Yodito
NASA
will byers stan first human second
occasionally subtle
taylor price
almost home
YOU ARE THE REASON
cherry valley forever

祝日 / Permanent Vacation
Sade Olutola
ojovivo

PR's Tumblrdome
Xuebing Du

roma★

oozey mess
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Discoholic 🪩
Keni

if i look back, i am lost

Love Begins
Show & Tell
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@eugenedream
Yodito
I've Got You (#4)
☄︎ Warnings: None! only proofread by myself, idk my tenses ☄︎ Pairing: f!Reader x John Logan (Past), f!Reader x Dean Di Laurentis (Main) ☄︎ Rating: PG ☄︎ Words: 3358 ☄︎ AN: i've been to one (1) hockey game in my entire life and it was in switzerland so i cannot speak to how lore accurate my hockey knowledge is. Last chapter for the next two weeks, pretty please share thoughts🧍🏽♀️ xx
Series Masterlist 〣 Main Masterlist
I've Got You (#3)
☄︎ Warnings: Angst, Reader getting over heartbreak, slow burn with ex's best friend, Reader being oblivious, sad thoughts / unhealthy thought patterns, alcohol, only proofread by myself, idk my tenses ☄︎ Pairing: f!Reader x John Logan, f!Reader x Dean Di Laurentis ☄︎ Rating: PG ☄︎ Words: 7079 (like wtf how lol) ☄︎ AN: I'm still figuring out / building on my writing style so this chapter may feel a little different (hopefully a better different), really hope you enjoy it still! 🧍🏽♀️pretty please share thoughts xx
Series Masterlist 〣 Main Masterlist
Lover Boy | Dean Di Laurentis
Based heavily on Stephan Kalyan talking about getting into the head space of playing a playboy was hard because he’s been in a relationship for most of his adult life
dean di laurentis x reader
🫧🫧🫧🫧🫧🫧🫧🫧🫧🫧🫧🫧🫧🫧🫧🫧🫧🫧🫧
The smell of stale beer, expensive cologne, and hockey gear was practically a permanent fixture at the Briar hockey house.
Hannah Wells sat on the edge of the plush leather sofa, clutching a red solo cup and trying to process the absolute whirlwind that was her life.
She was a junior, the exact same age and grade as the guys in this house, but up until a few weeks ago, she had existed in an entirely different universe. Her world was sheet music, quiet library corners, and trying to survive her classes. Their world was stadium lights, roaring crowds, and campus worship.
But now, thanks to a very specific, mutually beneficial arrangement, she was officially in a fake relationship with Garrett Graham. The captain of the hockey team.
As Garrett threw an arm over the back of the couch, laughing at something Logan said, Hannah looked around the room. Because she hadn't grown up in their loop or run in their circles for the last three years, she was just starting to get to know this tight-knit group of elite athletes. She was learning that campus rumors rarely matched reality.
Take Garrett, for instance—arrogant on the surface, but surprisingly sweet and protective when they were alone. Logan was a chaotic charmer, and Tucker was the quiet, southern gentleman who actually knew how to cook.
And then… there was Dean Di Laurentis.
Dean was currently leaned against the kitchen island, a smirk playing on his lips as he talked to a group of girls. He was devastatingly handsome, draped in designer clothes that cost more than Hannah’s tuition, and possessed a natural, effortless flirtatiousness that practically radiated off him.
Every time he winked, chuckled, or leaned in to whisper something, the girls around him practically melted into puddles.
Classic playboy, Hannah thought, making a mental note to keep her guard up around him. For the past three years, she had heard the hushed whispers in the lecture halls about the wealthy, gorgeous Di Laurentis. He just had "heartbreaker" written all over his face.
"Hey, Earth to Wellsy," Garrett murmured, nudging her knee with his. "What's going on in that head of yours? You look like you're analyzing a crime scene."
"Just observing," Hannah said, tilting her head toward the kitchen and taking a sip of her drink. "Does Dean ever stop? I feel like I'm watching a national geographic documentary on mating rituals. How do you guys live with a guy who constantly has a rotating door of girls?"
Garrett blinked, looked over at Dean, and then burst into a loud, booming laugh that caught Logan’s attention from across the coffee table.
"What's so funny, G?" Logan asked, wandering over with a bowl of pretzels.
"Hannah thinks Dean is trying to pull," Garrett chuckled, shaking his head. "She thinks he's a playboy."
Logan let out a dramatic gasp, dropping a pretzel back into the bowl and clutching his chest. "Oh, precious Hannah. No. I mean, I get why you'd think that. The hair, the clothes, the fact that he looks like he escaped a high-fashion magazine. But Dean? A playboy? Absolutely not. He’s been thoroughly, completely off the market since he was sixteen years old."
Hannah’s jaw dropped slightly. She looked back at Dean, then at Logan, then at Garrett. "Wait. Are you guys messing with me? Serious? But look at him! He's literally leaning his entire body weight against that girl's shoulder right now."
"That's just his default setting," Tucker chimed in, walking past the couch and grabbing a fresh beer from the fridge. "He's naturally flirty. It's an illness, really. The boy talks to a wall and the wall thinks it has a chance. But he is fiercely, terrifyingly loyal. He only has eyes for one person."
"If he's taken, why does everyone on campus think he's single?" Hannah asked, genuinely baffled. "I’ve heard girls in my music theory class talk about trying to get his attention at parties."
"Because he doesn't broadcast his personal life to the Briar puck bunnies," Garrett explained, his tone softening a bit. "And because she doesn't go here. They've been long-distance since freshman year. It’s hard, but they make it work. Speak of the devil..."
Right on cue, the heavy front door of the hockey house swung open. The noisy chatter of the party, the bass booming from the speakers, and the general chaos of the room seemed to fade into the background as a girl walked in, shaking out her hair from the crisp Massachusetts air.
You walked into the Briar house, immediately feeling the warmth of the indoor heating hit your face. You loved your school, but coming to the hockey house always felt like a different kind of sanctuary. You didn’t even make it three steps past the threshold before a blur intercepted you.
Dean’s face lit up in a way that completely transformed his usual smirk into a bright, genuine, breathtaking smile. He caught you by the waist, lifting you right off your feet and spinning you around as if you hadn't just seen each other a few days prior.
"Look who finally graced us with her presence," Dean murmured into your hair, before setting you down and pulling you into a deep, lingering kiss.
He didn't care about the crowded room, the girls he had just been talking to, or the guys shouting jeers from the couch. In that second, the entire room ceased to exist for him. "I missed you."
"Dean, I saw you on Tuesday," you laughed, wrapping your arms around his neck and adjusting to the sudden warmth of the house.
"Tuesday was a lifetime ago," he replied smoothly, his eyes crinkling with affection. He kept an arm firmly hooked around your waist, pulling you flush against his side as he turned back to the room, entirely unwilling to let go of you.
Hannah watched the entire interaction, completely stunned. For three years, she had held a completely false perception of this guy.
