madelyn

madz • she/her • lana enthusiast • 21 • dean di laurentis’ best girl

[flyingcat96]

- welcome to my blog!! -

i started this account around october of 2025

interests:

- JJK

- off campus

- Haikyuu

- DCU

- MCU

- the pitt

- supernatural

hope you enjoy tumblr as much as i do!!

[voxslut3434]

YANDERE!JJK MEN (inc. gojo, nanami, toji)

GOJO SATORU

○ The truth is there is no evading Gojo in any way. He has his eyes, ears, nose, mouth, and touch on absolutely everything to do with you. It doesn't matter how far you run or how many different last names you adopt, it's just a game to him. But, he's eager to get you in love with him quickly, so he doesn't waste much time before kidnapping you.

○ Gojo wants to you act almost like you are a completely normal couple. He wants you to cuddle him, kiss him, eat with him, cook for him, all the normal things that normal people do. The truth is, he's never had or been normal, and so he uses you as a gateway to get there.

○ His routine for you is that when he gets home, you come up and greet him with a real, genuine smile on your face, and then you ask him about his day and all the curses he fought. He doesn't expect perfect obedience or for you to be willing all the time, but he does expect you to at least try.

○ Gojo doesn't want to give out punishments, he doesn't like it, but unfortunately sometimes he has to. He knows that you're a good girl, he knows how sweet and warm you can be, and so it breaks his heart when all there is left to do is spank you into next week or leave you in the dark, cold closet for a few days. He never associates sex with punishments as he doesn't want to scare you. However, getting him really mad is a wrong choice.

○ Overall, Gojo is an inescapable yandere that however is bearable. Overbearing, yes. Desperate, yes. Evil? Maybe a little bit, but who can blame him for wanting a bit of normal? If you can get used to him and eventually love him back, then Gojo will have all he's ever wanted.

KENTO NANAMI

○ Nanami is a strict yandere who will not tolerate disobedience. He sees no problem with kidnapping you as, in his head, it is the correct decision and the best for you as now he can easily protect you. That being said, he will not refrain from treating you like a child or taking away rights privileges if you are not meeting his quota. If you like structure, lucky you, but in Nanami's house, no brats are allowed.

○ Every morning before he goes to work, he gives you a list of things to do. They mostly include small tasks like 'Make the bed' or 'Tidy the living room', but sometimes he likes to give you the treat of '10 minutes of TV' or 'Start a puzzle.' There's no point avoiding the list because the TV will not turn on without his permission and you already know baout the cameras at every corner. And so, you're stuck at home doing little tasks until he returns.

○ If you're a good girl, he will reward you with a rare smile and a movie. However, any task being done incorrectly or not done at all imeddately results in a spanking. It doesn't matter what happened, Nanami will have you over his lap and have you counting to ten. He doesn't hold back either, making sure your bottom is red and sore when he's done. You almost want to curse him for making you so eager to please him.

○ Overall, Nanami is a firm and decisive yandere. He will make the decisions for you, and, in his mind at least, they will be correct. If you're his good girl, you get to spend your days immersed in books and painting and piano. If you're bad, that shifts to you cleaning the kitchen sink three times and not being allowed to sit on the couch. Living with Nanami is what you make of it.

TOJI FUSHIGURO

○ Wow, lucky you. Toji didn't give you any warnings before he kidnapped you, simply smirking down at you when you wake up in his apartment in his shirt in his bed. He doesn't care for precautions or gentle words, instead laughing at you when you attempt to fight him. He just finds you absolutely adorable, and the perfect sexy thing to get him by.

○ Toji fails to care for your uncomfortable, meaning you will be sitting on this man's lap on day one. He virtually brings you anywhere he goes in his apartment, dragging you around easily. He's not very strict, his law consisting of 'don't try and kill me' and 'do whatever, just don't break anything.' You sleep in his bed with him and there's no room for debate on anything. If you say no, he laughs. That being said, he refrains from explicitly sexual touch, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

○ Toji doesn't really punish you. He understands why you want to yell and scream at him, and he also understands that you're too weak to actually do anything about it. His discipline mostly includes him grabbing your wrists, taking you to the couch and holding you against him until you calm down. That being said, it's recommended to not piss him off, because its you he will be handling rougher, not anyone else.

○ Overall, Toji is a relaxed and yet threatening yandere. He relies on your fear of him to get you to behave, which unsurprisingly works. He feeds you and takes care of you, but also allows you the alone time you need. Be a decently good girl and you'll get by with him, the problems will come when it's time to start taking that dick.

[jazzthatonewriterchick]

What A Good Kitty!

Pairing: Asshole Roommate!Sukuna x Cat Girl!Reader x Pet Owner!Toji (ft. Tattooer!Kuna x Mechanic!Toji)

Synopsis: Sukuna HATES cats. He can't stand the little balls of fur. All they do is make messes that he has to clean up and flare his allergies. But apparently, his roommate Toji doesn't care about all that and decides to adopt you, the adorable little cat girl he sees in a pet shop window. As suspected, you dislike Sukuna just as much as he dislikes you, so he makes it his mission to stay as far away from you as possible. However, one stormy night when Toji leaves for work, Sukuna comforts you during a scare from the thunder and suddenly realizes just how adorable you really are...and affectionate. 

Warnings: 18+ (MDNI); No Curse/Modern AU; Pet Play; Transformation; Cat Hybrid!Reader; Adoption; Fear Comfort; Snuggling; Petting; Finger F*ck; Ear Scritches/Tail Stroking; Deepthroating; Caught Fucking (by Toji but he likes that shit lol); Threesome; Daddy Dom!Toji x sub!Reader x Daddy Dom!Kuna; Collaring; Daddy/Master Kink; Couch Sëx; Spitroast; Dick Piercing; Tattoo Worship; Doggy Style aka Kitty Style (I'll go sit in the corner lmaoo); Raw Creampies; Facial; Aftercare

Word Count: 9.7k

Disclaimer: I own none of the characters mentioned in this fic. However, as this is my writing, I do not give permission for my work to be reposted on any other sites that are not from my own accounts. Thank you! 

Writer's Note: IT'S FINALLY HERE!!! This is based off of a headcanon I wrote about Cat Girl!Reader x Pet Owner!Toji (ft. Asshole Roomie!Kuna) back in February (HOLY SHIT WE IN JUNE NOW GODDAMN) I hope y'all enjoy it!! Read the headcanon riiiiight HERE! <3 -love, Jazz

Credits: Dividers made by @cursed-carmine!

Sukuna hates cats. 

Scratch that: he hated cats before he met you. 

To be fair, he has a disdain for pets of all shapes and sizes. Including cats. Really, he just hates animals, even the little birdies outside his window that chirp his head off in the mornings and shit on his car. He has never owned a pet before due to this unburning hatred and disdain for earth’s “furry friends”. 

But there is no species that gets under his skin the way that cats do. He can’t stand their fur that shed and get every fucking where so he winds up sneezing and his eyes swell. He hates how active they get at night, meowing and running around with their nocturnal asses until he’s up for hours. He hates how prissy and high-maintence they are, requiring 24 hours of attention, the right type of cat food, and a human servant to wait on them hand and foot.

So when Toji, his longtime roommate, pitched the idea of getting a cat of the blue while running errands, Sukuna was, of course, very against the idea. The only reason Toji even brought up the idea of adopting a cat was because they passed by a quaint, disgustingly cute pet store where a special on cats for National Cat Day was happening. 

Toji stood in front of a makeshift fence made to keep the kittens inside, staring down in adoration at the furry little things meowing, playing, and leaping around. Specifically the soft-looking black one with the pretty eyes and tiny mews. “We’re not gettin’ one,” Sukuna growled. 

Toji glared at him, irritated by Sukuna’s lack of enthusiasm. “Well, you ain’t, but I am. C’mon, man, she’s a cutie, ain’t she?” He gently scooped the kitten up from the runt, her tiny body fitting right in his big hands. The kitten stared up at him curiously with those big, irresistible eyes. “Just look at her eyes. And those cute little ears.” 

Toji fell in love right on the spot, scritching behind her ears and under her chin with his thick fingers. “Hey, darlin’,” he coos. “Oooo, you like that? I hit juuuust the spot, didn’t I?” The kitten’s eyes fluttered shut and her body rumbled as she began to purr from the petting. “Purrrrrrr~” 

Sukuna looked away from the disgusting scene, right over at the old woman pretending to admire the tabby kittens when really she was eye-fucking Toji. “Stop before this old lady squirts in front of me,” he hissed. “And stop talkin’ to it like that. We ain’t gettin’ it.” 

Toji glared at his room, still scritching the kitten’s ears. “And why the fuck not?” 

“We don’t have the space for a damn pet! Who’s gonna take care of it while you’re at work?” As a tattoo artist, Sukuna definitely didn’t (and wasn’t) going to have the time to care for it. Toji is a mechanic, so he works long hours too, always coming home covered in car oil and groaning from being on his aching knees all day. 

How the fuck are two working, forty-something year old men going to take care of a little kitten? Paying for taxes and groceries every two weeks is bad enough!

“I guess not you,” Toji scoffed, nuzzling the kitten’s head with his chin. But she will be fine! I’ll feed her, potty train her an’ everything so she don’t bother your bitchy ass.” As if listening and hearing him, the kitten mewed at Toji and nuzzled into his cheek, still purring. “C’mon, Kuna,” he pouted. “How can you resist her? She’s adorable!” 

The kitten turned to Sukuna then, her eyes glistening curiously. Sukuna stared at the cat, noticing something…different about her. Something un-feline that didn’t match the other kittens behind the fence. But just as quickly as it came, it vanished when the kitten purred as Toji’s big hand petted her head, pushing her ears back. So he caved. “Fine, but she’d better behave or I’m gettin’ rid of her. One mess and she’s out.” 

Toji grinned like a little kid and excitedly held the kitten up to his face. “You heard that, little one? You’re comin’ home with me.” And he raced inside the pet shop with the kitten in tow to sign the papers that day. 

For the next 24 hours, Toji was doting on his new pet while Sukuna stayed out of the way and stocked up on allergy medicine. But you were a brattier feline than either of the men anticipated…and you weren’t even a real feline. Not entirely. 

That night, after falling asleep on the couch to the last season of “The Boys”, Sukuna passed out somewhere during episode 4 only to be woken up by something tickling his thigh. He grumbled, flicking it away, only to feel it again minutes later. “Damn bugs,” he growled, opening his eyes and looking across the couch to see– 

“Jesus!” he yelps, nearly falling off of the couch. His startled yell scared you out of your sleep. You curled up with a blanket covering you, furry black ears and a tail attached to your head and backside. Your eyes glistened as you stared at him, wide and glowing in the dark. 

Sukuna jumped up from the couch, alarmed at the stranger in his apartment. “Who the fuck are you?! How’d you get in here?!” You didn’t reply, sitting up on your knees where the blanket slid down to reveal your naked tits. “And why the fuck are you naked?!” Sukuna grunted. 

Nevermind the fact that you had the best rack he’s seen in ages! So pretty and soft and plump-looking. Just aching to be sucked and tweaked and pinched and massaged and fucked with his big, fat c– 

Suddenly, a light flickered on, casting the living room in a soft, warm glow. Toji stood in the doorway of his bedroom in his KFC bucket-printed boxers and a T-shirt, yawning. “The hell are you on about, Sukuna? It’s 6 in the fuckin’ morning.” But all sleep immediately faded when he got a look at you sitting on the couch. 

“Master!” you happily say. Your tail stood up happily and your fluffy ears pricked, excited to see your owner. Toji scowled, just as confused as his roommate as you flung yourself off the couch and scurried over to him with the blanket wrapped around you. 

“Master?” Sukuna parroted, confused. “You know her? What, did you fuck her last night and forget?” Toji stared at you, utterly disturbed at why a strange girl was standing in his apartment naked with cat ears.

“I don’t…wait. That collar.” He turned your chin up where you proudly flaunted the pretty pink collar where a gold nametag hung with your name printed on it. The same collar he got the kitten. Toji’s eyes glistened with recognition. “Y/N? That you, sweetheart?” 

At the mention of your name, you smiled at him, all joy and affection. “Master,” you purred. “Snuggle.” You wrapped your arms around his waist, barely grazing his broad chest. Toji grinned, hugging you tight, recognizing his sweet kitty. “I knew there was somethin’ special ‘bout you. You’re one of those cat girls, ain’tcha?” 

