality felt more like a shield and less like a cage.
Slowly, tentatively, you moved as the gravity of the moment pulled you toward him. You settled your weight directly onto him, feeling the distinct, blunt shape of his cock through the layers of your clothes. He wasn't fully hard yet, just a semi-firm pressure against your clothed pussy but it didn't make you recoil. In fact, it sent a low thrum of anticipation through your nerves.
The air between you grew thick, charged with a tension that felt heavy enough to touch. You remembered your own rule: no kissing. So, you kept your face inches from his but you didn't close the gap. Instead, you focused on the sound of his breathing, which had hitched the moment you sat down. You could feel the warmth of his breath ghosting over your lips, a teasing, invisible touch that made your skin prickle.
Dean’s hand still hovered near your waist, trembling slightly but he didn't grip you. He seemed to be fighting every instinct to pull you closer, respecting the fragile boundary you had set.
"I'm gonna keep my hands off," he whispered, his voice strained and rough. "You just keep moving. Take whatever you're comfortable with."
He pulled his arms back, resting them flat against the seat beside him, leaving you in complete control. The sudden lack of physical contact made the friction between your pelvises feel even more intense. You knew what you were doing, you had enough experience to know how your body worked, even if the 'explosive ending' always eluded you. You began to rock, a slow, tentative grind that pressed your pussy firmly against the length of him as a sharp, jagged exhale escaped his lungs.
You felt him react instantly, the semi-firmness beneath you surged, his cock thickening and hardening rapidly against your center. You rolled your hips in a circular motion, aiming for the sweet spot, feeling the dampness beginning to soak into your underwear. You were getting wetter, the friction creating a sliding, sensual heat that radiated upward into your stomach.
"You still okay?" he breathed out, voice barely a murmur.
You simply nodded and tried to focus entirely on him, wanting to give him something perfect, something that would leave him breathless. You pushed down harder, grinding your clit against the hard ridge of his dick. You watched his face, head falling back against the headrest, leaving his throat exposed and pulsing but he forced his eyes to stay open. He wanted to see you. He wanted to witness the way your expression changed as you found a rhythm that worked.
The intimacy was suffocating in the best way. There was no kissing to distract you and no wandering hands to break the spell, just the raw, rhythmic pressure of friction. You could feel the heat radiating off his thighs, the way his chest heaved in time with your movements as your own breathing became ragged, mirroring his, the sound of your synchronized gasps filling the quiet space.
You felt a small, involuntary moan escape your throat, a soft sound of pleasure that made Dean’s hips jerk upward instinctively, trying to meet your descent. You pressed closer, your mind racing, trying to synchronize your pleasure with his but as the tension built, a familiar frustration began to creep in. You were so close to that peak, that elusive edge but the more you focused on his perfection, the more you felt yourself slipping away from your own. You wanted it, you wanted to break through the ceiling you'd lived under for years and the frustration made you grind harder, more desperately.
You were just beginning to lose yourself in the friction, your body humming with a desperate, electric need, when the spell was shattered.
The heavy thud of footsteps hit the wooden porch outside, then came muffled voices.
Tucker.
The sound slammed into you like ice water dumped straight down your spine.
You jolted backward instantly, panic snapping through your body so violently that your balance disappeared completely. The friction, the heat, the dizzy haze clouding your brain shattered in one humiliating second as you scrambled away from Dean in pure instinct.
Dean’s hands had actually stayed off, so when you lurched backward, there was nothing anchoring you in place, no arm catching your waist or grip steadying you. You slipped right off his lap in a graceless tangle of limbs and landed hard beside the chair with a muffled curse, your pulse hammering violently against your ribs.
Dean moved at the same time you did. One hand grabbed the nearest couch pillow and yanked it straight into his lap while the other instinctively reached toward you, fingers brushing empty air because you were already halfway onto your feet.
The front door opened and you froze.