The girl—you—didn't look like the typical girls who frequented these parties. You looked incredibly sharp, wearing a sleek jacket, your posture perfect, and carrying an aura of quiet confidence that instantly commanded respect without you even trying.
"Hannah, meet the real boss of this house," Garrett introduced as Dean led you over to the living room setup. "Dean’s high school sweetheart."
"Hi, Hannah! It is so nice to finally meet you," you smiled warmly, offering a hand. "Garrett has told us a little bit about you. Don't believe anything he or Logan tells you, by the way. Most of it is exaggerated hockey locker room nonsense."
"Hey! I am a teller of truths and a romantic at heart," Logan protested, throwing a pretzel at Dean, who caught it effortlessly with his free hand.
"Nice to meet you," Hannah said, still trying to reconcile the image of Dean the Campus Flirt with Dean the Devoted Boyfriend. "So, you're a junior too? But you don't go to Briar?"
"No, she's the resident genius," Dean bragged proudly, kissing the side of your head. He squeezed your waist, a look of pure adoration on his face that Hannah had never seen on him before. "She goes to Harvard. Just a quick drive down the road, which means I get to kidnap her every weekend."
"More like I come over here to escape the library and make sure you're eating something other than protein powder and frozen pizza," you countered, teasingly tapping his nose. "Harvard's midterm week is brutal. I needed a break before my brain entirely melted."
As the night went on and the party wound down, the crowd thinned out until it was just the inner circle hanging out. The music was turned down to a low hum, and the atmosphere became quiet and comfortable. Hannah found herself sitting at the kitchen island, pouring a glass of water, trying to process everything she was learning about this group.
You walked over to grab a soda from the fridge, stretching your arms slightly.
"So," Hannah started, a small, intrigued smile on her face. "Harvard? That's seriously impressive. No wonder Dean looks like he won the lottery every time he looks at you."
"Thanks," you smiled, leaning against the counter next to her. "It’s a lot of work, but I love it. Plus, being so close to Briar is a lifesaver. I don't think Dean would survive a true long-distance relationship. For all his tough hockey exterior, he's incredibly clingy."
"I have to admit," Hannah said honestly, lowering her voice a bit so the guys wouldn't hear from the living room. "I’m the same age as you guys, but I've always been so completely out of the hockey loop. I just assumed... well, everyone on campus talks about Dean like he's this legendary playboy. I totally pegged him for a heartbreaker when I walked in tonight."
You let out a soft, genuine laugh, looking over at the living room. Dean was currently engaged in a heated debate with Logan and Garrett about a specific NHL playoff game, gesturing wildly. But the beautiful thing about Dean was that even in the middle of a sentence, his eyes instantly flicked to the kitchen the moment he heard your laugh. He gave you a quick, reassuring wink across the room, ensuring you were okay, before turning back to the boys.
"Oh, I know the rumors," you told Hannah, your voice softening with genuine warmth and zero trace of jealousy. "Dean is a natural flirt. It's just his factory setting. He flirts with the cashier at the grocery store, he flirts with the GPS, he probably flirts with his professors without realizing it. It’s just his personality—he loves attention, he loves people, and he loves making people smile. But when it comes to his heart? He's a one-woman man. He's been my best friend and my biggest protector since we were juniors in high school. I've never had to doubt him for a single second, no matter what campus gossip says."
Hannah looked from you to Dean, seeing the absolute, unwavering adoration in his eyes. For all his flashy clothes, smooth talking, and confidence, Dean Di Laurentis was completely anchored by you.
"That's really amazing," Hannah said, feeling a pang of genuine happiness for you—and maybe a little bit of envy. Here she was, entangled in a complicated, stressful fake-dating scheme with Garrett to get another guy's attention, while Dean and you had something so profoundly real and steady right in the middle of the campus chaos. It made her realize how much she had misjudged the people in this house.
Just then, Dean broke away from the guys, practically jogging over to the kitchen as if he couldn't stand being away from you for more than twenty minutes. He wrapped his arms around you from behind, resting his chin on your shoulder and looking at Hannah with a playful grin.
"What are we gossiping about? Is it me? Tell me it's me. I love being the center of attention," Dean pleaded, his tone light and teasing.
"We were just talking about how lucky I am to have an amazing boyfriend like you," you lied smoothly, tilting your head up to kiss his jaw line.
Dean’s smirk instantly softened into something incredibly tender, his eyes darkening with affection as he looked down at you. "Damn right you are. I'm the lucky one. Now come back to the couch, Y/N. Logan is losing the hockey argument and I need my brilliant girlfriend there to witness my absolute intellectual victory."
As Dean led you away, his hand securely locked in yours, Hannah couldn't help but smile into her glass of water. Briar University was full of surprises, and as she navigated her own strange journey with Garrett, she was glad to know that true loyalty existed exactly where she least expected to find it.
The living room had transformed from a chaotic frat party into a quiet, post-game wind-down. The air was still thick with the scent of cheap beer and expensive cologne, but the heavy bass had been replaced by the low hum of the television playing NHL highlights in the background.
You let Dean pull you back toward the oversized sectional, sinking into the cushions right beside him. The second you were seated, Dean shifted, throwing his long legs over the coffee table and pulling you flush against his side. His arm wrapped securely around your shoulders, his fingers idly playing with the hem of your shirt. It was an automatic reflex for him; whenever you were in the same room, he needed to be touching you.
"Alright, Harvard," Logan said, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees. "Settle a debate. Garrett claims that the Bruins’ power play strategy last night was flawless. I say it was entirely predictable and they got lucky. What’s the verdict?"
You raised an eyebrow, leaning back against Dean’s chest. "Are you asking me because you genuinely want my sports analysis, Logan, or because you know Dean will agree with whatever I say?"
"A little bit of both," Logan admitted with a grin.
"Don't bring her into your losing arguments, Huntzberger," Garrett chimed in from the other end of the couch, nudging Hannah’s foot with his own. Hannah was watching the exchange with rapt attention, her eyes darting between you and Dean. She still looked entirely fascinated by the dynamic—clearly still trying to reconcile the campus myth of Dean Di Laurentis with the fiercely devoted boy sitting in front of her.
"For the record," you said, tilting your head up to look at Garrett, "the Bruins were predictable. They relied too heavily on the drop pass at the blue line. If the defense had been faster on the backcheck, they would’ve been picked apart."
Dean let out a loud, triumphant bark of laughter, his chest vibrating against your back. "Ha! What did I tell you? Genius. Absolutely brilliant. That’s my girl." He leaned down, planting a fierce, proud kiss on your cheek, making you laugh and try to push him away.
"You're only cheering because she agreed with you," Garrett grumbled, though there was a smirk playing on his lips.
"I cheer because she's always right," Dean corrected smoothly, his voice dropping into that naturally confident, slightly arrogant tone he always used. But as he looked down at you, the arrogance completely melted away, replaced by a quiet warmth. "You want a drink? Water? A soda? I can get you whatever you want."
"I'm good, Dean. Just trying to relax," you murmured, reaching up to run your fingers through the soft hair at the nape of his neck. He practically purred at the contact, leaning into your touch and closing his eyes for a brief second.