You purred and snuggled into your owner’s chest, in your own little world with him. But Sukuna wasn’t having it. “She ain’t stayin’. How the fuck do you expect us to pay for another fuckin’ human in here?!”

“But she’s a cat too,” Toji argued. “And nobody’s askin’ you to pay for her; I will. She’s MINE.” He protectively held you as he glared at Sukuna, stubborn and unrelenting. “C’mooon, just look at the girl!” He turned to you around to face Sukuna and maybe it was the beer he consumed beforehand, but…something in your eyes grabbed at the pink-haired tattooer. 

Not that he liked you or anything. But still, he wasn’t a monster. Just an asshole. He groaned, pinching his sinuses. He felt a headache coming on, both from the cat hair flying about and the current situation. “Fine, but make sure she stays in your room. And remember: one mess and she’s out.” 

Turns out one mess turned into many. Catgirl or regular cat, you were prone to doing cat-like things, like knocking shit over on the table and destroying toilet paper. You showed up in unwanted areas, like when Sukuna was showering, and you constantly meowed for attention. 

As the months went by, the two roommates quickly realized that you shifted into your cat and human forms depending on the time of day and on your mood. In the daytime, you were a little kitten prancing around on all fours, furry and fucking up Sukuna’s sinuses. But at night, you were a curious, adorably sexy human woman, all up under Toji like you were cold. 

And Toji was hooked. He no longer invited any hookup over (probably because he was too busy fucking you), instead spending all his time with you after he got home. He couldn’t wait to get home to you just to stroke your fluffy ears and tail just to hear you purr for him. 

He used all his money to buy you the cutest outfits and the prettiest collars for your neck, bedazzled with gems and bells to hear you coming when he called your name or clucked his tongue to signal for you. He spoiled you rotten, always taking you to the park on warm days or to the pet shop to buy you more treats and toys that you didn’t need. 

Toji was totally determined to be the best pet owner to his little kitty. And Sukuna detested every minute of it, especially since his roommate’s pleasure was at the expense of his discomfort. 

Mostly because he was tired of hearing Toji fuck your brains out through the bedroom walls at night and seeing you slink around in those damn ruffled mini skirts and sundresses Toji insisted on buying you that Sukuna definitely didn’t think make you look so cute and sexy in. He was sick of your shit. 

So one morning before work when he came in to see you sitting on the couch in your cat form, like you shouldn’t have been, he had a fit. “Oi!” he bellowed. “Get the fuck down! Why the fuck are you on my couch?!” 

You stared up at him, unbothered, and made a mean grumble when Sukuna stormed over to you. “Damn fur ball. Don’t growl at me or I’ll skin you.” But he didn’t dare pick you up. Last time he did that, he got a deep scratch on his hand that bled for hours. Because you couldn’t speak in your little cat body, you began to loudly meow, signaling for your Master. 

Toji came running in, dressed in sweats and ready for coffee. “What’s up, baby?” he cooed, coming right over to you. “Aye, you fightin’ with Y/N again? I think you woke her up.” You sweetly meowed and purred for Toji as he petted your backside, unfurling from your loaf to stretch in greeting.  

“She ain’t supposed to be on the couch. I told you this a million times, asshole. Remember my allergies?” Sukuna sniffled, already feeling his nose becoming itchy. Toji gave him an apologetic smile, secretly laughing. “Ohh, riiiiight, you’re allergic. We got plenty of medicine in the bathroom for that.” 

“That’s not the point,” Sukuna groaned. “I don’t want all that fuckin’ cat hair on my—did she scratch up my couch?!” He eyed the tattered fabric on the couch, looking suspiciously like cat claw marks. Toji picked you up, cradling you. 

“Oops. Y/N, honey, I thought I told you no scratchin’ the couch up.” You purred in his arms, blinking up at him with those magnetic eyes. Toji melted, ever so in love with you. “What am I gonna do with you, huh?” he cooed, giving you heart eyes as he scritched behind your ears. 

Sukuna rolled his eyes at the disgusting display. “This prissy little pussy is gettin’ on my nerves. I’m about to throw her in the street.” Toji rolled his eyes at his roommate’s dramatics. “No, you’re not. You love her just as much as I do!” 

“No, I don’t. I only tolerate her ‘cause she’s yours. You’re the only one she even likes.” You were all lovey-dovey and sunshine for Toji, but all Sukuna got were hisses, growls, and occasional scratches if he happened to pick you up or get too close. You didn’t like him and he sure as hell didn’t like you either. 

“That’s because I don’t yell at her or swat her with newspaper or call her names,” Toji said accusingly. “Of course, she loves her Master more. Right, kitten?” He snuggled you into his chest, your purrs loud enough to be heard from down the block. 

Sukuna pretended to gag and stormed into the kitchen to make himself a cup of coffee before popping on the rest of The Boys. It was his day off and he was going to enjoy it. “God, get a fuckin’ room,” he growled. 

“Someone’s jealous,” Toji chuckled to which Sukuna gave him the middle finger. “Listen, I’ll probably be late today with work, so just take care of her while I’m gone?” Sukuna turned, staring at his roomie like he was insane. And he was. “Da fuck I look like? I’m not her owner.” 

“Yeah, but I’m not here to care for her,” Toji stressed, looking absolutely gutted at leaving you alone for so long. He was usually back in the afternoons after a job at the mechanic shop, but today was one of his days he wanted to work overtime. “Just feed her and try not to skin her, alright? Be nice to my girl.” 

He took your paw and held it up for Sukuna, showing off your cute, pink toe beans. Sukuna sighed and grabbed a mug before turning away to brew himself a pot of coffee. “Whatever.” 

As he tried to ignore the cute sounds of your meows and purrs, Toji spoke again. “Wish you would just give her a chance. She really is a sweetheart, Kuna. Trust me: one day, this little darlin’ is gonna rub off on you.” 

But Sukuna ignored him, only hoping that you didn’t piss on his couch or shred his clothes while your Master was gone. How was he going to survive a day alone with such a little brat on his hands? 

•••••••••••••• 

Hours later, the day turned into night and it was raining cats and dogs. “Jesus,” he muttered, watching the downpour from his window. 

The window overlooked the cityscape outside, droplets of water pouring down the glass. It was the perfect night in; rainy, dark, and gloomy. Sukuna was prepared to spend his night diving into some takeout, beer, and Netflix on the couch while Toji was still working a shift. 

But as he turned around to get started on his evening in, he realized how difficult that would be because you–the furry little thorn in his side–were lying curled up on the couch in your human form. Toji had picked up a pretty ruffled black mini dress that you’d been wearing all day, waiting for your Master to come home from work. 

You didn’t bother Sukuna much today, only making a lot of annoying sounds with your loud ass bell tinkling about as you walked around in your cat form, sipping water and playing with your barrage of toys that Sukuna always stepped on. But when he saw you lying on the couch, your knees curled up to your chest and your pretty face looking so serene, he blew a fuse. “Yo!” he growled. “Oi, get down! You can’t be up there!” 

Your furry black ears twitched as your eyes fluttered open. Sukuna tried not to take notice of how long and defined your lashes were, reminding him so much of a doll’s. Your cat-like eyes flickered up to him, your sweet voice thick with sleep. “Toji,” you murmured. “Master?” 

Sukuna felt a strange tug in his stomach when you mentioned his roomie, mistaking him for the tall mechanic. He had no idea how long you had been sitting on the couch while he wasn’t watching, but that nap must’ve knocked your brain loose a couple screws. “Your Master ain’t here. He’s at work; you know that. Now get up.” 

You sat up from your position, stretching, your tail unfurling and curling around your ankles before fanning impatiently. “Want Toji,” you grumbled. “Wanna call.” You pouted those plump, pink lips at him to which he rolled his eyes at, struggling to keep his cool. Especially with the way that tinkling gold bell attached to your collar brushed just above your sweet, juicy-looking cleavage. “Call him if ya want. Just get off the fuckin’ couch.” 

But you didn’t, still sitting there, arms crossed and lips pouted. You were a stubborn little thing, indeed. Sukuna growled like a wolf hunting his prey, becoming irritated. “Little brat. I said GET DOWN.” After sizing him up with an unbothered stare, you laid your head back down against the couch cushion. “Sleepy,” you murmured. “Cozy.” 

You snuggled into the couch as you curled your knees back up to your chest, accidentally showing off a sliver of your lace panties and a bit of your supple asscheeks underneath. Sukuna felt a hot flush enter his body at the sight and he quickly averted his eyes to the newspaper lying on the coffee table. “You little wench. If ya don’t move right now, I’ll—“ 

BOOM! 

Suddenly, you were up from your comfortable sleep position, fear and shock evident on your pretty face. Your tail poofed up from the loud noise, frazzled, and your ears shot back. “Eeeeek!” you shrieked, causing you to fly off the couch and into Toji’s bedroom to hide. Sukuna flinched as the door slammed shut, leaving him alone once more. “Da hell is her problem?” he muttered. 

But then something weird happened: he actually began to walk towards Toji’s room to see you. Comfort you. That has never happened before. He instantly stopped, one foot pausing in front of the other, as reality smacked him hard. “What the fuck are you doin’?” he asked himself. Quickly, he fetched his beer and sat down with some Netflix, ignoring the strawberry-sweet scent you left in your wake on the couch. 

As the storm raged on and the thunder boomed, lightning flashing across the living room in the darkness, Sukuna felt his eyes growing heavy somewhere between Daredevil: Born Again and Love Is Blind (he loved laughing at the mess of reality TV). But quickly, the heaviness of sleep and the rain stopped his approaching nap when he heard Toji’s bedroom door creak open.

He turned and there you stood, wrapped in a blanket, your tail literally between your legs. Your ears were still sitting back, flat against your head. The look in your eyes held nothing but fear. “Back again?” Sukuna asked, one tatted arm tossed over the back of the couch. “Ya come to apologize?” 

You didn’t answer, too busy jumping at the sound of more thunder booming, cutting through the white noise of the TV. Sukuna rolled his crimson eyes at your reactions. What a squeamish little thing. “Jeez, relax. It’s just thunder. And some lightning.” 

As soon as he said it, more lightning struck, flashing across the walls. You gasped and raced for the couch, jumping onto it with Sukuna. But then you tried to take his arm. “What the fuck are you doin’?” he growled. He snatched his arm away from you, much to your hurt expression, and shook his head as he moved over as far as he could from you. “Uh-uh, back up. I don’t do cats.” 

You stared up at him with pupils as big as moons, your eyes welling up with wet tears that made them glassy. You slunk off of the couch, shivering in your blanket, the picture of fear. “Toji,” you whimpered. “S-Scared.”

Watching you, Sukuna couldn’t help but feel like an asshole. He wasn’t pleased that you were here taking up his movie night, but he didn’t want to be a total dick to you. So as you turned to walk back to Toji’s room, alone and afraid, he caved. “Hey,” he called. You turned, confused, your ears perking up. “You can come up and sit, but no funny business. I ain’t your owner.” 

You seemed confused at first, like you couldn’t figure out if he was serious or not. But slowly, you slunk back over to the couch and sat down. You were stiff at first, all of your limbs wound tight together, but overtime as the show continued and the minutes ticked by, you sunk into the couch. Sukuna looked over at you, finding you curled up in your spot again. “Better?” 

You nodded, lazily, not quite awake, and let out a cute little yawn that tugged at his heartstrings. Maybe it was the beer. He couldn’t be actually thinking you were adorable…right? 

He didn’t overthink it, instead distracting himself with the mess and drama of Love Is Blind, humorously smirking whenever an argument happened and rolling his eyes at a kiss. The storm raged on, but you were quiet, never flinching or shrieking in fear. Perhaps this is all you needed: some company. And at some point, you fell asleep. 

When Sukuna looked over at you, he wished he hadn’t…because you were the most adorable sight he had ever seen. Curled up under the fluffy blanket, you looked so serene and peaceful, your ears twitching ever so slightly, your tail serenely flicking by your pink-painted toes. The only thing that snapped him out of it was his phone ringing. Quickly, he snatched it up so he wouldn’t wake you and answered without looking at the caller ID. “What?” he barked. 

“Hey, asshole,” Toji greeted. “How’s my baby doin’? You skin her yet?” Sukuna looked over at you snoozing away, soft purrs leaving your lips. “She’s got one more time to make all that yowlin’ again and I might,” he grumbled. He had to keep up appearances after all. 