Your breathing came embarrassingly uneven as you tried forcing your body back under control, thighs trembling faintly from the abrupt stop, nerves buzzing so hard beneath your skin it almost hurt. Dean leaned back into the chair with his head tipped toward the ceiling for one brief second, chest rising sharply beneath his t-shirt while tortured frustration flashed openly across his face before he forced himself together enough to look toward the entryway.
Tucker walked in distractedly, phone pressed to his ear while he kicked the door shut behind him with his shoe.
“–No, because that’s not what I said,” he argued into the phone before finally glancing up.
Dean’s voice came out rough and annoyed. “Can't you knock?”
The irritation in it made your eyes widen and before thinking better of it, you reached over and smacked lightly at his arm which made him look offended for half a second.
Tucker’s brows pulled together slowly as his gaze moved between the two of you…You standing there awkwardly and Dean spread out in the armchair with a pillow aggressively covering his lap.
The TV was still playing, forgotten in the background too.
“Wait,” Tucker muttered into the phone, eyes narrowing slightly. “Hold on.” He lowered the phone away from his ear and motioned vaguely around the living room. “I live here,” he pointed out flatly. “If you two wanna study in complete silence maybe turn the TV down or go to the library.”
Your mouth pressed into a painfully tight smile.
“Hey, Y/n.” he greeted, much more gently.
“Hi,” you replied weakly with an awkward nod.
Tucker gave you one more lingering look before wandering toward the kitchen, already returning to his phone conversation while opening the fridge like absolutely nothing life-altering had just occurred in his living room.
The second he was no longer looking, your eyes snapped back toward Dean, his were already on you, wide and still dark with frustration and lingering heat and approximately ten other emotions you absolutely did not have time to unpack right now.
You hurried toward where you’d abandoned your bag near the couch and started shoving your things inside far too quickly.
Dean muttered a curse under his breath behind you as the fridge door opened again. “Wait, wait, wait,” he whispered urgently.
You ignored him completely, nearly dropping your belongings while trying to zip your bag shut.
“You don’t have to leave,” he continued quietly, unable to stand for reasons both of you were painfully aware of. The pillow remained trapped over his lap while he leaned forward slightly, voice dropping lower. “Stay for dinner.” Then louder, “Right, Tucker?”
From the kitchen, still mid-conversation, Tucker lifted a distracted thumbs up without even looking over. Of course you could stay, you were always welcome there and it somehow made this infinitely worse.
“Y/n, c’mon,” Dean tried again, even softer this time.
You finally looked at him, at his flushed face and the way he still looked wrecked from you despite the interruption.
Your stomach flipped painfully. “You can text me that survey of yours,” you muttered.
Dean groaned quietly at the reminder, watching as you grabbed your bag and headed straight for the front door before your embarrassment could physically consume you alive.
You didn’t say goodbye or looked back. You slipped outside into the cold early evening air and shut the door behind you, immediately dragging in one huge breath like you’d been underwater too long.
Fresh air hit your lungs sharply, cool and tensionless.
Your legs felt weird as you walked down the porch steps and somewhere beneath the embarrassment sat an even more irritating realization. You needed to change your panties and somehow, you still hadn’t come.
For the first time in your academic career, you were thankful exam week existed.
The chaos of midterms had given you and Dean something else to focus on besides the fact you’d nearly climbed him in the middle of his living room while Tucker casually walked through the front door. Between study sessions, essays, last-minute cramming and the general emotional collapse that overtook Briar every semester, things had settled back into something manageable.
You and Dean had talked afterward, though absolutely not alone.
He’d insisted on meeting in a crowded coffee shop near campus where old women typed aggressively on laptops and students cried quietly over textbooks in the corner booths. Dean had spent most of the conversation reassuring you Tucker didn’t know anything, swearing repeatedly that if Tucker had known, the entire hockey house would’ve heard about it within twelve minutes. More importantly, he’d made sure you still wanted this and despite the embarrassment, the frustration and how badly your body still reacted whenever he looked at you too long, you did.