Hannah watched this interaction, a small, knowing smile tugging at the corner of her lips. She leaned over to Garrett, lowering her voice so only he could hear. "He’s like a totally different person around her."
Garrett looked over at Dean and you, his expression softening with a rare look of genuine respect. "Yeah, well. she’s his anchor. Dean’s got a lot of energy, a lot of flash. He likes the finer things in life, and he likes being noticed. But with her? He doesn't have to put on a show. She knows exactly who he is, and he'd burn the world down before he ever did anything to jeopardize what they have."
Hannah nodded slowly, absorbing the information. It was an eye-opening realization. Coming into this house, she had assumed the hockey team was a monolith of arrogant, untouchable playboys. But looking at Garrett—who was currently being surprisingly attentive to her—and looking at Dean, who was practically worshiping the ground you walked on, she realized how wrong she had been.
"Hey," Hannah called out across the space, wanting to pull you back into the conversation. "How do you handle the drive back and forth? Harvard to Briar isn't terrible, but with a Harvard workload, it's got to be exhausting."
You shifted slightly, resting your chin on Dean's shoulder. "Honestly, the drive is my decompression time. But usually, Dean's the one making the trip. He’ll drive down to Cambridge just to take me out to dinner for an hour before driving all the way back for morning practice."
"Wait, seriously?" Hannah asked, her eyebrows shooting up. She looked at Dean. "You drive two hours total just for a one-hour dinner?"
"I'd drive ten hours just to see her for five minutes, Wellsy," Dean said, his tone incredibly casual, as if he were stating a basic fact of the universe rather than an act of grand romance.
He winked at Hannah. "Plus, the restaurants near Harvard are way better than the greasy spoons around here. I get to dress up, show off my gorgeous girlfriend, and eat good food. It’s a win-win."
"He's omitting the part where he once showed up at my dorm at 2:00 AM during finals week just because I sounded stressed on the phone," you added, giving Dean a pointed look. "He brought three bags of takeout and a giant teddy bear that took up half my room."
"It was a tactical strike against your anxiety," Dean defended himself, a boyish grin spreading across his face. "And it worked. You aced that exam."
"Because I was terrified you'd show up with a marching band next time," you teased, turning around in his lap to face him fully.
Dean’s hands instantly found your waist, holding you steady. The playful banter of the room seemed to fade into the background as he looked at you, his eyes incredibly dark and focused. "I would have," he whispered, entirely serious. "If it meant making you smile."
You felt a familiar warmth bloom in your chest, reaching up to cup his jaw. For all the years you had been together, the intensity of Dean's devotion never failed to take your breath away. He was a flirt, a tease, and a total show-off to the rest of the world, but his heart belonged exclusively to you.
Across the room, Hannah watched the two of you, a profound sense of clarity washing over her. As she navigated her own chaotic, fake-dating journey with Garrett, seeing you and Dean gave her a glimpse of what real, unshakeable loyalty actually looked like.
And for the first time since she had walked into the Briar hockey house, she realized that beneath all the rumors and the campus hype, these boys were capable of loving fiercely.
The party had entirely cleared out by the time the clock bled past two in the morning. Logan and Tucker had disappeared upstairs to their respective rooms, and Garrett had walked Hannah out to her car, leaving the downstairs of the hockey house steeped in a rare, heavy quiet.
The low hum of the television screen cast flickering shadows across the living room, but the real heat was concentrated on the oversized sectional.
The moment the front door clicked shut behind Garrett, Dean’s entire demeanor shifted. The playful, casual banter he’d been maintaining for the group completely vanished, replaced by an intense, dark focus that was entirely centered on you.
"Finally," he growled low in his throat, his hands sliding up from your waist to grip your hips, pulling you flush against his lap so you were straddling him.
You let out a soft gasp at the sudden movement, your hands automatically flying to his broad shoulders for balance. "Dean, the guys are still—"
"The guys are asleep, and Garrett's outside," Dean interrupted, his voice dropping an octave, thick and raspy. His eyes raked over your face, heavy-lidded and burning with a hunger he’d been suppressing all night. "Do you have any idea what it was like sitting next to you for three hours, watching you laugh, hearing you talk to Hannah, and not being able to do this?"
Before you could answer, his hand cupped the back of your neck, his fingers tangling in your hair as he tilted your head up and brought his mouth down on yours.
The kiss wasn't the sweet, reassuring pecks he’d given you in front of the team.
This was demanding, possessive, and thick with the pent-up frustration of a week spent apart. His tongue parted your lips effortlessly, deepening the kiss until your breath hitched in your chest. You whimpered into his mouth, the sound completely undoing him. Dean let out a low groan, his grip tightening on your hips, pulling you so tightly against him that you could feel the hard, rigid line of his desire pressing against your thigh through his jeans.
He broke the kiss just long enough to trail his lips down your jawline, his breathing ragged against your skin. His mouth found the sensitive spot right beneath your ear, biting down gently enough to make you shiver, then soothing it with the hot stroke of his tongue.
"Dean," you breathed, your fingers clutching the fabric of his Briar hockey jersey, tugging at it desperately. "We need to go upstairs."
"Not yet," he muttered against your throat, his hands sliding up beneath the hem of your shirt, his warm, calloused palms making direct contact with your bare skin. You arched into his touch, your heart hammering against your ribs. He traced the curve of your waist, his thumbs brushing the lower edge of your ribs, sending jolts of electricity straight down your spine. "I’ve been thinking about this all day in practice. Every single drill, all I could think about was getting you back to this house."
He pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes dark, intense, and completely consumed by you. There was no trace of the arrogant, smirking campus flirt that Briar University thought they knew.
This was the raw, unyielding version of Dean Di Laurentis that belonged entirely to you.
"You drive me completely crazy, Y/N," he whispered, his thumb rubbing soothing circles over your hip, though his voice was entirely tight with restraint. "Every guy at Harvard looking at you, and all I can do is sit over here and wait for the weekend."
"You know I don't care about any of them," you whispered back, leaning down to press your lips to the center of his chest, right over his racing heartbeat. "I only want you."
A dark, possessive smirk finally cut through his expression, his chest swelling with pride. "Good. Because I'm not sharing."
In one swift, athletic movement, Dean slid his arms under your thighs and back, lifting you effortlessly off his lap as he stood up from the couch. You wrapped your legs tightly around his waist, burying your face in his neck as he carried you down the dimly lit hallway toward his bedroom, his grip unbreakable and his intentions completely clear.
Dean didn’t even bother turning on the lights when he nudged his bedroom door open with his shoulder, shutting it behind you with a firm, decisive click of his heel. The room was bathed in the cool, silver glow of the moonlight cutting through his window, casting long shadows across the organized chaos of his space.
He didn't make it two steps toward the bed before he pinned you against the heavy wood of the door, the impact solid but careful. Your back flushed against the surface, and you let out a breathless laugh that was instantly cut short when Dean crowded his entire body weight against yours.