“She’s scared,” Toji sighed, sounding worried for his poor kitty. “Poor baby. She hates the thunder. Listen, just watch over her, alright? And if you need to, pet her. It makes her less scared.” 

‘Pet her?’ Sukuna thought. ‘Pet her where?’ He grimaced, confused. “How the fuck am I supposed to–” 

“Gotta go,” Toji interrupted before he could finish asking. “Just watch over my girl. I’ll be home soon.” And then the call was finished. 

As soon as Sukuna put his phone down, he heard a slight mew and turned to find your ears twitching rapidly, your tail flicking in agitation. You were shivering under the blanket, your brows drawn in fear and distress. You then began yowling again in your sleep, that awful, pitiful sound ringing in his ears. The tattooer swallowed, unsure of what to do. He didn’t want to scare you anymore than you already were…but he couldn’t see you look so damn pitiful. 

Slowly, he scooted over to you, careful not to make a sudden move or sound. Once he was within arm’s reach of you, he gently stuck out a hand and poked you. Immediately, you were awake and tossing the blanket off of you. Your eyes were sharp splits and your claws were bared, every muscle in your body tight. 

“Hey, hey, chill,” he grumbled, snatching his hand away. “It’s just me. Don’t bite me, alright?” Though you relaxed, you still looked slightly perturbed, staring at his hand adorned in ink. “This is just so you ain’t makin’ that annoyin’ ass noise. It’s not ‘cause I care. Plus, your Master keeps botherin’ me.” 

At the mention of your Master, your eyes softened. “Toji?” you whispered. Sukuna grimaced, his lips tightening. “No, I told you: he’s at work. I’m–” 

“Sukuna,” you replied. The tattooer stopped short, shocked at the sound of his name escaping your lips. You had never said his name before. It sounded strange coming from you, but also…nice. “Yeah,” he said, surprised. Your eyes jet back to his hand, staring dead at his thick fingers. “You ain’t gonna bite me, are you? Or hiss? Or scratch me?” 

To his surprise, you did neither. You were silent, tail curling curiously around your feet. Slowly, inch by inch, he reached toward you and softly petted the top of your head. Your ears shot up at the sudden contact, alarmed by the touch, but then you settled into it. “You want more?” he cooed. “Don’t get used to it. It’s just for tonight.” 

But even as he said it, he didn’t believe himself. Because the moment he began stroking your soft hair and ears, the moment he heard you purr, was the moment he started falling. Hard. He didn’t think it was possible and he couldn’t explain away the pounding of his heart or the way his stomach fluttered as he stared at your peaceful expression. 

Your eyes fluttered shut, your long lashes fanning your cheeks, as you purred nonstop at his ministrations. He never pet an animal in his life before this moment, but he was glad to know that he wasn’t terrible at it. But once you let out a soft moan at his touch, he instantly stopped, feeling his cock twitch in his sweats at the sound. 

What the hell was wrong with him? He couldn’t be here getting hard over his roommate’s pet! “Alright, that’s enough,” he grunted, much to your dismay and confusion. “Lemme get back to my show.” 

But he couldn’t. Because you were crawling your little self into his lap. Sukuna tensed, confused and alarmed at your change in behavior. “Whoa, whoa,” he coughed. “Da hell are you doin’? Get down. I’m not your Master.” You didn’t listen, snuggling your cheek into the hard planes of his chest. “M’cold,” you whispered. “Warm.” 

You stared up at him then with those big, glittery eyes. Eyes like a siren luring in a sailor. Sukuna blinked, feeling his face flush from the sight of your pretty face and eyes staring through your thick lashes at him, his mind taking him on a journey to his dirtier fantasies of you looking up at him like that while you sucked his fat co–

“No, no, wait,” he grunted, trying to push you off of him. “We can’t. I-I don’t like cats and you’re…you’re…” So cute. So small. So perfect. You felt so soft and warm against him, your hands laid flat against his chest, right below his hammering heart. His arms ached to hold you. His hands itched to feel you. Every part of his body yearned for you as you sat in his lap. He didn’t know what you were doing to him. 

“What are you doin’ to me, huh?” he panted, staring down at you. He made the mistake gently petting your tail, causing you to let out a tiny keen of pleasure. “Sukuna,” you murmured, tilting your face up to meet his gaze. And then your lips were on his. He told himself that you initiated first, but he couldn’t be so sure. 

All he saw were your dialed pupils before your eyes closed and your soft, plump lips touched his. He couldn’t deny it: you were a really good kisser. Your lips were supple and sweet, tasting like cherries; such as soft as your tail that tickled his skin as it curled up around his waist. He didn’t know much about cats, but when you began to purr, he could tell you were enjoying this. 

So he allowed himself to slowly touch you, stroking up your thighs; your spine through your backless dress; your soft tail. Then his lips were on your neck, shoulders, and jawline, his lips touching places that made your nipples harden beneath your dress. He could feel them press against his chest as you arched yourself into his touch, your soft moans and keens driving him up the brink of insanity. 

Now, your body wasn’t tense from fear anymore. It was all pleasure. Even as the storm grew louder and stronger, you didn’t flinch or run. Instead, you stayed in Sukuna’s lap, straddling him now. 

“Please,” you whimpered. “More.” The tattooer eyed you, his cock throbbing beneath your lace panties. “More?” he asked in a deep tone thick with arousal. “Tell me where, little one.” 

His hand brushed your back, making the hairs on your neck stand up. He smirked, loving that he had such power over you now…the same way you did over him. He let you take his hand and guide it, blushing when you guided his fingers between your thighs. “Right here?” he panted, feeling you throb against his fingertips. “You want my fingers right here?” 

Slowly, you nodded, your eyes hooded and lips parted as you softly moaned when he began rubbing you. He kept his movements slow, allowing you to pull away if you chose to…but you didn’t. You stared at him as he kept stroking your pussy through your panties, your lips becoming puffy and soaked from his thick fingers. 

This was so wrong. So bad. You were Toji’s pet! His perfect girl! And yet…. 

Sukuna’s eyes ticked up to meet yours, seeing nothing but lust there. “Feels good?” he asked. He began to rub your clit with his thumb, causing you to moan and close your eyes from the feeling. He grunted in disapproval, stopping his rubbing. “Look at me and tell me,” he firmly ordered. “Tell me how I feel pettin’ that little pussy.” 

You whimpered at his words, opening your eyes, shining like a cat’s in the darkness. “S-So good,” you stammered. He could see how hard your nipples were now, not to mention how soaked you’d grown. His fingers practically dripped with you. “I-Inside? Can you, Kuna? Please?” 

Those soft, hopeful eyes stared into his, begging him for exactly what he thought you wanted. What he secretly always wanted after listening to Toji praise your pussy through the thin walls at night, the headboard banging and your sweet cries filling the apartment. “So polite,” he chuckled. “So fuckin’ sweet. But you’re still a brat.” 

He drew a squeak out of you as he suddenly snatched you up and sat you in his lap, your back to his front, your tail tickling his stomach. “You need to be punished for that,” he whispered before gently kissing your soft, furry ear. He nibbled on it slightly, drawing another gasp out of you. 

His thick fingers swirled around the wet spot of your pussy before he pulled your panties aside, your thighs spread wide to welcome him. He groaned at the sight of you–so soft and pretty, pink on the inside with the most gorgeous puffy pussy lips and a nest of trimmed curls leading down to your honeypot. “You’re so spoiled. You’ve got Toji wrapped around your little claw.” 

Snap! He tugged on the waistband of your panties and snapped them back against your skin, smirking when you keened at the sensation. “But I ain’t Toji. I’m gonna make you work for this.” 

SMACK! 

You let out a mix of a moan and a yelp as his hand roughly smacked against your pussy, his palm becoming sticky with your juices. Slowly, he stuck one finger in, growing harder at the noises you made as he gently finger-fucked you, getting you used to him. You were so used to Toji and his sex, so he wondered if he was able to make you feel just as good with his fingers…and maybe his cock too. 

His thoughts could only get dirtier than the gutter as your moans, gasps, and whimpers filled the air, your soft thighs shaking around his hand as he curled his finger up to rub your G-spot. You leaned your head back into his chest, those eyes closing against the pleasure he was giving you. “S’kuna!” you moaned, squeezing his wrist in your tiny hand. “P-Please more! N-Need…need you!” Sukuna’s cock twitched in his sweats, damn near putting a hole in it. 

“You want more?” he huskily asked in your twitching ear. You only whimpered and nodded, probing him to slowly slide his middle finger in. Your mouth fell slack as your pussy gushed around his digits, soaking them. “How ‘bout this? Is this what you want, kitty?” he growled, pumping his fingers in and out, making sloshing sounds in your tight, wet cunt. 

His mind drifted as his thick fingers fucked you out of your fear. In his head, he replaced his fingers with his cock instead, fucking you till you cried and creamed all around him, dripping down his balls until they emptied inside of you, filling your pussy to the brim. As you squeezed around his fingers, his dick got stiffer until he was rubbing against you, much to your enjoyment. “You close?” he whispered in your ear. “God, you’re so fuckin’ tight! Squeezin’ ‘round me so good…” 

He fucked you a bit more intensely, speeding up, not caring if his knuckles got tired. He wanted you to cum for him. To scream in pleasure. To give him everything he wanted. Finally, your moans grew louder, bouncing off of the walls as lightning flashed against your pretty face.“Kuna….m’close! So close!” you squeaked. 

He grinned, endorphins pouring inside of his veins at the sheer fact that he was making you this submissive for him. “Cum for me, kitty. Just this once. Let me make that pussy cum f’me.” He suckled on your furry ear and continued his thrusting, loving how slick you made his hand. Finally, with a broken mew, you came all over his fingers. 

It was glorious and entertaining watching you cum for him. Even more entertaining than anything on TV! The way your ears flew back and your tail curled into a knot as you moaned so sweetly into the quiet living room sent shivers down his spine. He groaned when he felt your pussy spasm and clench around him, making him yearn to feel your pussy walls clamp around his dick in the same manner. 

You soaked his fingers down to the knuckles, leaving his palm sticky and wet. After your muscles relaxed and you let out a tiny sigh when your orgasm high faded, he slowly slid his fingers out of you and placed them up to your mouth.

“Taste yourself,” he ordered. You did so, opening your mouth to suck on his digits, your wet tongue slipping and sliding along his fingers. He grinned, satisfied with your submissiveness. You must’ve been sooo needy without your Master here. “Good girl,” he uttered, making you turn to stare at him. You seemed shocked that he would dare let such praise slip past his lips. 

Realizing his fuck-up, he cleared his throat, his cheeks hot. “Um…that was–whoa!” But before he could finish, you were sliding off of his lap and staring at him with a look of hot lust. He could hardly breathe as he watched you slink down to your knees, your tits nearly dripping out of your mini dress, looking like a picture of sex. 

Sukuna sat back, watching you, his cock throbbing in his sweats. “So you think you just own the place, huh? Slinkin’ ‘round here in them little dresses and all that lingerie…” 

He couldn’t stand it when Toji bought you such sexy outfits, mostly because he couldn’t fuck you in them. It was almost like Toji was teasing him, letting you flaunt your body in your cute little dresses, booty short pajamas, and lacey sets. But he certainly wasn’t complaining watching you kneel before him now in one of your little numbers.

You began to indulge in his muscular body, running your claws up his thighs to his stomach, peeling his shirt up to reveal his abs and tattoos. He groaned at the feeling of your sharp claws dragging against his skin. “Shit,” he panted. “Da hell do you think you’re doin’, huh? You can’t just…oh, fuuuuck.” 

The moan dragged out his throat as you leaned your head down between his thighs and began nuzzling his dick print. Hard, hot, and heavy against your soft cheek. Sukuna nearly came right there from the slutty act. “You like that, huh? Is it big enough for you, kitty?” You nodded, nuzzling his cock. “Go on; take it out if you want it. Show me what that mouth can do.” 

You did so, expertly untying his sweats in a way that impressed him. You purred as you slid his pants and underwear down to his ankles, exposing him to your lust-blown eyes. Your eyes widened at the sight of him–big, hard, throbbing, and veiny. A pink happy trail moved down to smooth shaven skin and his cock head was pierced at the tip with a silver ring that had you drooling. He sat before you, eyes hooded with lust and thighs spread for you. 