“Are you seriously not coming?” Allie paced dramatically across the apartment while speaking, changing outfits for what had to be the fourth time in under an hour. Both you and Hannah tracked her movements from the couch like spectators at a tennis match while she disappeared into her room only to emerge seconds later wearing something slightly tighter each time.
Hannah finally peeled her attention away from Allie to look at you instead.
“She’s right,” she agreed. “Exams are over. Maybe partying would actually help.”
You smiled lazily from your spot curled into the couch cushions, blanket draped across your legs while exhaustion sat heavy behind your eyes.
“What’ll help me is eight uninterrupted hours of sleep,” you informed them. “Which I plan on pursuing aggressively the second both of you leave.” Your mouth twitched slightly. “Now see some boys and make questionable use of your mouths elsewhere.”
Allie barked out a laugh loud enough to echo while Hannah groaned.
“When are we finding your rebound?” Allie asked as she finally settled on an outfit and bent down to tug on her boots.
“It’s too soon,” you decided immediately.
“It is,” Hannah agreed with a firm nod. “She doesn’t wanna think about men right now and we’re respecting that.”
You pointed gratefully toward her. “See? Emotional maturity.”
“Sure,” Allie snorted. “I’m still passing your Instagram around tonight though.” She grinned wickedly while crossing toward the couch. “You can decide what to do with the options later.” Before you could answer, she leaned down and squeezed you tightly against her side. “Don’t wait up for us.”
You watched them drag out the goodbye process intentionally, moving toward the door with exaggerated slowness like they expected you to suddenly change your mind and throw on heels at the last second.
You sighed and stood from the couch, physically herding them toward the exit. “Just go,” you laughed while they protested loudly.
“We tried,” Hannah reminded you with a smile while Allie opened the apartment door. “We’ll send you the address anyway.”
“I won’t change my mind.”
“You say that now...”
You waved them off anyway and finally shut the door behind them once they disappeared down the hallway already talking excitedly about shots and music and whatever terrible decisions the night would inevitably produce.
Silence settled across the apartment immediately afterward.
You exhaled slowly…now what? You considered your options while wandering aimlessly through the living space. You could curl up on the couch with your laptop and a movie or crawl into bed and disappear beneath blankets for twelve straight hours like a Victorian woman with mysterious exhaustion. Or…Your thoughts drifted elsewhere automatically, toward your room and the drawer beside your bed.
You grimaced slightly. Maybe tonight was the night you tried again, actually committed to figuring yourself out instead of giving up midway through frustration like usual. You’d bought enough toys over the years based entirely on optimistic reviews and late-night curiosity alone.
Were they even charged? You were approximately two steps away from your bedroom when knocking sounded at the front door.
You groaned at the sound. “Did you guys forget your condoms again?” you called out while turning toward the entrance. Honestly, it happened often enough that the assumption came naturally now.
You unlocked the door and pulled it open. Then blinked at who you saw. “Dean.”
Dean stood casually in the hallway wearing a baseball cap and dark sunglasses despite the fact it was nighttime indoors, which might’ve worked better if he wasn’t also carrying an enormous black bag beside him.
“I always carry condoms,” he informed you smugly.
Your face scrunched instantly as his answer only emphasized how thin the apartment walls actually were. You narrowed your eyes at him while glancing suspiciously down the hallway.
“Why aren’t you at the party?”
Dean lowered the sunglasses enough to properly look at you over the frames.
You looked soft tonight, comfortable. Wearing sweatpants and an oversized shirt, hair messier than usual from lying around all day. The sight quickly made something warm settle low in his chest.
“Because I’m here with you.”
“No,” you corrected. “You wanted to be here with me.” You pointed vaguely toward campus. “Past tense…You should currently be at that party.”
“No can do.” Dean slipped smoothly past you before you could stop him, nudging the apartment door shut behind him with his foot.
Only then did you fully notice the bag. It was large, rectangular, black and rigid with no visible branding whatsoever. It completely ruined the whole incognito outfit.