His hands slid down from your thighs, his palms flattening against the wood on either side of your head. He was breathing heavily, his chest heaving against your breasts, the scent of him—expensive cedar wood, mint, and pure heat—completely enveloping you.
"Dean," you gasped, your fingers curling into the fabric of his jersey again.
"I'm losing my mind, Y/N. Seriously," he murmured, his voice a rough, gravelly whisper. He leaned in, his lips brushing yours with agonizing slowness, teasing the seam of your mouth until you parted your lips for him. When you did, he didn't hold back. The kiss was deep, wet, and utterly consuming, his tongue tangling with yours in a rhythm that made your knees go weak. Thank God his hands migrated down to your waist, gripping you tightly enough to bruise, holding you up against the door.
You reached down, your fingers finding the hem of his heavy hockey jersey, and tugged it upward. "Take it off," you demanded against his lips.
Dean broke the kiss with a low growl, stripping the jersey over his head in one fluid, impatient motion and tossing it blindly into the darkness of the room. The sight of his bare chest—the sharp lines of his collarbone, the hard, defined muscle of his abs, and the faint scars from years on the ice—made your throat go completely dry. He was beautiful, and he was entirely yours.
Before you could fully appreciate the view, Dean's hands were back on you, working at the buttons of your shirt with a frantic energy that was entirely uncharacteristic of his usual smooth, calculated demeanor. When the fabric parted, his breath hitched. He mapping out every inch of your exposed skin with his hands, his thumbs dragging over the lace of your bra, making your hips unconsciously arch upward into his.
"You are so beautiful," he rasped, his eyes burning as he looked down at you in the moonlight. "It kills me. Every single day I'm stuck at Briar, it kills me."
He bent his head, his mouth dropping down to track a path of burning kisses from your jawline, down the column of your throat, to the sensitive valley between your collarbones. You threw your head back against the door, a loud, uninhibited moan escaping your lips as his teeth gently grazed the soft skin of your shoulder.
"Dean, please," you whimpered, your fingers burying themselves into his thick, soft hair, pulling him closer. Your thighs clamped tightly around his hips again, begging for a friction that was driving you both to the edge.
He let out a ragged breath, his hands sliding down to cup the undersides of your thighs, lifting you effortlessly once more. He carried you the short distance to his bed, tumbling both of you down onto the mattress. The cool sheets offered a brief shock of relief against your overheated skin, but it was immediately incinerated when Dean crawled over you, pinning your wrists gently beside your head.
He looked down at you, his chest rising and falling, his gaze so fiercely loyal and completely possessive it made your heart skip a beat.
"You're mine," he whispered, a stark, undeniable promise as his hips settled heavily into the cradle of yours. "Tell me you're mine, Y/N."
"Always," you breathed, pulling your hands free to wrap them tightly around his neck, pulling him down to finish what he started. "Only yours, Dean."
The mattress dipped under his weight as Dean shifted, freeing one of his hands from your wrist to trace the line of your jaw, his thumb wiping away a bead of sweat from your temple. His touch was suddenly a striking contrast—gentle, almost reverent, even while the rest of his body burned against yours with an undeniable, heavy urgency.
"Always," he repeated against your lips, the word sounding like a vow. "Good."
He didn't give you another second to breathe. His mouth claimed yours again, harder this time, demanding and deep. The heat between you was absolute, a fuse completely lit after days of forced distance. You hooked your legs around his waist, pulling him as close as physically possible, feeling the rigid tension in his thighs and the muscle of his back flexing beneath your fingertips. Your hands mapped the familiar expanse of his shoulders, your nails digging into his skin as he rocked his hips forward, a low, guttural groan tearing from his throat.
Every point of contact was electric. Dean’s hands migrated down to your hips, his fingers digging in to guide your movements, establishing a slow, agonizingly perfect rhythm that had your head spinning. You arched into him, a soft, broken sound escaping your lips that went straight to his head.
He broke the kiss, his breath coming in ragged, uneven gasps as he buried his face in the crook of your neck. His teeth nipped at the sensitive skin right where your neck met your shoulder, sending a violent wave of shivers straight down your spine.
"Y/N... God, you're perfect," he muttered, his voice entirely wrecked. The suave, unflappable Dean Di Laurentis was completely gone, reduced to a man entirely unraveled by the girl in his arms. He lifted himself up slightly on his forearms, his eyes locking onto yours in the dim moonlight. The intensity in his gaze was staggering—fierce, unyielding, and completely consumed by you.
The friction was building, a tight, coil of heat pulling tighter and tighter in the center of your chest. You gripped his arms, your eyes closing as the sensation threatened to overwhelm you.
"Look at me," Dean commanded softly, his voice a raspy plea.
You opened your eyes, meeting his dark, focused gaze just as he drove into you again, harder, matching his pace to the frantic beating of your heart. Seeing the absolute adoration and raw desire written all over his face pushed you entirely over the edge. A loud, breathless cry escaped you as the tension shattered, a violent rush of pleasure rippling through your entire body.
Hearing your release was the final thread for Dean. His grip on your hips tightened, his jaw clenching as he let out a low, rough shout, burying his face in your hair as his own climax hit him, hard and heavy. He held you tightly, pressing his weight into you as the aftershocks ran their course, his heart hammering wildly against your ribs like a trapped bird.
For a long time, the only sound in the room was the heavy, synchronized breathing of the two of you.
Slowly, carefully, Dean rolled to the side, taking you with him so you were tucked securely against his chest. He pulled the thick comforter up over your bare shoulders, shielding you both from the cool draft of the room. His arm stayed wrapped around your waist, his hand resting flat against your stomach, pulling you so close there was no space left between you.
He kissed the crown of your head, his breathing finally beginning to slow down.
"I'm never letting you go back to Cambridge," he murmured into your hair, his voice thick with sleep and exhaustion, but entirely serious.
You let out a weak, content laugh, resting your hand over his. "You have to. I have an exam on Monday."
"I'll buy the university," he mumbled, a classic, ridiculous Di Laurentis statement that made your heart swell. He squeezed your waist, pulling you just a fraction closer. "Whatever it takes to keep you right here."
You smiled into the dark, closing your eyes as the warmth of his body completely enveloped you. Outside his door, Briar University could think whatever they wanted about the flashy, flirty hockey player. But in the quiet of his room, you knew the absolute truth—Dean Di Laurentis was yours, entirely and completely, and he wasn't going anywhere.
SHAVING.
— pairing: Task Force 141 × fem!Reader
— cw: established relationship; smut and fluff; domesticity; wc: 5.5 k
— S. RILEY:
Simon loves handling knives. It’s one of his specialities after all. And he’s caught you watching him multiple times; whether it was him cutting vegetables for supper, cleaning his combat knives, or shaving with a razor blade.
So, when you pad into the kitchen in nothing but his shirt and ask him to help you shave, he doesn't even blink.
“Where?”
You tug at the hem. He follows the gesture, and his expression doesn’t change, but something behind his eyes does.