“So pretty,” you murmured before your hand was wrapping around it. Sukuna softly groaned as you began to stroke him, up and down, your eyes fixed on him. Then you wrapped your luscious mouth around him, being careful to not nick him with your fangs. He let out a loud, long moan at the feeling of your wet tongue and soft lips sucking him, licking him, wrapping him up like a velvety hug. “Shit,” he exhaled. “Fuck, you ain’t too bad at this…for a feline.” 

Cat-like eyes flicked up at him, sharp and shiny. You hollowed your cheeks and sucked him a bit harder, making him grunt. He had to grab the couch cushions to avoid cumming right there down your throat. “Fuck!” he moaned, tilting his head back in pleasure. Then it was right back to you giving him the deepest, most excellent throat he had in his life. 

You were truly a pro at sucking dick, using your tiny hands to pump, pump at his base while you sucked him off at the tip, alternating between deep thrusts of your throat down his shaft and licks of your tongue against his cockhead ring. You even tugged a bit on that, making him mutter, “Little fuckin’ brat” through a grunt as pleasure zipped through him. 

“My bad. Is that a slur to your species?” he chuckled, kind of enjoying your little bite. Your eyes locked on him as you fucked his cock down your throat, your cute little ears twitching in pleasure as you did. You were enjoying this too. He could tell by your eager sucking and the spit that drooled from your mouth, coating his balls. “Goddamn,” he grunted, tilting his head back against the couch. “Is this what you do for your Master?” 

“Just about,” Toji replied. “But she uses more tongue than that.” 

Like a record scratching, reality smacked Sukuna hard in the face at the sound of his roommate’s deep, gruff voice. His head shot up, seeing Toji standing at the door in his work uniform, arms crossed over his buff chest. “Fuck!” Sukuna yelped. Mostly out of alarm but also because you didn’t stop sucking. Though your tail shot up happily to see Toji, you kept gagging on Sukuna’s cock, sweetly moaning around it. The vibrations traveled down to his balls, making his toes curl in his Nike slides. 

Why the fuck weren’t you stopping?! 

Toji smirked at the sight as if he knew this would happen. “Well, well…looks like you’ve gotten real close to my girl, huh, Kuna?” He paused, grinning. “I knew she’d getcha. She’s impossible to resist.” He stared down at you as you continued to work Sukuna’s cock with your throat like a pro, each velvety stroke down your tight channel making the tattooer groan. 

“I…w-we…she…” Sukuna didn’t know what to say or what to do. Should he push you away? God, he didn’t want to! Your mouth was just too good!

But to his surprise, Toji laughed as he stomped over to the couch in his boots wet from the rain. “Dude, it’s fine! I should’ve told you that my kitty can be a real slut too. Y’know, she’s always wanted to have you join us in bed, right, mamas?” He gently petted your head, making you purr against Sukuna’s cock. 

Toji smirked, a playful glint in his eye. “Go on, show him what you can do with that mouth. Doesn’t he deserve to be thanked for keepin’ you company?” He winked at Sukuna, making the tattooer sneer at him. “You just wanna watch, creep.” 

The mechanic didn’t even act like Sukuna was wrong, plopping down next to him on the couch. “Well, of course, I do. Gotta make sure you treat her throat right. After all, she’s mine.” He then took your collar between his thick fingers and turned it around to show your tag: Property of Toji Fushiguro (with his phone number included). 

Sukuna imagined his own name next to his roommate’s on your tag, representing their ownership over you, and the idea of you being his nearly made him bust. Toji watched with lust as you sucked off his roommate with the expertise of a professional cocksucker, your cheeks hollowed and eyes rolling back like you loved this shit. Loved Sukuna’s taste and how fat his dick was. 

“Doin’ so good f’me him, babydoll,” Toji murmured, stroking your ears. “I’m almost jealous.” Sukuna looked over and sure enough, he saw that Toji was pitching his own tent. You noticed it too and wetly popped off of Sukuna’s dick to grab at Toji’s bulge in his mechanic pants. “Master,” you panted. “Need you.” 

You began to rub him through his pants, making your Master tug at his bottom lip at your neediness. “Ohhh, so you want your Master’s cock too? You want some more milk, greedy girl?” He gave your tail a sharp tug, making you whimper at the pressure. 

Before Sukuna knew it, Toji’s pants were unzipped and his cock was springing free. It was just as hard and thick as Sukuna’s though he had a nest of black curls and a happy trail you seemed to drool over. “Well, cutie?” he crooned, smirking at you. “You gonna show my roomie how much of a big girl you are? How good of a kitty you can be?” 

Eager for more praise, you let Toji spit in your hands and wrapped your fingers around both of their thick shafts, causing both of them to wantonly groan at the lewdness of it. As you stroked the both of them, up and down from slow to quick, you alternate between sucking on them in a way that you made look easy. 

They each gave you luscious, deep moans and grunts as you slobbered all over their cocks, saliva dripping from your lips and down your chin. You licked, sucked and slurped them up, moaning obscenely as you did, eager for more of them. The more you sucked and blew their dicks, the wetter you got, causing you to rub your thighs together to ease the ache of your sobbing wet pussy.

“God!” Sukuna grunted, damn near popping a vein in his hands from how hard he was gripping the couch. “Fuck, how is she this goddamn good at suckin’ dick?” 

Toji cackled, finding humor in seeing his roomie so whipped for his kitty cat’s throat. “Taught her everything she knows.” He groaned as he pried his cock out of your mouth, slapping it against your tongue and cheeks. “Open up f’me, kitty” he demanded. You did so, prying your lips open to allow him to lean in and spit in your mouth. 

Sukuna watched in awe and utter horniness, wishing for the chance to do that to you. “Now put it back on my cock,” Toji orders, grinning when you stooped down to spit his saliva onto his slick, hard dick and balls. Then it was right back to you sucking his cock, making him groan as he took your hair in his hand, keeping a secure yet gentle hold on you. “That’s right, mama,” he praised as you pumped Sukuna’s cock in tandem with your sucking. “Mmm, take us both. Such a good kitty.” 

‘Yeah. She’s so good.’ The thought came out of nowhere for Sukuna, conjured by the way you completely made it your mission to please the both of them. When you wrapped your lips around him again and got to sucking, Sukuna felt his balls tugging at your suction, your throat tight enough for a nice, big, fat, creamy load. “Ngh! S-She’s gonna make me fuckin’ bust if she keeps s-suckin’ me like that.” 

Toji grinned toothily at him, encouraging him to ruin and use you. “Then do it. Pet her tail for her. That’ll make her suck you down even deeper.” Sukuna did so, petting your soft tail with his thick fingers, earning your slutty gagging, your throat flexing around him. As the tattooer fucked your throat, Toji licked his fingers and began playing with your pussy, petting your ass as he did. “You’ve got me s’hard for you, kitty. You don’t mind if I fuck that pretty hole, d’you?” 

Plap-plap-plap went his cock smacking against your asscheeks. You pulled off Sukuna's cock, mouth dripping in spit and pre-cum, to plead with your Master. “P-Please, Master. Fuck me.” Toji tapped his cock against your pussy this time, groaning at the soft, wet plap-plaps. “Baby’s so desperate to be fucked, she’ll do anything for it!” he chuckled and leaned down to kiss your ass. “Of course, sweetness. Anythin’ for my good girl. Just don’t stop suckin’ that cock, okay?” 

He then hummed out an “mmmm” of pleasure as he dived into your pussy, pushing his mouth deep against your sticky, puffy lips and clit. Your mouth clamped tight around Sukuna as you moaned, somehow taking Sukuna deeper. The tattooer watched as his roomie swallowed your pussy straight off the bone, shoving his tongue deeeeep inside of you. 

“Hey.” Sukuna tugged on your furry ear, making you look at him. “Don’t slack. Aren’t ya gonna be a good kitty and keep suckin’ me down?” He groaned as he pulled out of your mouth, strings of spit following in his wake.  

Instinctively, you pried open your lips and stuck your tongue out, allowing him to wetly tap the head against your tongue. “Yes, Daddy,” you obediently replied. Sukuna nearly nutted right there. Something possessed him to lean down to give you a rough, mindblowing kiss, making you moan against his tongue. “Don’t get distracted now. That’ll piss me off.” 

Referring to Toji’s sloppy pussy-eating, Sukuna continued to fuck your mouth, even while Toji’s fat tongue licked across your slit, his nose nudging your clit. They shared moans between one another–Sukuna’s deep, smokey moans drifted into the air while Toji groaned into your pussy, using his hands to pry your asscheeks apart, your back in a perfect arch. 

Soon, you couldn’t take much more of the torture and pulled off of Sukuna’s cock to plead with the men. “Please!” you whined. “Please fuck me now, Daddies!” Sukuna shared a look with Toji, both surprised at your plea. “At the same time?” Toji chuckled, thoughtfully stroking your ass. “Oooh, what a naughty little kitty.” 

SMACK!

You keened as he smacked your asscheek hard and rough, almost leaving a handprint. “You’d better take me nice and deep then, girl,” he growled as he snatched off his shirt, leaving him totally naked. Sukuna did the same, loving how your eyes drank in his handsome face, toned body, and big cock that eclipsed everything else on the couch because of how big he was. “I’ll take her even deeper than that. Might even make her cum harder than she’s ever had in her life.” 

He gave Toji a shit-eating smirk, wanting nothing more than to snatch you away for the love of the game. Plus, you were quite the cutie growing under his skin.

Toji couldn’t have that, so after some more light tapping and teasing, he lined himself up and finally slid home inside of you. Your thighs clenched and your eyes widened as your pussy stretched around his thickness, feeling every inch fill you up to the brim. Sukuna saw it, his cock pulsing in jealousy as Toji stretched you out wide.

Your Master gripped your hips, keeping you steady between himself and Sukuna. “Ahhh, fuck,” he exhaled. “So fuckin’ tight.” He began to thrust his hips against your ass, drawing his cock in and out of your pussy at a slow yet deep pace that made your eyes roll and your tail curl as you gagged on Sukuna’s cock.

Toji chuckled at your reaction to his fat dick, biting his lip as his eyes grazed over your body squeezed between him and Sukuna. Sukuna’s cock had slipped out of your mouth so you could take a breath, but all you did was moan and wail in ecstasy. God, how he wanted to make you sound like that! He wanted to fuck you for so long, wishing for the change to make you moan and scream on his dick the way Toji did. 

He watched the lewd sight before him as Toji fucked you deep and hard. Your walls flexed around him yet kept him inside; the way your pussy lips slightly stuck to his shaft when he pulled out as if to keep him there. His dick came back shining in your gush, the vein trailing from his heavy, cum-filled balls to his pulsing head. 

As he began to fuck you faster, your titties bounced, finally popping out of your dress to freely bounce and sway in Sukuna’s face. You bounced back onto Toji’s cock, fucking him back, unashamed and oh-so slutty. 

“Shit,” Sukuna exhaled, transfixed at the way your pretty pussy clenched around Toji’s cock. The way your body moved. The way you sounded. “Switch with me.” He said it in a rush of air like he couldn’t get it out fast enough, desperate and greedy for your cunt. Toji tossed his head back and laughed, still bumping his hips against yours, his thighs slamming against your ass. “Told ya she’d get you!” 

He finally slid out of you with a groan, his cock slick with your honey, and gripped your chin to turn you to face him. “Someone’s obsessed with ya, darlin’,” he huskily whispered. He gently stroked your chin, forcing your head still. “You still doin’ okay? Try and gimme your words.” 

Sukuna could see in your dazed eyes that your mind had turned to mush. Your holes leaked with pre-cum and you seemed fucked out of your head, but you still managed to reply. “Y-Yes, Daddy,” you stammer, giving him a wobbly smile. 

Sukuna growled with need while Toji cooed at you as if you are a baby. His baby. “So fuckin’ cute,” he groaned, stroking a thumb along your bottom lip. “We’re gonna make you cum your pretty brains out, babe. I promise.” He paused to press a kiss to your lips, sweet and light. 

Finally, the men switched and lifted you up on the couch so you’d be more comfortable getting your brains fucked out. While you faced Toji, sucking him off now, Sukuna held your hips and faced your pretty, puffy, wet pussy, everything he ever wanted right in front of him. He tapped his dick against your clit for a moment before finally, fucking finally, sliding in. He grunted as you squeezed those satiny walls around him, tighter than a vice, sucking him in straight off the rip. 

You felt perfect. And he wanted to make it last…really he did! But he couldn’t. Feeling your wetness dripping down his balls and seeing your soft, plushy ass and fluffy tail pressed flush against his abs took him over. 