Your eyes narrowed harder while Dean looked far too pleased with himself.
“I come bearing gifts,” he announced, then he walked straight toward your bedroom like he paid rent there.
“How did you know I didn’t go to the party?” you asked while following him toward your bedroom.
Dean set the bag carefully onto your bed before finally turning around, fingers hooking beneath the brim of his cap as he pulled it off. The sunglasses followed next, revealing eyes already fixed on you with far too much satisfaction.
“I have my sources.”
You grimaced again. “That sounds vaguely threatening.”
“Hannah asked me the other day to convince you to come out tonight.” He shrugged casually. “I didn’t.”
You crossed your arms. “Who says I would’ve agreed anyway?”
Dean smiled instantly. “Me.” The confidence in his answer came without hesitation. “I’m very persuasive.”
You rolled your eyes before your attention dragged back toward the massive black bag sitting suspiciously at the foot of your bed. “What is that?”
Dean glanced over his shoulder toward it. “Our entertainment for tonight.” His mouth twitched slightly. “Well…mine.”
You narrowed your eyes harder at him before stepping around him toward the bed. The bag gave nothing away from the outside, rigid and sleek and annoyingly mysterious.
Cautiously, you reached inside and your fingers brushed lace first. You blinked then slowly pulled the item free into the light between you both, pinching it delicately between two fingers like it might suddenly attack you.
“Lingerie?” you asked, genuinely confused.
Dean nodded once. “I had to get rid of the boxes,” he explained. “Turns out Agent Provocateur packaging isn’t exactly subtle.”
Your eyes widened immediately. “Agent Provocateur?” You stared at him in disbelief before looking back into the bag. “Are you insane?”
One by one, you started pulling more pieces out. Black lace…cream silk and tiny straps. Things so soft they barely felt real against your fingertips.
Dean watched your growing expression carefully and only then seemed to realize he may have gone slightly overboard. “I got lost on the website,” he admitted. “And then there was free shipping after a certain amount which felt financially irresponsible to ignore.”
You straightened slowly, still clutching one lace bodysuit in your hands while looking at him like he’d lost his damn mind.
“Explain to me,” you said carefully, “how exactly this counts as entertainment.”
“Besides the obvious?”
Your stare sharpened. Dean exhaled quietly before answering, his tone softening as the teasing faded from his expression.
“When you were on my lap the other day…” His eyes flickered briefly toward the floor before returning to you. “You stopped focusing on yourself after a while.”
Your fingers tightened slightly around the lace.
“You started trying to get me there instead,” he continued gently. “Like you were more worried about proving something than actually feeling good.”
Heat crept onto the nape of your neck because he was right. Dean noticed everything.
“And I get it,” he added quickly, voice staying careful. “Probably instinct. You wanted me to enjoy it.” His mouth twitched faintly. “Which I definitely did, by the way. Don’t start doubting that part.”
You stayed quiet while watching him and actually listened instead of acting on your urge to flee.
“Tonight,” he said after a beat, nodding lightly toward the lingerie scattered across your bed, “the lingerie can be for me.” His eyes moved back to yours. “So the rest can just be yours.”
The room went quiet afterward. The plan had probably sounded more coherent in Dean’s head at one in the morning while online shopping half-awake with his laptop balanced on his stomach but somewhere beneath the absurdity of it, you understood what he meant.
Lingerie wasn’t only about someone else seeing you in it, women bought it for themselves too, to feel pretty, desired and confident. Sometimes just to stand in front of the mirror and reclaim something private but eventually, with partners, it often became performative too, something shared and visual. Dean was trying to remove that pressure from everything else.
Your gaze drifted slowly back down toward the pile of lace but you still weren’t entirely sure what happened next. You tried things on and then, what?
Your voice lowered slightly. “What kind of mind games are you playing?”
You hoped it didn’t sound accusing because it wasn’t meant to. You were just struggling to process the fact Dean had seen through you so clearly after one failed attempt, that he’d gone and actually thought about it, considered it and returned with something tangible instead of empty reassurance and blind confidence.