“Right.” The chair scrapes over the tiles as he rises to his full height, rolling his broad shoulders. “Bathroom. Now.”
He has you up on the counter with your legs spread before you can overthink it. Clinical and efficient, like he’s done this a thousand times.
“Hold still,” he commands, lathering soap between his mammoth hands. “Squirm and I'll nick ya.”
You snort, “Reassuring."
“Wasn’t meant t’be.”
The one where you and Jake have a deep conversation on the eve of your wedding.
warnings: mention of drinking, maybe some swearing, but mostly fluff!
The one where you're ready to quit your job, and your husband has a dream of providing for you.
warnings: discussion about babies/having a family, work frustrations, illusions to smut but nothing descriptive
The one where vacation Jake is the hotter Jake, but he doesn't need to know that.
warnings: illusions to sex (minor flashbacks), mentions of deployment
Monsters and Mountain Men
Rating: Read warnings below!
Warnings: really just tooth-rotting, sweet fluff. A small warning alluding to sex at the end and having another baby but other than that, it's soft.
Author's Note: This idea came to me very late and even though I am busy with a shit work schedule this week and college, I had to get this out of my head. I was also insired by the latest pics of Shawn 🤪 Anyway, I hope you all enjoy! For my besie @josephs-quinns
Between raising a daughter and working nights as an ER attending, Jack Abbot rarely had a moment to himself. Yet no matter how long the hours or how heavy the exhaustion settled into his bones, he always made time for his daughter and you. Somehow, he never stopped showing up. Today was no different.
until the end. - pedro pascal.
requested! thank you so much for sending.
---
Pedro hadn't wanted you there at first.
"It’s gonna be ugly," he'd said, tugging you close in bed the night before. "Brutal. You don’t need to see it."
But the moment his voice cracked — the smallest tremor — you knew he needed you far more than he realized. So you went.
The set was colder than you expected — not just physically, but emotionally, too. Everyone was professional, respectful, quiet. There was a certain heaviness in the air, a collective understanding: this was the scene.
Joel's end.
You found a corner near the monitors, out of the way but within Pedro's line of sight. He spotted you instantly, his shoulders relaxing just a little.
You offered him a small smile, your fingers curling into a heart across your chest. Pedro smirked — a soft, private thing — before disappearing into character.
Watching him die was harder than you thought it would be.
Even though you knew the script. Even though you knew it was fake. Even though you knew Pedro was right there, breathing, alive. It didn’t matter.
The first take, you had to clamp your hand over your mouth to keep from making a sound. The second, you had tears streaming down your face.
By the third, you were practically vibrating with the need to just hold him.
Pedro was too good — too real — and seeing him broken, bloodied, gasping for air... it shattered something inside you. And it broke him, too.
Between takes, he'd shuffle off the set, still half in character, his face caked in horrifying makeup — bruises, cuts, blood. You could see it: the way his shoulders curled inward, the way he struggled to shake off the sadness clinging to him.
Without thinking, you rushed to him.
Someone must've snapped a picture right then — you wrapping your arms around Pedro, burying your face in his chest like you could protect him from the script itself. Pedro clinging back just as tightly, his hands trembling slightly against your spine.
In full dead-Joel makeup, he looked terrifying. But to you, he was just Pedro. Your Pedro.
You kissed his jaw, whispered, "I'm here, I'm here, I'm here," like a mantra only he was meant to hear.
He breathed out a shaky laugh, squeezing you harder. "You shouldn’t have come," he rasped, voice thick with emotion. "You needed me," you murmured back, pulling away just enough to cup his battered-looking face in your hands.
Another picture captured the moment his forehead pressed to yours, his fake blood smearing across your skin, neither of you caring.
You stayed like that for a long time — just holding each other, grounding each other — until the director gently called him back.
Pedro kissed your forehead once, lingering. "Stay where I can see you," he whispered.
You nodded, your heart in pieces.
The rest of the day blurred into a series of heartbreaking takes, whispered reassurances, and moments where Pedro would glance over, find your eyes, and remember he wasn't really alone in all this.
At one point, between scenes, you climbed into his lap in a quiet corner, wrapping yourself around him like armor. He buried his face in your neck, breathing you in.
Someone took a picture of that too.
And another, later, when it was all over — when Pedro, still painted like a corpse, cradled you as you cried silently into his shoulder, overwhelmed by everything you'd seen. He rocked you gently, whispering soothing nonsense into your hair.
"I'm okay, cariño. It's just pretend. I'm here. I'm not going anywhere."
The BTS pictures dropped a week later.
The fandom imploded.
There you were, in shot after shot — holding Pedro like your life depended on it, him holding you back, both of you wearing your hearts on your sleeves.
#protectpedropascal trended within minutes. #protecthisgirl wasn't far behind.
Tweets poured in:
"They’re literally saving each other." "How am I supposed to survive knowing Pedro Pascal cuddled his wife through fake death?" "Someone write fanfic about THEM, they’re the real love story." "This is the most devastating and healing thing I’ve ever seen."
Pedro reposted one of the pictures on his Instagram story — the one where you were cradling his battered face, forehead to forehead. No caption. Just a heart.
You, watching from the couch, sniffled pathetically.
Pedro grinned, pulling you into his arms.
"You saved me that day," he said softly.
"You saved me too," you whispered back.
And you would — over and over again, for the rest of your lives.
Until the end. And beyond.
-----
mi vida ── .✦
requested! thank you. ♡ content: fluff, comfort, period care (yay), spanish pet names
You always felt it creeping in a few days before—your body begging for more rest, your mood going softer, and your need for Pedro’s arms increasing by the hour. By the time your period actually arrived, you were wrapped up in blankets, hair mussed, eyes heavy-lidded, and already leaning on him like he was your personal pillow.
Pedro loved it. He loved you, always, but there was something about your sleepy, clingy self that made his heart squeeze.
This morning he stirred before you. The sunlight was barely peeking through the blinds, his alarm already silenced with a lazy swipe. He had work soon, but right now? You were curled into his chest, your breath warm against his shirt, and there was no way he’d let you go.
He tightened his arms around you, kissing your hair. “Mi vida,” he whispered, his voice husky with sleep. “Duerme, mi niña. I’ve got you.”
You hummed, half-asleep, and nuzzled closer. The warmth of him, the scratch of his beard against your temple, the slow beat of his heart—everything felt like a lullaby.
By the time you stirred again, Pedro had already gotten up, showered, and—apparently—done the chores. You blinked awake to find the laundry folded at the end of the bed and the kitchen sounding faintly like fresh coffee.
Dragging yourself out of bed, you padded over to find him at the counter, sleeves pushed up, towel draped on his shoulder. He was humming softly, the smell of coffee and toasted bread filling the air.
“Pedro…” Your voice was still raspy from sleep. “You did my part.”
He glanced up, smiling like you’d just caught him red-handed in the sweetest crime. “Good morning, princesa. Sleep well?”
You crossed your arms, pouting. “You weren’t supposed to do my chores. That was my part.”