Then Sukuna was fucking your pussy off of its hinges while Toji fucked your throat, their groans and grunts filling the sex-scented air. Toji used your sloppy, tight throat to please himself while Sukuna pushed your pussy, his eyes becoming glazed with lust at the way your soft lips stretched around his shaft. 

Toji chucked through his grunts and huffs of pleasure as they pushed and pulled on you, rocking you between their big, muscular bodies. “Go ‘head, man. Smack her ass.” Sukuna didn’t have to be told twice. 

SMACK! 

His hand came down hard on your ass, the sound of his palm hitting your skin echoing throughout the room. The way you moaned in pleasure at the sharp sting broke him and he fucked you harder, faster, your ass smacking against his abs. He was coming close to his end and he wanted you there too. 

So he licked his fingers and proceeded to rub at your clit in semi-circles, loving how wet you were. So responsive to his every move. “You wanna cum for us, kitty?” he grunted. “Say it, slut. Say you wanna cum all around my cock.” 

You were losing your shit, your grip on reality slipping. The two studs fucking you into euphoria weren’t off that great either. They couldn’t stand how cute you were getting split between them, and shared the way you craved. Toji slipped out of your mouth, busying himself by jacking off in your face so you could speak. “Please, Daddies!” you whimpered. “Make me cum! Need to cum!” 

Your soft, gorgeous begging pulled both over the edge. They couldn’t resist you.

The harder Sukuna fucked you, the more he could feel his orgasm coming, the build-up growing more intense with each passing second. He stroked your tail as Toji petted your ears, stimulating you so bad that you began to tremble. “Fuckin’ give it to me,” he whispered in your ear. “Cum for me, kitty! Cum all over that dick!” 

His harsh tone and sexy demand caused your body to tremble and shake like an autumn leaf as finally, you came. You moaned aloud, sweet and loud, as you exploded all over Sukuna’s fat dick. Your walls tugged on him like you wanted to lock him inside you, your pussy quivering around his cock bullying your insides, stuffing you full even as your walls grew sensitive. You drenched him, your slick dripping down his balls and coating your inner thighs. 

You whimpered and moaned into the sex-scented air as you creamed all over Sukuna’s cock, soaring and flying among the stars. Sukuna was right beside you, right there on the edge of bliss as he fucked you faster, harder, your ass smacking louder agaisnt his pelvis. 

Once you came down, Toji went right back to fucking your mouth, pushing when Sukuna pulled and vice versa. You bounced between them as they fucked your holes, knocking all common sense, thoughts, and logic out of your pretty little brain until you were nothing but their mindless, slutty kitty. 

“Fuck, I’mma cum for you, pretty!” Toji groaned, plowing your throat as if it was a fleshlight for his enjoyment. 

“Fuck!” Sukuna growled, gripping your ass so hard that he nearly left bruises. “Goddammit, m’gonna cum! Gonna give you my fuckin’ load, kitty cat!” He tugged on your collar, making you gasp around Toji’s dick. “Take it, baby. Take all that fuckin’ milk!” 

You had no choice but to do so. They each came with luscious, guttural, throaty moans and grunts that made your pussy throb around Sukuna, their cum filling up your cunt and their mouth in a rush of spunk that has your back arching and your tail twitching. Toji moaned out your name like a prayer and strings of pet names as his cum coated your throat. He then pulled out to finish the rest on your face and chest, covering your lips, cheeks, and tits in his sticky spunk. 

Sukuna wore like a sailor as he filled you up to the brim with his cum, coating your insides in him until he was dripping down your asscrack. Tingly sensations crackled in his blood and veins, addictive like a drug. Like your perfect pussy. His mind grew blank as his eyes rolled back, exhaustion kicking in as the sex high faded, leaving him exhausted. 

With a huff, he stared down at his dick plugged inside of your wet hole, cum dripping down your thighs and staining the couch. So much for keeping you off of it. As their highs finally faded, the men gently pulled out of you and, after Toji lovingly wiped his cum off of your face, laid you down between them, their big, muscular forms like two walls squeezing you in. 

But you never looked so happy. So content. You snuggled into Toji’s side as he threw a duvet over your naked body, snuggling up close to wrap his arms around you. He began to stroke your head and scratch your ears, smiling as you softly purred. “Now that’s a good kitty. Ain’t she, Sukuna?” 

Sukuna stared down at you curled up between them, your tail swishing peacefully between your legs. He fell completely in love with you right there, seeing exactly what Toji saw the first day he got you. “Eh,” he grunted, his cheeks growing hot. You’re not so bad…but I still don’t want her scratchin’ up the couch though. Maybe then I can think about us doin’ this again.” 

Toji chuckled, nuzzling his nose against yours. “Did you hear that, pretty kitty? How’s about bein’ a good girl for Sukuna too, hm?” 

You peaked over at Sukuna and he expected you to give him a hiss. But instead, you rolled over and snuggled into his broad, tatted chest, scent marking him and purring even louder as his body heat embraced you. Sukuna, shocked, stiffly wrapped his arms around you while Toji chuckled at the sweet moment. “I’ll take that as a yes.” 

THE END.

[slllieeepyy]

nerd!choso is… bigger than expected

mdni 🔞

that thing has to be at least 11 inches. is that even healthy?

you never expected to be sprawled across your biology lab partners bed, pussy bare and aching, while he kneeled on the edge of the bed in front of you.

your eyes were wide as he finally tugged his boxers down. it had taken some convincing, because he had been mumbling something about “i don’t wanna hurt you” and relentlessly asking if you were sure. you had just assumed he was nervous.

which he absolutely was, you were his first everything after all, but really, he might’ve been even more nervous for you.

his dick was long, pink, and leaking. it had a slight curve and a large vein going up the underside.

much bigger than any you’d ever seen before, and probably any you would ever see again.

“uh.. is it- are you okay? i- i know it’s big…” he muttered, noticing your wide eyed expression. he reached out, placing a hand on your calf and stroking gently.

“mm- no, it’s good, cho. i just.. didn’t expect it.” you mutter lowly, attempting to keep your voice calm while staring at what was about to impale you in a matter of minutes.

choso nodded, crawling up the bed between your legs. he settled above you, hands on your hips firmly as he aligned himself with your entrance.

you felt his blunt tip poking against your lips, making you exhale sharply.

“j-just.. go slow, okay?” you mumble, not wanting to sound nervous. you had experience, you were supposed to be the one guiding him, right? how did the roles reverse so quick?

he nodded. “tell me to stop, okay..?” were the last words leaving his mouth before he slowly began pushing in, inch by inch, knocking the wind out of you with each one.

you whimpered at the fullness, and he was barely half way in. each of your sounds, whether from pain or pleasure, made choso’s hips pause to check if you were okay.

after a minute of going slowly and letting you adjust, he was finally in all the way. he stared into your eyes so deeply, his face flushed, breaths heavy.

“does it feel okay?” he asked quietly, brows pulled together nervously, like all he was concerned about was your pleasure.

you nod, breathing shakily and wrapping your legs around his waist. “s’good, cho. keep going.”

feeling your heels dig into his back and the way you looked up at him with your big eyes made it impossible to hold back any longer.

choso lost his virginity that night, and you lost your ability to walk for the next week.

||a/n: 🎵 he might not look like he gets bitches but honey that dih was 11 inches 🎶

[poutyharu]

(18+) you let nerd!jo hit raw for the first time

the happiest you've ever seen satoru gojo is when you told him he could fuck you without a condom for the first time.

it's not like he minded using them, in fact he still thinks it's responsible to use protection, even if you are on the pill. he just thinks he's lucky he gets to touch you at all.

but he has always wondered what your raw pussy would feel like, how your velvet heat would contract around his cock, no barrier separating the two of you.

you dragged him to your dorm after class and got right to the point, shoving your tongue down his throat and straddling him. not before long, his jeans were shoved down to his ankles and he was hovering over you, obviously very nervous.

"toru– just put it in" you groaned in annoyance, trying not to just fuck into him yourself.

"m'sorry..." he whined, pushing his glasses up with one finger and glancing down at where his dick sat against your glistening folds, throbbing and twitching with anticipation. just the sight pulled a little whimper from him. he's always cum a bit quicker than some of the other guy's you've dated, but he just can't help it! you're the first girl he's ever been with, probably the prettiest he's ever talked to.

"okay..." he took a breath, trying to calm himself down before reaching down and taking his cock in his hand, lining the leaking tip up with your entrance.

when he finally does push in, he's panting, grip on your hips so tight you know you'll have little finger tip shaped bruises there afterwards. "oh– fuuuuck–" he moans whorishly once he buries himself to the hilt, clenching his eyes shut and breathing so heavily you think he might pass out. your pussy is just so much more warm like this, he can feel every ridge of your gummy walls fluttering around him, begging him to move.

"m-move some" you breathe out, not used to how different his cock feels like this. your hands are braced on his broad shoulders, fingernails digging into his skin when he doesn't move a muscle.

his eyes are still closed, his glasses nearly falling off of his face. you can hear him whining faintly, body so stiff it's making you uncomfortable for him.

you decide to take matters into your own hands, bucking your hips up so his dick slides further into you. apparently, that was a bad idea when his reaction was an immediate iron grip on your hips, and loud, pathetic moan. "fuck!" he buries his flushed face in your neck, jaw slack and breath fanning against your skin.

he came. he came having not been inside you for even a minute. you can't help but huff a suprised sound, that soon turns into a full body laugh.

he lifts his head from the crook of your neck at that, eyes wide and glassy like he was going to cry. "don't laugh! s'not funny..." he's mortified, he came like a virgin just because of the lack of a little piece of plastic. "m'sorry baby..." he seems genuinely apologetic, he hates that he couldn't make you feel good.

you shush him, reaching up to card your fingers through his silky white hair, scratching his scalp lightly and watching as he leans into the contact. he's convinced you're mad at him, that you think he's pathetic. "i don't mind, toru" you coo, which earns a relived sigh from him in return. your voice is soothing when you speak, "let's go again, yeah?"

© 𝓹outyharu | all rights reserved. please do not reupload or claim my work as your own. do not feed my content into ai systems.

[toruscandy]

You’re bouncing on his cock, hips slamming down hard enough that the wet slap of skin on skin echoes through the bedroom, when Satoru lets out a muffled sound.

“Mmmfgh-!”

His head is thrown back against the pillow, snowy hair sticking to his damp forehead, eyes rolled halfway up in pure bliss. Your worn black panties are stuffed between his lips, the crotch pressed right against his tongue so your scent and taste flood his senses with every desperate inhale. He’s lost every ounce of composure, he's a whimpering, trembling mess beneath you.

It had started barely twenty minutes ago in the laundry room.

You’d walked in absentmindedly, only to freeze at the sight of Satoru hunched over the hamper, face buried in the same pair of your dirty panties he’s gagging on now. His blindfold was pushed up, cheeks tinted prettily, cock rock-hard and twitching visibly in his sweatpants as he inhaled you like he’d die without it. He’d startled when he saw you, pulling the fabric away with a quick, surprised blink of those striking eyes.

“Well… fuck,” he’d said, a low chuckle slipping out even as his cheeks stayed faintly warm.

“Didn’t expect you to be back so soon...”

You’d felt your own face burn, surprised and a little embarrassed by the scene before you. Instead of scolding him, you’d stepped closer, plucked the panties from his fingers and dragged him to your shared bedroom.

Now he’s paying for it in the best way. You brace both hands on his broad chest, nails digging into pale skin and ride him harder, lifting until just the fat head of his cock stretches your pussy, then slamming back down, again and again.

His muffled moans vibrate against the fabric in his mouth, drool slipping from the corner of his lips. His hands clutch the headboard above him exactly like you ordered, knuckles white, veins standing out on his forearms as he fights the urge to grab your hips and fuck up into you.

“Such a needy boy, sniffing my dirty panties like a pervert.”

He whines loudly around the gag, hips jerking helplessly beneath you. His cock throbs violently inside your clenching heat. You don’t let up, grinding in tight, nasty circles that rub your clit perfectly against his base while your walls squeeze him tightly.

His whole body suddenly goes rigid. A desperate cry tears from his throat, muffled by your panties, as he starts to squirt, hot clear fluid floods deep into your pussy. It’s filthy, warm and slippery, leaking out around his shaft with every frantic twitch of his hips. He shakes hard through every spurt, tears slipping from the corners of his eyes, moaning as he’s completely lost in the pleasure.