Dean shook his head immediately. “No games.” His voice stayed soft and patient, ready to leave the second you told him this was too much. “Let’s just give it a shot.”
Silence stretched again before you finally reached for a pair of panties instead. The lace slid smoothly through your fingers as you lifted the panties between you both for further inspection.
Dean’s eyes dropped instantly and despite himself, one very clear thought crossed his mind.
‘Yeah. Definitely one of my favorites.’
“How do you even know these will fit?” you asked honestly. The fabric looked expensive enough to disintegrate if handled incorrectly, soft lace brushing against your fingertips while you inspected the tiny details stitched into it.
Dean opened his mouth…closed it and opened it again. “I’m…observant?”
Even he sounded unsure of the answer.
Your lips twitched as you bit back a laugh while digging through the pile until you found the matching bra, then gathered both pieces in your hands.
“Observant and persuasive,” you mused while backing toward the bathroom. “Let me know when there’s something substantial to add to that list.”
Dean nodded solemnly like you’d given him serious criticism to reflect on. “Will do.”
The bathroom door clicked shut behind you and the second it did, Dean exhaled sharply and looked down at himself...for fuck’s sake.
He adjusted himself miserably through his pants while staring at your closed bathroom door in defeat. Lately everything about you affected him differently, your voice, your teasing and the way you looked at him for half a second too long depending on the day.
It was becoming genuinely embarrassing.
Dean barely moved from the spot you’d left him in.
He stayed planted near the foot of your bed, one hand dragging occasionally through his hair while his eyes remained fixed on the bathroom door like staring hard enough would somehow let him see through it. Every few seconds he twitched awkwardly in his pants, dealing unsuccessfully with the consequences of occasionally hearing your hums through the thin wall while knowing exactly what you were changing into behind it.
Inside the bathroom, you stood frozen in front of the mirror for far longer than necessary.
You tried very hard not to think about how closely Dean must’ve paid attention to you over the years to somehow get the sizing exactly right because it fit perfectly.
The lace sat snug against your skin without pinching anywhere, soft black patterns curling over your chest and hugging your hips beautifully. The bra lifted your breasts enough to make your posture straighten instinctively while the matching panties rested low against your hips, delicate enough to feel expensive but comfortable enough not to make you tug at them every two seconds.
You looked good, not just tolerable under dim lights or acceptable after strategic positioning and reassurance and maybe that was what scared you most because now you had to walk back out there and let someone else see it too.
With one last glance toward your reflection, you finally reached for the doorknob and stepped back into your room.
Dean looked up immediately, the reaction was almost embarrassing.
He stopped breathing for half a second entirely, eyes dragging over you slowly enough to make heat climb straight into your throat. He barely blinked while following your movement across the room as you drifted toward your full-length mirror, fingertips lightly tracing the lace resting over your shoulders before moving lower toward the small details connecting the cups together.
The silence stretched thickly.
You kept looking at yourself mostly because looking directly at him felt dangerous right now, even as he moved behind you slowly without touching. He was just standing there close enough for warmth to gather along your back while his eyes followed yours through the reflection. Wherever you looked, he looked too, until eventually your gazes met in the mirror.
You swallowed. “What do you think?”
Dean inhaled deeply through his nose. “I think,” he said slowly, “Six Flags might be going out of business soon.”
Your brows lifted immediately before a quiet laugh escaped you despite yourself.
You turned around to face him fully then, stepping closer until only inches separated you both. Your hands settled carefully against the center of his chest, fingertips brushing lightly against the fabric of his shirt while you looked up at him.
Dean held your gaze steadily, too steadily, sometimes it genuinely felt like he could read your thoughts if he stared long enough. “What do you think?” he echoed softly.
You hummed quietly, eyes flickering downward toward his mouth before lifting back up again.