Pedro walked over, coffee cup in hand, and pressed it gently into yours. Then he leaned down, lips brushing your forehead. “Shhh. No protest, cariño. I wanted you to rest.”
“But—”
“No buts.” He tilted your chin up, smiling that soft, stubborn smile. “I know how tired you get, mi amor. It’s no big deal. Let me take care of you.”
The lump in your throat gave you away. You melted instantly, eyes prickling with tears as you clung to his shirt. He laughed quietly, wrapping his arms around you again, guiding you toward the couch.
“You’re ridiculous,” you mumbled into his chest, already half-dozing again.
“And you’re perfect,” he countered, settling with you across his lap. He tugged the blanket over both of you, letting you bury yourself into the warmth of his body. His hand stroked slow, lazy circles on your back.
Your eyelids fluttered. Sleep tugged again, heavier this time, but before you drifted off, you caught the sound of his voice—soft, low, threading through your dreams.
“Te amo, mi niña bonita. Duerme, descansa. I’ll be right here.”
You smiled against him, sinking deeper into the cocoon of his arms. His scent, his warmth, his voice in Spanish lulling you under—everything was perfect. Even when he finally had to leave for work, Pedro would still carry the imprint of you in his arms, your sleepy smile etched into his memory.
✦ please do not copy, repost, or translate this work. © lazysoulwriter // i write with a lot of love and care, so please respect that.
Thinking about slow kisses with ryyyyyy ₊˚⊹ ᢉ𐭩
1k ish words ? I’ll check tomorrow
It was movie night, you both loved movie nights!! Early on in your relationship, it was a way to spend time together after work, unwinding and talking about each other's day while you cuddled on the couch. You would put on some god-awful sci-fi movie that Ryland would be making fun of and pointing out all the incredibly inaccurate special effects they had. But you wouldn’t spend your nights any other way.
You were laying on top of him on the couch, his arm lazily encircled your back and draw figures of eight into the soft fabric of his borrowed shirt. He was mumbling something about there being no sound in space, which makes you smile at how ridiculous he could be sometimes. Your head moves to get a better view of his scrunched up nose and exasperated expression.
Ryland peaks down when he felt the movement on his chest, and his face instantly switched into a small smile when he looks at you, making your heart flutter. He always managed to make you giddy in the stupidest ways possible.
His hand came up to smooth the baby hairs at the top of your head, which didn't do much since they will never go down. Then it traveled back down, tracing the vertebrae of your spine. It was a soothing touch, one he does almost every single time he manages to have you this close to him.
“Are you liking it?” He asked
“Mmm nooo, it’s boring,” you admit, looking back at the tv. You felt his laugh, his chest rising and falling with each little noise he made.
“Yeah it is”, he responds. His hand stopped on the small of your back, lingering. You were about to turn back to him but he tapped you gently, “Gotta pee.”
You giggle, getting off of him and watching his figure retreat into the dark hallway. You take that as your moment to walk to the kitchen to grab something to drink. You don’t bother flicking the light on; you knew the place like the back of your hand at this point. Grabbing one of his mismatched cups from the drying rack, you fill it with water and bring it up to your lips to feel the cool liquid go down your throat. You turn around, hearing the TV still on in the other room, the light of it casting a cold shine into the hallway. As if on cue, Ryland's figure comes back into view, startling slightly when he sees you standing in the dark kitchen. You try not to laugh at the way he looks like he saw a ghost, skin turning pale, and all.
“What’re you doing there!?” He asked with a far too high pitch, making him cough into his hand to play it off.
You raise the cup, which he could barely see, “Water.”
He steps into the kitchen, and just like you, ignored the light switch on the wall as he walks past it, deciding to lean against the fridge, a few feet away.
“Kinda creepy.” He jokes, watching as you drink some more, crossing his arms over his chest.
You shrug, placing the cup on the counter so you could lift yourself up, trying to be eye to eye with him. He took it as an invitation to get closer, stepping between your legs and resting his hands on either side of you.
It took him a moment to realize what he did, but he didn’t falter. There was a shift in the atmosphere when he just stayed there, looking at you with that oh so in love gaze. There was a beat of silence, Ryland's eyes flickered between your eyes and your lips, cocking his head to the side so gently.
“This ok sweets?” He muttered when he leaned in closer, hot breathes against your skin.
“Yeah” your response was barely there, but he heard it.
Ryland leaned in, closing the gap with a slow kiss. His hand came to cup your jaw, guiding you to follow his leisurely pace. He hummed against your lips, leaning away slightly just to look at you, pulling your bottom lip down with his thumb, watching it bounce back into place with a lazy smile, before tenderly going back in for more.
His fingers felt soft against your skin, the frame of his glasses nudging against your own, something you’ve grown used to when you both kiss. Your arms came up to wrap around his shoulders, fingers running slowly through his hair before settling at the base of it, scratching lightly at the short hairs, earning a whiny noise from him. You felt his other hand grab your hip, rubbing up and down your waist for a few seconds, before it found its way to the hem of your shirt and nudged it upwards, letting his cold fingers settle against the warm skin of your waist. The contrast of it made you arch your body away from his hand, but he just pulls you closer to the edge, until you were just leaning on him.
You gasped at the sudden movement, and his freezing fingers (genuinely, you’d think he's a dead body or something), giving him access as his tongue slowly licked your bottom lip, prying your mouth open with ease. The movements were measured, he’s exploring every corner of your mouth, furrowing his brows because he can’t lean in more, can't have more of your sweet taste that he simply can’t get enough of.
At no point does he try to change the tempo; he kept it easy, slow, and steady because it was too late to even think about doing anything else. Besides, why rush something that he wishes could last forever?
“Can we go back to the couch?” You mumble your words against his lips when he pulls away for a sliver of a second. He licks his lips, his wide, dark pupils look up to meet yours, which are in the same state, and he nods sluggishly.
You were about to hop off the counter to walk over, but he pulled you closer by his hand on your hip, his other tapping your thigh, beckoning you to wrap your legs around his waist.
“Mmm heavy,” you slurred, pecking his lips so that he’ll let go, but he didn’t, just pulled you off the counter with a quiet grunt. You yelped, wrapping your arms around his neck tighter. “Ry-!”
“You weren’t gonna fall.” His voice was heavy, and you could sense the smile in it.
When he gets to the couch, he places you softly on your back, not missing a beat to settle his legs between yours. His chest pressed against yours for a second before he held himself up with his arms, resting near your head at the top of the couch. He’s smiling down at you with those sweet eyes, the light of the TV casting a blue hue on his face, which just makes him look even more angelic.
“Hi” you whisper, feeling your heart hammering in your chest. It’s not the first time hes this close to you, but you can’t help but get nervous at just how pretty he is.
And you’re not the only one. His own hands felt shaky, not because he can’t support his own weight, but because. God, how is it that you can be so pretty no matter how he looks at you?