You keep grinding on his cock, hips rolling desperately as the warm, messy load he squirted inside you pushes you right over the edge. Your pussy clenches hard around him, thighs shaking as you cum with a soft moan, slick gushing out to mix with his own fluids and dripping down his balls on the sheets.

Panting, you slow down and gently pull the soaked panties from his mouth. He gasps for air, chest heaving, lips swollen and shiny. You brush his white hair from his forehead, still seated on his cock.

“You knew I was coming,” you murmur, watching his face. “You let me catch you on purpose.”

Satoru meets your gaze, still flushed and breathing hard. A little smirk tugs at the corner of his swollen lips.

“Yeah… I knew,” he admits, voice rough and smug.

“Wanted you to walk in on me like that. Wanted you to take over and fuck me stupid.” He lets out a breathless chuckle.

Smiling, you lean down and kiss him.

“You're so dirty...” you whisper. He shivers under you, that smirk still on his lips as his arms wrap around your waist, pulling you closer.

"Only for you."

[cherryysunshine]

A Flimsy Excuse

Pairing: Dick Grayson/F!Reader

Word Count: 6.3k

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: explicit sexual content, best friends to lovers, beach day, public teasing, semi-public sex, oral sex, car sex, vaginal sex, dirty talk

Summary: Dick Grayson is your best friend. 

Best friends help with sunscreen, share ice cream, hold towels while you change, and absolutely do not spend an entire beach day seeing how many excuses they can find to touch you.

Dick has always been very good at excuses.

Author’s Note: Inspired by this post

how many best friends to lovers fics have i written now? idk but there's going to be more because i just love the trope lmao

this is the second fic that @twentytomidnight convinced me to post tonight thanks bestie ily ❤️💛

You had known Dick Grayson long enough to understand that innocence did not suit him.

He wore it beautifully, of course. That was part of the problem. He could smile at a waitress and get free drinks, smile at an old woman on the subway and be invited to sit, smile at you from beneath the careless fall of dark hair over his forehead and make you forget, briefly and stupidly, that he had never done anything by accident in his life.

That included inviting you to the beach.

It had sounded innocent when he said it. A day off, a stretch of sand far enough from the worst crowds, a cooler full of drinks, towels in the trunk, and the kind of summer weather that made the whole city feel like it was melting around the edges. You had agreed because Dick was your best friend, and because spending a day with him was easy in a way very few things were. You knew how he liked his burgers. He knew which gas station snacks you always pretended not to want until he bought them anyway. You had slept on his couch, stolen his hoodies, patched up injuries you were not supposed to ask too much about, and listened to him talk around feelings so often that you could hear the shape of them even when he refused to give them names.

The beach should have been safe.

It was not.

By early afternoon, the sun had softened everything. The sand was hot beneath your towel, the air smelled like salt and coconut sunscreen, and Dick had abandoned his shirt somewhere near the cooler, as if he had never once considered the effect this might have on your ability to behave normally. He lay beside you on his back, sunglasses low on his nose, one knee bent and one arm folded under his head. He looked unfairly relaxed for a man who had ruined your concentration at least three times since you arrived, mostly by existing too close to you with bare shoulders and damp hair.

“You’re staring,” he said.

You looked away from the slow rise and fall of his chest. “I’m checking whether you’re asleep.”

“With your eyes glued to my abs?”

“I was looking for signs of life.”

Dick hummed, amused and lazy. “Find any?”

Unfortunately, yes.

You rolled onto your stomach before he could see too much of your face. Your bikini top shifted as you moved, the strings pressing into the back of your neck, and you grabbed the bottle of sunscreen from the corner of your towel. “Make yourself useful.”

“I’ve been useful all day.”

“You carried the cooler ten feet from the car and then asked me to praise you.”

“You did praise me.”

“You looked pathetic.”

“I looked strong and dependable.” His shadow fell over you before his voice did, and then the towel dipped near your hip as he sat beside you. “What am I making useful?”

“My back. I missed a spot.”

A quiet pause followed. You could feel him looking at you. It should not have mattered; he had seen you in swimsuits before. He had seen you in pajamas, in old shirts, in the kind of half-awake disarray reserved for people who had stopped pretending they were guests in each other’s lives. He had zipped dresses for you, untangled necklaces from your hair, carried you home once when you twisted your ankle and refused to admit it hurt. This was not new territory.

That was what you told yourself until his fingers brushed your shoulder.

“You did more than miss a spot,” he said, voice lower now, though still light enough to pass for teasing. “You missed half your back.”

“I can’t reach half my back.”

“That’s why you keep me around?”

“Among other reasons.”

“Good to know I have a purpose.”

The first cool line of sunscreen touched between your shoulder blades, and you bit the inside of your cheek. Dick’s hands followed, broad and warm, spreading it over your skin with slow, even pressure. He started at your shoulders, thumbs pressing into the tight muscles there with enough skill to pull an unwilling sigh from your throat. You felt his laugh more than heard it.

“Relax,” he said.

“I am relaxed.”

“You’re lying on a beach towel.”

“You’re taking too long.”

“I’m being thorough.” His palms slid down your back, smoothing sunscreen over the edge of your ribs and the dip of your spine. “You burn if someone looks at you wrong.”

“That happened one time.”

“It was memorable.”

“You’re memorable,” you muttered, then immediately wished the ocean would rise up and take you.

Dick’s hands paused for half a second. It was almost nothing. If you had not known him as well as you did, you might have missed it, but you knew every shift in his rhythm, every careful breath, every moment where he decided whether to let something pass or make it a problem.

He made it a problem.

“Am I?”

You turned your face into your folded arms. “Shut up.”

“That wasn’t an insult.”

“It’s going to become one.”

His fingers continued lower, and you stopped breathing when his thumbs reached the small of your back. He rubbed in a slow circle there, then moved outward, dragging more sunscreen across your waist. The edges of his thumbs slipped beneath the side strings of your bikini bottoms, not far, not enough to be indecent, but enough to make heat gather low in your stomach with humiliating speed.

“Dick.”

“Hm?”

“You are not applying sunscreen to my ass.”

“I’m making sure you don’t get weird little tan lines.”

“That is not a real concern you have ever had in your life.”

“You don’t know all my concerns.”

“I know too many of them.”

His hand settled briefly on your hip, fingers curving there as if they belonged. “Then you know I take care of my friends.”

Friends.

The word should have helped. Instead, it made everything worse.

You lifted your head just enough to look at him over your shoulder. His sunglasses had slid down his nose, leaving his eyes uncovered, blue and bright and entirely too pleased with himself. His smile was soft around the edges, but there was nothing innocent in it. Not really. He looked like he knew exactly what his hands were doing to you and was waiting to see whether you would be brave enough to say it.

“You done?” you asked.

His eyes flicked down your back, over his own hand still resting near your waist. “Almost.”

“You said that two minutes ago.”

“I lied.”

You laughed despite yourself, and the sound loosened something between you. Dick’s smile widened, warmer now, but his hand did not move away. His thumb stroked once against the curve of your hip, so small it could have been an accident if he were anyone else.

But he was Dick.

By the time you made it into the water, your skin felt too tight for your body.

The ocean was cold enough to make you gasp when the first wave broke around your thighs. Dick laughed at you from a few feet away, already waist-deep and gleaming with salt water, his hair pushed back from his face. You splashed him for it, which was how the afternoon inevitably tipped into a kind of war.

He let you win for about thirty seconds.

After that, he caught your wrist, spun you away from another wave, and pulled you back against his chest with the smooth, effortless strength that always irritated you most when you were trying not to be impressed. His arm wrapped around your waist. Your back hit warm muscle. The next wave rolled in before either of you moved, lifting you both, and your feet slipped on the sand beneath the water.

Dick tightened his hold. “Careful.”

“You grabbed me.”

“You were about to fall.”

“I was standing perfectly fine.”

“You looked fragile.”

“I’m going to drown you.”

“You’d miss me.”

Another wave moved through, smaller this time, but it pressed you back into him. The thin, wet fabric of your bikini clung to your body, every inch of it suddenly obvious. Dick’s hand was still on your stomach, fingers spread low enough to make your breath catch. Behind you, he went very still.

The shift was so immediate that your teasing died on your tongue.

He felt it. You knew he did because his breath changed, warm against the side of your neck. It was not just his hand or your back against his chest anymore. It was the hard line of him pressed against you through his swim trunks, unmistakable even with the water moving around your hips, and the knowledge of it made every thought in your head scatter.

“Dick,” you said again, but it did not sound like a warning this time.

His mouth hovered near your ear. “Tell me to move.”

He would. You knew that as well as you knew anything. Beneath all the teasing, all the charm, all the impossible confidence, Dick had always been careful with you where it mattered.

You swallowed. “Are you going to?”

His fingers flexed once against your stomach. “If you ask me to.”

You did not ask.

For a moment, neither of you moved except with the water. Then his other hand found your hip beneath the surface, slow enough that you could have stopped him, deliberate enough that he knew you would feel every second of the choice. He guided you back, just a fraction, until the hard ridge of him pressed more firmly against the globes of your ass.

Your knees almost failed you.

Dick’s breath left him in a quiet, controlled sound that did terrible things to you. “That okay?”

You nodded, then remembered he could not see it properly. “Yes.”

The word changed his grip.

It was still barely anything. That was the awful part. His hand on your hip, his chest at your back, the blunt pressure of him nudging against you through layers of wet fabric while the ocean covered the worst of it from view. It should not have been enough. It should have felt like a tease, like a joke gone too far, like something you could laugh off and bury beneath the years of things you and Dick had refused to discuss.

Instead, it felt like being split open by wanting.

He rocked once, shallow and restrained, giving you just enough pressure to make you bite back a sound. His mouth touched the edge of your ear, not quite a kiss. “You’re quiet.”

“You’re horrible.”

“I asked if it was okay.”

“It is. You’re still horrible.”

His laugh was low and breathless. “That’s fair.”

You turned your head, intending to glare at him, but the movement brought your mouth too close to his. The whole world narrowed to the space between you. Sunlight flashed over the water. Someone shouted far down the beach, distant enough to feel like another universe. Dick’s eyes dropped to your lips.

He did not kiss you.

Somehow, that felt worse.

The next wave broke gently against you both, and he released you before you could decide whether to close the distance yourself. His hands slid away from your body, leaving you cold in places the water had nothing to do with. He stepped back, smile returning with effort, though the flush high on his cheekbones betrayed him.

“You want ice cream?” he asked.

You stared at him. “You’re insane.”

Best friends bought each other ice cream.

That was what you told yourself while sitting beside him on the towel twenty minutes later, salt drying on your skin, your hair damp, your heartbeat still not entirely recovered. Dick had bought two soft-serve cones from the little boardwalk stand near the parking lot and returned as if he had not just pressed his hard cock against your ass in the ocean, his mouth at your ear and his hands on your hips. He sat close enough that your knees almost touched. His shoulder brushed yours whenever he moved.

He was doing it on purpose.

You hated him.

You wanted him so badly that every nerve in your body felt awake.

“You’re dripping,” he said.

You blinked. “What?”

His eyes were on your chest.

The ice cream had melted faster than you could eat it, a pale streak sliding over your fingers and down onto your skin before you noticed. It had traced a cold path along the upper curve of your breast and into the valley between them, disappearing beneath the flimsy edge of your bikini top.

You grabbed for a napkin. Dick caught your wrist.

“Let me.”

The words were soft. Almost polite.

Your mouth went dry.

“Dick.”

He leaned in, still holding your wrist, and dragged his thumb through the melting trail before it could run farther. His eyes lifted to yours as he brought his thumb to his mouth. It was shameless. He sucked the sweetness from his skin with the kind of slow attention that made your thighs press together under the edge of your towel.

“There’s still some more,” he said.

“I can get it.”

“I know.”

He waited.

You should have pulled away. You should have made a joke sharp enough to cut the tension and turned toward the ocean until your face cooled. You should have done any number of sensible things.

Instead, you stayed still.

Dick’s gaze held yours as he bent down. His mouth touched your skin where the ice cream had melted, tongue warm against the cold path it had left behind. Your breath hitched hard enough that his fingers tightened around your wrist. He followed the trail down, not rushing, his lips brushing the valley of your chest with such obscene patience that your hand curled uselessly in the towel beneath you.

“Dick,” you whispered.

He hummed against your skin. “You keep saying my name like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you want me to feel guilty.”