“I think…” Your hands began sliding slowly down his chest, fingertips grazing over the hard planes beneath his shirt one inch at a time. “Maybe…” Your voice softened further as your palms drifted lower. “I could show you something I actually know how to do.”
Dean’s jaw tightened as your fingers brushed the bulge straining against his pants.
“With my mouth,” you finished quietly.
You didn’t move afterward and neither did he.
In your head, the logic made sense. Dean already thought you were beautiful, so you didn’t need him witnessing your frustration firsthand too. You could give him something good instead, something you knew how to control.
For one dangerous second, he looked like he was genuinely considering it. Then Dean exhaled sharply and turned you around instead, guiding you gently back toward the mirror until your back rested against his chest.
A startled breath caught in your throat as your ass pressed unintentionally against the hard outline of his erection.
Your eyes met his again through the reflection.
“I don’t doubt you can do those things,” he murmured near your ear. “All of them.”
One of his hands settled carefully against your waist while the other slid slowly downward, fingertips brushing beneath the waistband of your panties enough to make your stomach tighten.
His eyes never once left yours in the mirror. “So why do you?”
The reflection showed the two of you, a study in tension and longing. You could see the intensity in his eyes, the way he watched you not just with desire but with a focused, intentional kind of devotion.
His hand didn't push further, he stopped before his fingertips brushed the outer lips of your pussy, leaving a teasing spark of contact. He held himself there, gaze locking onto yours in the mirror, waiting. He wasn't going to take a single inch more without your explicit permission.
You felt your heart hammer against your ribs, chest heaving. You looked into his eyes and gave a small, shaky nod.
The moment you did, he slid deeper. His fingers glided through the slick already gathering between your thighs, parting you with a gentle pressure that could’ve made your toes curl. He didn't rush, he navigated the wet lips until his fingertip found the small, swollen bud of your clit. He began to circle it slowly with agonizingly steady rotations that sent ripples of electricity shooting straight to your core.
"Tell me what you see," he whispered, voice a low and gravelly vibration against your ear.
You swallowed hard, voice trembling as you focused on the reflection. "You...you touching me," you breathed.
As you spoke, you watched your own body react. Your breathing picked up, turning into shallow, jagged gasps. In the mirror, you saw your breasts heaving, the nipples peaking and hardening into tight, sensitive points through the lace of your bra. As if reading your thoughts, Dean’s other hand reached around, his fingers finding one breast and gripping it. He massaged the hardened peak, rolling it between his thumb and forefinger and you let out a sharp, involuntary swallow, head tilting back slightly.
"And what's at the end of me?" he asked, voice humming with a dark, sensual curiosity.
"Me," you whispered, the word barely leaving your lips.
"What else?" he pressed, fingers continuing that relentless, circling motion. He was forcing you to stay present, stripping away your ability to hide in your head or focus on his pleasure. He wanted you trapped in your own skin.
You stared at yourself, hyper-aware of every inch of your anatomy. "Beauty marks," you murmured, noticing the small moles on your thighs and torso that you usually ignored.
"And here?" he asked, his thumb flicking the tip of your nipple.
"Hardened nipples," you gasped, eyes fluttering.
"And on your skin..." he prompted, his fingers quickening their pace, the friction against your clit becoming more insistent and demanding.
"Goosebumps," you whimpered. You could see them breaking out across your shoulders and arms, a physical manifestation of the arousal peaking within you.
The sensory overload was dizzying. Every time you named a part of yourself, the pleasure seemed to intensify, as if acknowledging your own body was unlocking a door you'd kept bolted shut. Dean’s fingers were no longer just circling, they were fluttering, vibrating against your most sensitive spot with a precision that made your hips instinctively buck back against him. You felt the wetness flooding out of you and coating his fingers, making the sounds of his touch wet and explicit in the quiet room.
You tried desperately to keep your eyes locked on his in the mirror but as the pleasure climbed, the world began to blur. Your eyelids grew heavy, the edges of your vision darkening as the sensation centered entirely on the point where he was rubbing you. You started to moan, the sounds raw but still shy, escaping your throat without your permission. You pushed your backside harder against the rigid length of his erection, craving the friction, the completion.