“Hey” he responds, quickly pecking your lips once, twice, thrice, and pulling away to run his fingers through the front pieces of your hair, pushing them aside so he could get a full view of your face. “I’m so lucky to have you”
You laugh quietly when he comes back for one more, feeling that warm sensation forming again in the bottom of your stomach. Your nails take a slow path up his forearm, coming to a slow stop at his bicep, squeezing the muscle gently, earning a smile from him against your lips.
After a few more minutes of kissing and giggles between the two of you, Ryland pulls away, kissing the top your nose, and then nuzzled against it with his own.
Ughhhh cute tired makeout sesh with the bbg
Headcannon: ryland x cockwarming
(pls pls pls pls pls)
Thermal Equilibrium Ryland Grace/Reader | Explicit, MDNI | ~4.7k words
Tags: cockwarming, established relationship, humor, explicit, fully au, domestic au, one-shot, female reader insert, he will not stop talking, the experiment gets away from him
You wanted stillness. He wanted to understand stillness, which is a different thing entirely, and requires a methodology, and apparently several variables he needs to isolate. The problem is Ryland Grace has never been quiet for more than eleven seconds in his life, and right now he is very warm, very inside you, and extremely busy explaining thermodynamics.
[ Cross posted on Ao3 ] [ fic masterlist ]
There is a particular kind of quiet that only happens when Ryland Grace has run out of things to say, and you have learned, over the better part of a year, that it never lasts longer than it takes him to think of one more thing.
Right now it has lasted eleven seconds. You are counting, because counting is contagious and you have caught it from him like a cold.
You are in his lap. Properly in his lap, settled all the way down, the both of you bare and warm under the good blanket on the couch that smells like him and faintly like the lemon thing he uses on his hands. His back is against the armrest. Your knees are bracketing his hips. He is inside you and neither of you is doing anything about it.
It is a Saturday, which is relevant context. Saturdays in this apartment have a shape: he sleeps in until some ungodly hour like eight, makes coffee badly, grades a stack of seventh-grade lab reports at the kitchen table while reading the funniest answers aloud whether you ask him to or not, and then somewhere around early afternoon, having run out of obligations, he gets restless in his skin and goes looking for something to investigate. Usually that means a kitchen experiment or taking apart the toaster that works fine. Today it meant you, and a thing he read about, and a careful negotiation conducted mostly while undressing.
So now it is mid-afternoon, the light coming sideways and gold through the blinds, a half-graded lab report still face down on the coffee table where he abandoned it, his glasses the only thing he is still technically wearing, and you are sitting full and still in his lap conducting research. There is a mug of his terrible coffee going cold on the side table. There is a documentary he put on hours ago and forgot about, paused on a frame of a jellyfish. The apartment has the specific stillness of a weekend with nowhere to be, and into that stillness he has introduced the one experiment guaranteed to test it.
I love the idea of Aerion being a loser for his wife. I will read it whenever its published. But Valarr will always be the OG pathetic loser husband! 🙂↕️✋️
A little idea for ITIMMWAU (OG edition), Aelias definately takes after his father, he misses his mother just as much. Reader probably went to meet her brother for two days, and now Baelor has to deal with two sulking princes. Valarr, who has gone back to staring at his locket during the council meetings, and Aelias, who disturbs the said council meeting every 10 minutes or so to ask his sire and grandsire if his mother is back yet.
Two Sleeps
Valarr Targaryen X Reader "ITIMMW AU"
Summary: In which your son misses you
WC: 3k
AN: Sorry for the late answer it was in my notes and i forgot i had it😭
no thoughts just hotch calling you honey
“honey, can you pass me that?” with an open hand, not even looking at you, too focused on the stack of paperwork in front of him.
“it’s okay, honey, i’ll be home soon,” spoken into the microphone of his phone, reassuring, aching at the distance between you two.
“hi, honey,” whispered into your hair, one hand pressed against your head to keep you close, the other pressed against the wall to keep his balance as he slides off his shoes.
“oh, honey,” spoken gently, big hands covering your cheeks as he holds you close, kissing your forehead soothingly.
“honey,” said between a laugh, a shake of his head, as he walks close to you and grabs your hips, so enthralled by you that he can’t help but bend into a kiss.
𝒀𝒆𝒔 𝒎𝒂'𝒂𝒎
Summary: Aaron Hotchner is not a man of many words — he prefers silence, gesture, subtle care. You have learned to listen. Warning: I don't think this can even be considered a story in itself. It's more about my kink for tough men who obey their wives in silence. Delusions WC: 1 093
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You knew that Aaron Hotchner was not an easy man.
He was – for lack of a more delicate term – emotionally constipated. And the chronic stress of his job made it worse. He is a person who values justice a lot, and yes, he manages to apply it at work. But sometimes willpower alone is not enough, luck is not always on your side – even if he doesn't say it out loud, you know it affects him.
Aaron carried all of this in silence – never showing how tired he was, never asking for help.
He is extremely protective, to an almost suffocating degree. Not only of you and Jack, but of the team as well – which means he takes on more responsibilities than any healthy human being should try to handle.
Even so – and perhaps precisely because of this – he is a great husband.
PERMISSION TO NEED ME ᰋ AARON HOTCHNER
pairing ᰋ aaron hotchner x reader
summary ᰋ you always try so hard to not rely on your boyfriend because you know how busy he is. so naturally when there’s a power outage in your apartment you hesitate to let him know about it which leads to a very disappointed aaron behind you door.
warnings ᰋ angst with fluff end. lots of pauses (sue me i want the dialogue to go slower) swearing & language.
one thing about being with a man that was a man— which, by that, you mean a man who was so unlike the little boys you had dated before—was that he was extremely assertive, mature, and overall just knew how to take care of you just right.
and one thing about being with so many little boys unlike him was that over time you had learned to shut down, because they always made you feel like you were too much.
asking for too much, when the whole time it was beyond the bare minimum.
so naturally, whenever you had issues, you dealt with it yourself.
like right now when you had a power outage on your whole street, meaning everything was shut. your fridge, electricity, elevator (which meant you had to climb up and down eight floors), and most importantly, your stove.
you didn’t call your boyfriend because you felt like it was too much.
shit, you couldn’t even use your phone to order food because it was dead let alone try to call him.
it was running on 5%, and you had just enough to let your best friend know that you were alive and that if you didn’t answer, it was probably because you ran out of battery. while she insisted you leave your house and maybe go over to aaron’s, since she herself was all the way in the other side of the country for a work trip, you had refused, because seriously, it’d be embarrassing.
sure, you’d crashed at his place since you’ve been together for almost three years, that’s normal—but this just didn’t feel right. you weren’t about to go bother him and ask if you could stay at his place for god knows how many days until the electricity was fixed. that was too much. at least, that’s what you thought it was.
it was fine. you were going to be able to survive on a dead phone, dead stove, absolutely no lights, all alone in your apartment.
but it wasn’t fine when aarons’s eighth call to your phone went straight to voicemail and he hadn’t heard from you all day, which was so unusual, because you usually responded no matter what.
naturally, his only solution was calling your parents, your family, anyone he knew, but they also hadn’t heard from you. that left him with one last person: your best friend, who he essentially forced an answer out of until she finally cracked and told him what was going on.