His mouth moved lower, over the edge of your bikini top, and your pulse stumbled. “Do you?”

He looked up at you through his lashes. “Not even a little.”

Then he closed his mouth over your nipple through the wet fabric.

The sound you made was embarrassingly close to a whimper. Dick’s eyes darkened, and he sucked harder, the heat of his mouth soaking through the thin material while his free hand found your waist. Your fingers flew into his hair before you could stop yourself, and the groan that left him vibrated against you.

It was too much for the middle of the afternoon, too much for a beach towel and the open air and your best friend’s mouth on you like he had been thinking about it for years.

Maybe he had.

The thought made you pull his hair.

Dick lifted his head just enough to smile, lips damp and wicked. “That a complaint?”

“You are such a good friend,” you said, and your voice shook.

His smile shifted. For a second, something more honest moved across his face, desire threaded with something careful and almost tender. He kissed the place he had just sucked, softer this time, and let go of your wrist so his hand could slide to your knee.

“I’m trying really hard not to be.”

The afternoon changed after that.

It didn’t become less bright or less warm. The sun still glittered over the water. Seagulls still circled like thieves. Someone’s radio played too far away to make out the song. But the air between you and Dick had been named, if not directly, and every silence after that felt full of it.

You ate the rest of your ice cream badly. Dick watched you like he wanted to lick every stray drop from your fingers and was only restraining himself because he enjoyed seeing you squirm. He made casual conversation with the ease of a criminal. You answered with half your attention and spent the rest of it thinking about the way his mouth had felt through your bikini top.

By the time the sun started slipping lower, you were restless enough to crawl out of your skin.

“I’m changing,” you announced, because if you did not do something normal soon, you were going to do something reckless.

Dick glanced at the sundress folded neatly on top of your beach bag. “Need a towel?”

“You offering?”

“I’m a gentleman.”

“You’re a menace.”

“Gentlemen can multitask.”

He stood and shook out the larger towel, holding it up between both hands with exaggerated seriousness. It made a little wall between you and the rest of the beach, though the area around your chosen spot had mostly emptied as the day cooled. There were still people in the distance, but no one close enough to matter. It should have made the moment practical. Instead, the sight of Dick standing there with his arms raised, eyes fixed very carefully above your head, made your stomach flip.

“You’re not looking?” you asked.

His mouth curved. “I would never.”

“Liar.”

“Best friends trust each other.”

“Best friends don’t suck on each other’s nipples.”

His eyes dropped to yours over the top edge of the towel. “Some best friends are special.”

You hated how close you were to smiling.

You untied the top first. The wet fabric peeled away from your skin, and though the towel shielded you from the beach, it did not shield you from him. Not really. The space was too narrow. He was too close. You could see the outline of his hands gripping the corners of the towel, the tension in his forearms, the way his jaw flexed when you dropped the bikini top into your bag.

He was not looking.

That was almost worse.

You reached for your sundress and pulled it over your head. The light fabric settled over your body, soft and thin, clinging slightly where your skin was still damp. Your bikini bottoms remained on because changing them on a beach, even behind a towel, required more coordination than you currently trusted yourself with.

“Done?” Dick asked.

You stepped closer, just enough for your breath to disturb the towel between you. “Mostly.”

His eyes met yours.

There it was again. That pause. That little held breath before one of you chose whether to keep pretending.

You lifted your hand and touched two fingers to the towel near his chest. “Are you going to drive me home?”

“If that’s what you want.”

His voice had gone quiet.

You pushed the towel down.

Dick lowered it slowly, and then there was nothing between you except sunlight and the years you had spent pretending this exact thing was not waiting for you.

You were the one who kissed him.

For half a second, he went still, as if even after everything, he had not quite let himself believe you would cross the final inch. Then the towel fell forgotten into the sand, and Dick’s hands were on your face, your waist, your back, everywhere at once. He kissed you like a man losing an argument he had started on purpose. It was deep and hungry, open-mouthed, nothing like the quick affectionate kisses he had pressed to your forehead or cheek over the years. This was not comfort. This was not friendship disguised as habit.

This was Dick licking into your mouth with a low sound that made heat pool between your thighs all over again.

You grabbed his shoulders. He pulled you against him, one hand sliding down to your ass beneath the hem of your sundress, and when his fingers found the damp edge of your bikini bottoms, he groaned into your mouth.

“You’re still wearing these.”

“I didn’t have many options.”

“Poor planning on my part.”

“You planned this?”

Dick kissed the corner of your mouth, then your jaw. “I planned to behave.”

“That went well.”

“I was doing fine until you let me touch you.”

“You offered.”

“You asked.”

“You took too long.”

His mouth found your neck, and your eyes fluttered shut. “I was being thorough.”

You laughed breathlessly, and he kissed you again, swallowing the sound as if he could not help himself. The beach was too open, even with distance. The towel at your feet did not make a private room, and the remaining line of cars in the lot sat just beyond the dunes, promising shelter without promising patience.

Dick seemed to reach the same conclusion at the same time.

“Car,” he said against your mouth.

“Yes.”

The walk back should have been awkward. It was not. It was charged and quiet, the kind of quiet that made every brush of his hand against yours feel like a filthy secret. Dick carried the cooler and both bags with insulting ease, while you clutched the loose towel to your chest as if that could hide what he had already done to you. His car sat near the far end of the lot, shaded slightly by a wind-bent tree, with no one parked close on either side.

He opened the back door and looked at you.

That should not have been as hot as it was.

“You sure?” he asked.

Your answer came without hesitation. “Yes.”

His expression softened, desire still burning through it, but held back by something steadier. “I need words for this.”

You stepped closer and set your hands on his chest. “I want you, Dick.”

His breath left him sharply.

“I wanted you when you had your hands all over my back,” you continued, braver now because he looked like you were killing him. “I wanted you in the water. I wanted you when you put your mouth on me through my bikini. I want you now.”

Dick stared at you for one more second, then ducked his head and kissed you so hard you stumbled back against the open car door.

“Get in,” he said.

You got in.

He followed, pulling the door shut behind him, and the small space filled instantly with heat. The seats were warm from the day. Sand clung to your legs. Your sundress rode up as Dick dragged you into his lap, his hands firm on your hips, and you kissed him like you had been waiting all your life to find out whether he tasted like salt and sugar and desire.

He did.

His hands slid under your dress, pushing it higher until the fabric bunched around your waist. When he saw the bikini bottoms still on you, damp and clinging, he laughed under his breath in a way that made you want to bite him.

“What?” you demanded.

He hooked one finger beneath the fabric at your hip and pulled it lightly away from your skin before letting it snap back. “I’ve been thinking about these all afternoon.”

“You’ve been thinking loudly.”

“I’m usually better at hiding it.”

“You were terrible today.”

“I wanted you to notice.”

The confession landed somewhere deep. You looked at him, really looked, taking in the flush on his face, the kiss-swollen curve of his mouth, the way his chest rose and fell beneath your palms.

This was Dick, your best friend, the person who knew you better than almost anyone. He had held your hand in hospitals, stolen your fries, remembered things you forgot telling him, and now he was sitting beneath you in the backseat of his car with his fingers under the edges of your bikini bottoms, watching you like he had finally gotten his hands on something he was terrified to lose.

You touched his cheek.

His expression changed.

“Hey,” he murmured.

“Hi.”

“You okay?”

You nodded. “Very okay.”

“Good.” He turned his head and kissed your palm. “Because I’m about to be so much worse.”

The laugh barely made it out of your mouth before he shifted you off his lap and onto the seat beside him. He leaned over you, one hand braced near your shoulder, the other sliding up your thigh. Your dress was already a lost cause, twisted around your hips. Dick kissed down your throat, over your collarbone, then lower, shoving the neckline down just enough to get his mouth on your breast.

This time, there was no bikini top between you.

You arched into him with a broken sound, and he groaned like he felt it in his own body. His mouth closed around your nipple, hot and wet, tongue circling before he sucked. Your fingers buried in his hair again, pulling harder than before, and his hand slid between your thighs.

The first touch over your bikini bottoms made you jerk.

“Oh,” he breathed, lifting his head. His fingers pressed against the wet fabric, finding the shape of you through it. “You’re soaked.”

“Don’t sound so pleased with yourself.”

“I’m incredibly pleased with myself.”

“Dick.”

“I know.” His mouth brushed yours. “I’ve got you.”

He rubbed you slowly through the bikini, and your hips lifted into his hand before you could pretend they would not. The fabric was slick from the ocean and from you, rough enough to make every stroke a tease. He watched your face as he touched you, eyes bright and focused, as if he were memorizing every tiny reaction.

“You were this wet on the beach?” he asked.

You clenched around nothing.

“Answer me.”

“Yes.”

His smile turned devastating. “From the sunscreen?”

“From you being annoying.”

“From me being thorough,” he corrected, and slipped his fingers beneath the side of your bikini bottoms.

The first direct touch made you gasp. Dick swallowed it with a kiss, fingers sliding through you with slow, filthy appreciation. He circled your clit once, twice, learning how you liked it with the same unfair competence he brought to everything, and when your thighs trembled, he pressed his forehead to yours.

“There,” he whispered. “That’s it.”

You tried to answer, but he slid one finger inside you, and the words disappeared.

The stretch was not enough and still somehow too much after the entire afternoon of teasing. You clutched at his shoulders, nails digging in, and he kissed your jaw, your cheek, the corner of your mouth.

“You can take another,” he said.

It wasn’t a question, but he waited anyway.

You nodded quickly. “Yes.”

A second finger joined the first, curling slowly, and your body went hot and loose beneath him. The angle was awkward in the backseat, one of your knees pressed against the seatback and the other hooked around his hip, but Dick made it work because of course he did. He moved like he knew exactly how to turn a cramped space into something intimate and obscene, his body sheltering yours while his fingers fucked you open.

“You know what’s been driving me crazy?” he asked.

“Everything, apparently.”

He laughed against your throat. “Your dress.”

“My dress?”

“You put it on like it was going to save you.” His fingers curled again, and your head fell back against the seat. “Like I wasn’t going to end up with it around your waist the second you let me get you alone.”

The sound that left you was not a word.

Dick kissed down your chest, over your stomach, lowering himself carefully between your legs. His shoulders pushed your thighs wider. The car suddenly felt smaller, hotter, the windows fogging faintly at the edges. He hooked his fingers in your bikini bottoms and looked up at you.

“Can I?”

“Yes,” you said, too fast.

His grin flashed. “Eager.”

“I swear to God, Grayson—”

He pulled the fabric aside and put his mouth on you.

Your threat broke into a moan.

Dick ate you out like he had all the time in the world and no intention of being forgiven. His tongue licked into you first, slow and deep, before dragging up to your clit. He sucked there with the same focused hunger he had used through your bikini top, only now there was nothing between you, no flimsy excuse, no wet fabric, no plausible deniability left to hide behind. You grabbed at the seat beneath you, then at his hair, and he moaned when you pulled.

The vibration nearly sent you over the edge.

“Dick,” you gasped.

He lifted his head only enough to speak, mouth shining. “That’s my name.”

“You’re so smug.”

“You’re so pretty when you’re about to come.”

Your whole body clenched.

He smiled like he felt it, then lowered his mouth again and slid two fingers back inside you. This time, he did not tease. He licked your clit in steady, deliberate strokes while his fingers curled into the spot that made your thighs shake around his head. The world narrowed to the heat of his mouth, the press of his shoulders, the slick sound of his fingers working inside you, and the impossible fact that this was Dick between your legs, Dick making you fall apart, Dick groaning like your pleasure was doing something to him too.

You came with his name in your mouth.

He worked you through it gently, not stopping until you pushed weakly at his forehead and made a sound that was almost a laugh and almost a sob. He kissed the inside of your thigh, then the place where your bikini bottoms had dug into your hip, then climbed back up your body with a satisfied, dazed expression that should have been illegal.

“You good?” he asked.

You blinked at him. “You’re asking now?”

“I asked before.”

“You’re very proud of that.”

“I’m proud of a few things right now.”

You reached between you and found him hard through his swim trunks. His breath caught, the cocky expression slipping just enough to make your pulse kick again.

“This one of them?” you asked.

Dick’s laugh sounded strained. “Careful.”

You squeezed him lightly. “You said that in the water.”

“And you didn’t listen then either.”

“I listened. I just didn’t obey.”

His eyes darkened.