The tension in your lower belly coiled tighter and tighter, a spring winding up to the point of snapping. You were right there, on the precipice, the beginning of an orgasm shimmering just out of reach. Your breath became a series of broken sobs as your body trembled in anticipation. Was this it?
"I think...I–" you started, voice breaking as the first wave of a climax seemed to form but just before it solidified, just as you were about to believe it would, Dean abruptly pulled his hand away.
The sudden void was shocking. You gasped, body jolting from the abrupt loss of stimulation, the orgasm denied at the very last second of creation. You were left vibrating, aching and halfway undone but before you could process the frustration, he gripped your waist and turned you around in his arms so you were facing him.
Your eyes were wide, glazed with lust and confusion, chest heaving as you looked up at him.
"What the hell are you doing?" you asked, voice a breathless wreck.
Dean didn't answer immediately. He just looked at you, taking in the desperate hunger in your eyes. He gripped your hips firmly, knuckles white and began backing up toward the bed, pulling you with him.
"Trusting you to do it first," he murmured.
As the back of his knees hit the mattress, he let himself fall back, laying flat on his back and spreading his arms wide, leaving himself completely open and vulnerable to you.
You climbed over him, your movements determined, fueled by a desperate, humming need that had been wound tight in the mirror. You braced your knees against his sides, feeling the hard muscle of his thighs beneath you and planted one hand firmly on his chest. Beneath your palm, you could feel his heart hammering a frantic rhythm, a mirror to your own. With a renewed sense of determination, you slipped your other hand beneath the fabric of your panties, your fingers finding the slick, swollen heat of your pussy.
As you began to touch yourself, you closed your eyes for a moment, repeating the litany he had forced you to acknowledge in the mirror. You focused on the hyper-awareness he had instilled in you, turning that mental lens inward. You found your clit, already engorged and sensitive and began to circle it. Your breathing became ragged, each exhale a shaky shudder that vibrated through your entire frame.
You opened your eyes and looked down at your hand on his chest. You watched the way his pectorals heaved under your touch, his skin flushed and warm. Then, you felt his hands slide up your legs, his large palms gripping your thighs firmly. The sheer intensity of his gaze, the way he watched your every movement with a hunger that felt almost tangible, made a low moan escape your throat.
You had never reached this point before, never felt this close to the edge of something so profound. The pleasure was a rising tide, threatening to pull you under.
"Be patient," Dean breathed, his voice a low, grounding rumble that seemed to vibrate through the mattress and into your bones. "Listen to your body."
You nodded, eyes locked onto his and focused entirely on the sensation. You ignored the noise in your head, everything except the friction of your own fingers. You kept your hand working at a speed you liked, a steady, rhythmic pressure that built a coil of tension in your lower belly. You began to squirm, hips rocking in a slow, undulating motion against your own hand, chasing the spark.
In your haze of arousal, you shifted, pressing your soaking wet clothed cunt directly onto the rigid length of his erection through his pants. The sudden, blunt pressure against your clit sent a shockwave of pleasure through you and you let out a loud, uncontrolled moan. Dean groaned in response, a sound of pure, tortured restraint as he kept his hips from jerking upward to meet you.
You quickly lifted your hips again, holding them high in the air, body arching as you fought to maintain the rhythm.
“Holy fuck,” You were so close now, the world was narrowing down to the point where your fingers met your flesh.
"Attagirl. That's it," Dean whispered, voice thick with praise. "You're doing so good. Just like that...look at you, taking it all in. So fucking worth it."
His words were like fuel to the fire. The praise made you bolder and movements more frantic. You pressed harder, your fingers fluttering with an urgency that bordered on desperation until the tension reached a breaking point, a white-hot spark that suddenly ignited into a roaring flame.