“she’s fine, she just. . didn’t want to bug you,” she had sighed through the phone. “power’s out. the lights and everything. she refuses to leave.”
“and she didn’t even try to call me?” he’d asked, voice going flat.
“you know how she is.”
hearing that he’d cursed under his breath, grabbed his keys and jacket, and headed out the door, worry swirling in his gut the entire thirty-minute drive to your apartment.
he parked near your building’s garage, said a quick hi to your doorman, then went to the elevator. when he realized it didn’t work, he took the stairs two at a time, jaw tight.
another string of curses left him. he was beyond irritated—not at you, never at his sweet girl—but at the fact that you felt like you couldn’t rely on him, like you always had to solve your problems alone.
if he couldn’t help you on your worst days, then why was he even there?
he finally got to your door, only to realize the doorbell didn’t work either. of course. he knocked, harder than he meant to.
a few seconds later, you opened the door in your pajamas, hair up in your crazy big rollers he still didn’t fully understand the point of—something about volume and blowouts or whatever you’d explained to him a hundred times.
you were probably getting ready to sleep off the night alone in the dark.
“hey,” you breathed out, staring at him. from the look on his face, you knew you might be a little screwed.
“hi,” he said simply, eyes scanning you quickly, alive, breathing, upright, before the tension in his shoulders eased the tiniest bit.
“come in.” you give him a light peck on thr lips before you cleared your throat and stepped aside, trying not to do anything to intensify the situation further.
“what’s up with the lights?” he asked as he came in, toeing off his shoes like he always did, acting like he didn’t already know.
“power outage,” you muttered, leading him toward your bedroom. there was still a bit of light from outside, but not much.
“have you eaten?” he asked, following close behind, hands in his pockets.
“not yet,” you admitted with a wince. “my stove doesn’t work, and my phone’s dead, so i can’t order takeout.”
you flopped down at your vanity chair, turning away a little as you started taking your rollers out, trying not to look directly at him.
aaron watched you for a beat, then came up behind you, catching one of the rollers you fumbled. “and you didn’t bother telling me about all this?” he murmured, standing behind you as he gently started helping with your hair, fingers careful not to tug.
“my phone died?” you offered, glancing at his reflection. he looked calm, but you knew him—you could see the tick in his jaw.
“yeah?” he said quietly, setting another roller down. “before or after you decided to play pioneer in the dark instead of calling me from literally anywhere else?”
you chewed your lip. “. . before,” you whispered, then sighed. “i’m sorry.”
you finally blurted it out; you knew it was due.
“not a word,” he said, stepping back and shaking his head. “get dressed, pack a bag. you’re coming with me.”
“baby, you know you don’t have to—” you started, then froze when he gave you a look. firm, not angry, but very, very clear.
“i’m not asking,” he said, tone soft but absolute. “i’m telling you. pack a bag.”
you swallowed and nodded quickly, turning away to change into proper clothes. you grabbed a small overnight bag and started shoving in necessities makeup, skincare, some clothes, your laptop, and your dead phone, while he waited in the doorway, arms folded, eyes following your every move.
he was quiet, and with the way he was quiet, you knew he was more hurt than mad.
“done,” you breathed out, holding up the bag.
“good.” he walked over, took it from you without a word, and with a hand on the small of your back, gently steered you out of your apartment after you’d double-checked everything and locked the door.
you both walked in silence down the eight flights of stairs and out to his car. he opened the passenger door for you, waited until you were settled, then put your bag in the back and got into the driver’s seat.
the car was quiet as he pulled away from the curb.
his hand wrapped around the steering wheel, knuckles pale from the pressure. you stared at it for a few seconds, realizing you couldn’t take it anymore you gave in and reached over, gently prying his fingers away so you could lace your hand with his left hand on the center console.
“you’re mad at me,” you said softly, thumb rubbing over the back of his hand—the hand you were honestly obsessed with.
“i’m not,” he sighed, squeezing your fingers. “i’m just—” he cut himself off with a deep breath, jaw clenching.
“i should’ve told you. i’m sorry,” you said, filling the silence. “you’re right. i should’ve called.”
“you should’ve told me,” he agreed quietly. “i should’ve been the first person you thought to ask.”
you looked over at him, seeing the faint frown lines between his brows, the way he was staring straight ahead like if he looked at you too long he’d say something he’d regret.
“i know,” you said. “i just. . didn’t want to bother you.”
he huffed out a humorless laugh. “bother me? you think you bother me?”
you swallowed. “i know you’ve got stuff to do. and besides. . it’s just a power outage. i felt dumb calling you just for that ”
“you live on the eighth floor with no lights, no elevator, no food, and a dead phone,” he said slowly. “that’s not nothing, sweetheart.”
“still. it felt like a lot to ask.”
“from me?” he asked, finally turning his head to really look at you. “after three years? after everything? you’re allowed to ask me for things. that’s kind of the point.”
you bit your lip, shoulders hunching. “i just got used to hearing i was too much, you know? wanting too much.”
his expression softened immediately. his hand tightened around yours.
“look at me,” he murmured.
you did.
“you’re never ‘too much’ for me,” he said, voice low, steady. “you’re my girlfriend. you’re supposed to call me. you’re supposed to need me. if you don’t, then what the hell am i here for?”
your eyes stung a little. “you do enough already.”
“clearly not if you’re sitting in the dark, hungry, pretending you’re fine,” he countered gently.
you didn’t have an argument for that, so you just squeezed his hand instead, letting the silence settle between you, softer this time.
by the time he pulled into his driveway, the knot in your chest had loosened a little. he parked, killed the engine, but didn’t move right away.
“for the record,” he said, still looking straight ahead, “you never ‘bother’ me. if it’s you, it’s not too much. ever.”
your throat went tight. “okay,” you whispered. “i’ll try to remember that next time.”
“don’t try,” he corrected quietly, finally turning to meet your eyes. “just call. right away with absolutely no hesitations.”
you nodded, and that seemed to be enough for him. he leaned over, pressed a quick kiss to your forehead, then climbed out to grab your bag before opening your door.
later after he made sure you ate he moved around to plug your phone in, for you to answer calls from your mom and letting everyone know you were fine, all while you curled against him on the couch while some random 90s movie played in the background. his arm was around you, fingers tracing idle patterns on your shoulder as he breathed you in, quietly enjoying the feeling of holding you.
“aaron?” you murmured.
“mm?”
“thank you for coming to get me,” you said quietly.
he pressed his lips to the side of your head. “always.”
“and. . i’m sorry i didn’t call. i’m trying to be better at that,” you admitted. “it’s just. . leftover crap from before you.”
“i know,” he said. “i’m not mad at you for having history. i just need you to let me be different from it.”
you swallowed. “you are different.”
“then treat me like it,” he said gently. “let me show up for you.”
you shifted, turning so you could look up at him. “okay,” you whispered. “i will. i promise.”
“good,” he murmured. “my girl’s safe. that’s all i need.”