The orgasm hit you like a physical blow. Your head snapped back, your spine arching as the first wave of pleasure crashed over you. Your lips parted and an unreal, unabashed sound, a high, keening cry of release slipped out of you, echoing through the room. It was your first time ever coming and the sensation was overwhelming. It didn't just peak and fade, it rolled through you in long, rhythmic pulses that seemed to last forever, shaking your entire body, leaving your muscles twitching and your mind a complete blank.
Dean didn't move. He looked at you, completely mesmerized, eyes wide and unblinking. He watched the way your throat worked as you gasped for air, the way your breasts heaved and the way your body shuddered under the aftershocks. Beneath you, his cock throbbed and twitched painfully against the constraint of his pants, a visible manifestation of the agony and ecstasy of watching you shatter.
As the waves finally subsided, leaving you limp and floating, you collapsed onto his chest with a sultry whine, skin damp with sweat and breathing heavy and synchronized with his as you caught your breath.
The silence of the room was thick, charged with the lingering electricity of the moment.
You swallowed hard while still catching your breath, voice a mere whisper against his skin. "Is it too soon to say that was the best orgasm I've ever had?"
Dean let out a heavy, uneven breath beneath you, the sound shuddering straight through his chest and into yours. Only then did his hands finally leave your thighs. Slowly, almost cautiously, they slid upward along your sides until his palms settled against your back.
Gone was the restraint that had kept his fingers tense and controlled earlier. Now he touched you lightly, almost reverently, fingertips drifting along the curve of your spine over the lace while he tried to steady his breathing. Every few seconds his hands flexed against you instinctively, like he still couldn’t quite believe what had just happened.
“Definitely the best one I’ve ever had,” he murmured.
His voice sounded wrecked, dizzy, like simply watching you come apart on top of him had pushed him somewhere dangerously close to losing it himself.
You lifted your head slowly from where it rested against his chest, pushing up enough to properly look at him.
Dean blinked up at you lazily, pupils completely blown.
You swallowed once. “Did you…?”
The question barely finished forming before Dean’s expression morphed into something sheepish and amused all at once. He swallowed too before nodding once against the mattress.
Your eyes widened slightly as his hand slid upward from your back, fingertips brushing softly along your jaw while he looked at you with an expression so openly fond it almost hurt to hold eye contact with him.
“Am I still not deserving of a kiss?” he asked quietly. Half joking, half absolutely not.
You hummed thoughtfully like you were genuinely considering it. “You want a cookie and a gold star too?”
Dean’s grin spread slowly across his face, matching yours instantly despite the pleasure still weighing down his features. “Better than the survey.”
You laughed softly through your nose before finally leaning down the rest of the way.
The kiss was warm, searing and long overdue.
Dean’s hand moved instantly to the back of your head, holding you in place like he’d been waiting weeks to finally do exactly this. It started slow for approximately two seconds, soft lips parting against yours carefully, almost disbelievingly, before weeks of tension snapped apart all at once.
You melted into him with a breathless sound as his mouth pressed harder against yours.
Dean kissed like he did everything else, thoroughly.
His thumb pushed lightly beneath your jaw, tilting your head back enough for him to deepen the kiss, tongue sliding against yours slow at first, exploratorily, before the restraint he’d been clinging to all night dissolved completely. The taste of him, the warmth of his mouth and the low groan that rumbled out of his chest when you kissed him back with equal desperation made your stomach tighten all over again.
The kiss quickly turned messy, hungry. You could barely catch your breath between them, mouths reconnecting instantly every time you pulled apart for air like neither of you could tolerate the distance anymore. Dean’s grip tightened on your hair as his other hand spread wide against your back, dragging you flush against him while his tongue swept against yours again, deeper this time, making heat rush straight through your body.
So much for rules.
Seems like Six Flags had just been privatised for a single Agent Provocateur wearer…indefinitely.
a/n: Comments, likes and reblogs really do mean the world and help more than you know! More stories will be added to the archive soon, so stay tuned for new content. Thank you so much for reading! 🤍