The shift was immediate, and your body answered it before your mind could catch up. Dick kissed you, dirtier this time, letting you taste yourself on his mouth while he pushed his trunks down just enough to free himself. Your hand wrapped around him, and he groaned into your mouth, hips twitching up into your grip.

He was hot and heavy in your palm, already slick at the tip. You stroked him once, then again, slow enough to make his fingers tighten on your waist.

“Don’t tease,” he said.

You smiled against his mouth. “You hate that?”

“I hate it from you.”

He kissed you harder for that, biting gently at your lower lip before pulling back just enough to breathe. “Condom?”

The question was practical, but his voice was wrecked enough that it still made your stomach tighten.

“I have an IUD,” you said.

Dick’s eyes flicked back to yours, sharper now, focused in the way he got when something mattered. He knew that already, technically. He had been there for the complaints, the cramps, the dramatic texts after the appointment, the relief of not having to remember a pill every morning like you were trying to pass some impossible test. But knowing was not the same as asking here, with your dress around your waist and his hands on your hips.

“You sure?” he asked.

“Yes.” You swallowed, suddenly more exposed by the words than by your clothes. “And I haven’t been with anyone since my last test. Everything was clear.”

His thumb moved once over your hip, gentle enough to make your chest ache. “Same.”

“You’re sure?”

“Completely.” His gaze did not leave yours. “Last test was clear, and there hasn’t been anyone since.”

The air between you changed again, not cooling, exactly, but settling into something steadier. You had known each other for years. You knew too much, probably. His bad habits. Your worse ones. The names of old almosts and failed dates and people who had never lasted long enough to matter. Still, hearing him say it made the choice feel real in a way the teasing had not.

Dick lifted one hand to your face, brushing his thumb along your cheek. “We don’t have to skip it.”

“I know.”

“I mean it.”

“I know,” you said, softer this time. Then you leaned in and kissed him. “I want to feel you.”

His breath caught.

For a second, all the careful control left his face.

“Okay,” he said, and the word sounded like it cost him something.

Then he pulled you back into his lap.

Your dress stayed bunched around your waist. Your bikini bottoms were still pulled to one side. Dick’s hands settled on your hips, and for a moment, the urgency softened into something that made your chest ache. His eyes searched yours, and you understood the question without him saying it.

“Yes,” you whispered.

He kissed you once, gentle and brief. “Tell me if you need me to stop.”

“I will.”

Then you sank down onto him.

The stretch stole your breath. Dick’s head tipped back against the seat, his throat working, his hands tight on your hips but not forcing you. He let you take him slowly, inch by inch, his control visibly fraying with every second. When you finally settled fully in his lap, your thighs trembling around his, he exhaled your name like it hurt.

You pressed your forehead to his. “You okay?”

He laughed, rough and breathless. “I’m trying very hard not to embarrass myself.”

“Good.”

His hands slid up your back beneath the dress. “You’re enjoying this.”

“You’ve been smug all day.”

“I earned it.”

“You earned suffering.”

Dick looked up at you, eyes dark and bright at once. “Then move.”

So you did.

The first roll of your hips made both of you groan. He filled you perfectly, deep enough that every movement dragged pleasure up your spine and left you dizzy with it. His hands guided you but did not control you, palms sliding over your waist, your hips, your thighs, like he could not decide where he wanted to touch most. You braced one hand against the seat and the other on his shoulder, riding him in slow, uneven strokes while the car grew hotter around you.

Outside, the sun slipped lower.

Inside, Dick fell apart beautifully.

He kissed whatever part of you he could reach, your mouth, your jaw, the top of your breast where the dress had slipped down again. His hands grew less patient as you moved faster, fingers digging into your hips to help lift you, then pull you down again. Every thrust pressed him deeper, and when he shifted beneath you, changing the angle, your mouth fell open.

“There?” he asked, voice wrecked.

You nodded helplessly.

He did it again.

“Words, sweetheart.”

The pet name hit you hard enough to make you clench around him.

Dick noticed. Of course he did.

“Oh,” he said, breathless and delighted. “You liked that.”

“Don’t start.”

“I’m absolutely starting.”

You tried to glare at him, but he thrust up into you at the same time, and your expression collapsed. His smile went soft with hunger.

“There she is,” he murmured. “Taking me so well.”

The praise went straight through you. You rode him harder, chasing the friction, the fullness, the look on his face as he watched you use him. His thumb found your clit again, rubbing tight circles that made pleasure flare hot and sharp in your stomach.

“Dick.”

“I know.” He kissed you. “I’ve got you. Come for me again.”

It should not have been that easy.

After years of friendship, years of restraint, years of pretending his hands did not linger and your eyes did not follow, the command broke something open. Your second orgasm rolled through you slower than the first, deeper, your body clenching around him as you buried your face against his neck and shook in his lap.

Dick swore softly, hips jerking.

“That’s it,” he said, voice strained. “God, you feel so good.”

You tightened around him deliberately.

His control snapped.

He grabbed your hips and fucked up into you, short and desperate and careful even at the edge. You held onto him through it, mouth against his throat, feeling every shudder as he came. His groan was low and broken, his arms wrapping around you so tightly that for a moment you could barely move.

Neither of you spoke.

The car was quiet except for your breathing. Your dress was wrinkled beyond saving. Sand stuck to your calves. Dick’s hand moved slowly up and down your back, soothing now, the way it had during late nights and bad days and all the ordinary moments that had somehow led you here.

Eventually, you lifted your head.

His hair was a mess. His mouth was swollen. He looked dazed in a way you had never seen before, and when his eyes met yours, he smiled.

It was not smug this time.

“Well,” you said.

Dick laughed, and the sound eased the last tight thing in your chest. “Yeah.”

“You do this for all your best friends?”

His hands tightened around your waist. “Only my favorite one.”

“That’s terrible.”

“That’s honest.”

You studied him for a moment, letting the word settle. Honest. 

After all the flimsy excuses, all the teasing disguised as accidents, all the touches passed off as friendship because neither of you had known what would happen if you stopped pretending.

Outside, the sun was still setting.

Inside, Dick kissed you once, slow and sweet, with one hand warm at your back and the other smoothing your dress down as much as he could manage.

“Let me take you home,” he said against your mouth.

You raised an eyebrow. “Home?”

His smile returned, softer at the edges but no less dangerous. “Eventually.”

Best friends drove each other home.

Apparently, some best friends took the long way.

credit to @uzmacchiato for the cherry divider and @toxisyddy for the Nightwing divider ❤️💛

[pluvial-lake]

☆゙ ALL THE DAMN TIME #𝟢𝟢𝟨

──────── SYNOPSIS ⚘ 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝖿𝗎𝖼𝗄 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗆 𝟤𝟦/𝟩.

𝗶𝗻𝗰𝗹𝘂𝗱𝗶𝗻𝗴 . 𝖽𝗂𝖼𝗄 𝗀𝗋𝖺𝗒𝗌𝗈𝗇. 𝗃𝖺𝗌𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗈𝖽𝖽. 𝗍𝗂𝗆 𝖽𝗋𝖺𝗄𝖾. 𝖽𝖺𝗆𝗂𝖺𝗇 𝗐𝖺𝗒𝗇𝖾.

𝗰𝗼𝗻𝘁𝗲𝗻𝘁𝘀 . 𝖿𝖾𝗆 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋. 𝗈𝖻𝗌𝖾𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗏𝖾 𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗋𝖺𝖼𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗌. 𝗌𝗈𝖿𝗍 𝗒𝖺𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋𝖾. 𝗂𝗆𝗉𝗅𝗂𝖾𝖽 𝗌𝖾𝗑𝗎𝖺𝗅 𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗌𝗂𝗈𝗇. 𝖺𝗇𝗀𝗌𝗍. 𝖿𝗅𝗎𝖿𝖿. 𝗎𝗇𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗅𝗍𝗁𝗒 𝖺𝗍𝗍𝖺𝖼𝗁𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗌. 𝗉𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗍𝗂𝖼 𝗆𝖾𝗇 𝗂𝗇 𝗅𝗈𝗏𝖾. 𝖾𝗇𝗀𝗅𝗂𝗌𝗁 𝗂𝗌𝗇'𝗍 𝗆𝗒 𝖿𝗂𝗋𝗌𝗍 𝗅𝖺𝗇𝗀𝗎𝖺𝗀𝖾. ⠀ᰔ

𝗐𝗈𝗋𝖽 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗇𝗍 . 𝟥.𝟦𝗄

DICK GRAYSON

You're going to kill him.

Like actually physically kill him.

"Again?" he laughs, that bright, easy laugh that made you fall for him in the first place.

Oh god oh fuck you're horny again.

Don't get him wrong, he's not complaining. He's never complaining. He loves you. He worship you. He gets off on making you cum.

But his dick is literally chafed and he's running on two hours of sleep and a protein bar he ate between round three and round four and—

You're already tugging at his belt.

His belt. Which he just buckled. Thirty seconds ago.

He's hard again.

How?

How is he hard again?

He's not twenty anymore, he's pushing thirty, his knees click when he does certain positions, he pulled a hamstring last week doing that thing you like where he folds you like a pretzel—okay, he has been slacking lately BUT it's your fault because you don't even let him leave the house—

"No, no, baby, I'm— I'm not complaining," he says, already breathless, already getting to his knees because you've got that look, with glassy eyes, and pouty lips, "I just— hah— give me five minutes? Ten? I need to rehydrate, I need to—"

"You don't want me?"

What?

The words hit him like a bullet to his chest.

No. No no no no. Don't ever say that. Don't ever think that. He wants you. He wants you so much it's ruining him. He wants you when he's asleep, wants you when he's awake, wants you when he's bleeding out on a rooftop wondering if he'll make it home in time to taste you before patrol—

He's already got his mouth on you. Already. Didn't even make a conscious decision. His body just moved because his body wants you and your pleasure, your smile, the little gasp you make when he gets it just right—

"I want you," he mumbles into your thigh, "I want you, I want you, I want you, don't ever say I don't, I'll— I'll prove it, I'll stay down here all night, I don't need sleep, sleep is for people who aren't dating a goddess, I'll just—"

You pull him up by his hair. He whimpers. He whimpers like a puppy because his girlfriend touched his scalp.

God, he's pathetic.

He loves it.

He loves you.

"You were saying something about rehydrating?" you ask, and your voice is teasing but your hand is wrapped around him and his vision goes sparkly at the edges.

"Who cares—ah fuck," he hears himself say, "I-I don't...ugh... Give a f-fuck."

And later, when he's lying on top of you, every muscle screaming, a single tear is rolling down his cheek, because fuck he's overstimulated, He press his lips to your sweaty forehead.

"You're gonna break me someday, you know that?"

You smile.

"That's the plan,"

His dick twitch again, and he'll laugh hysterically into your hair because he's the luckiest man walking in the entire goddamn world.

JASON TODD

He doesn't get it.

He doesn't fucking get it.

You— you— want him? All the time? Every second of every day? You, with your soft hands and your pretty smile and your laugh that sounds like something he doesn't deserve to hear— you want Jason Todd, the dead Robin, the black sheep, the one with blood under his fingernails and a body count longer than his book collection?

"Again, sweetheart?" he rasps, and his voice cracks, actually cracks, because his throat is raw from moaning your name, and his thighs are shaking, and there's a bruise forming on his hip from where you grabbed him too hard and he didn't even notice because he was too busy moaning like a whore.

You nod. Just nod. Like it's nothing. Like you're asking him to pass the salt.

His heart lurches.

He's scared. Not of you— never of you— but of the moment you realize you can do better. The moment you wake up and think why am I wasting my time with this broken, angry, fucked up excuse for a man when I could have someone better?

So he fucks you like his life is depended on it.

Every time. Every single time.

"Alright," he says, rolling on top of you even though his arms are jelly, even though he came so hard ten minutes ago he nearly blacked out, even though he's so tired he gonna pass out at any moment— "Alright, c'mere, I got you, I got—"

"Jay." You catch his face in your hands. "You're crying."

What? No he's not. He's not— shit.

He scrubs at his eyes, pissed, embarrassed, and you're looking at him with that soft, worried expression and he can't handle it, he can't handle this.

"I'm fine," he lies, "I'm fine, I just— I got something in my eye, it's fine, do you wanna do it from behind this time or—"

"Why are you crying, baby?"

Baby.

The word break something in his chest. Something that was already cracked. Something that's been held together with spite and rage and the desperate hope that maybe, just maybe, he's allowed to have nice things.

"I-I don't know," he chokes out, and now he's really crying, ugly sobs tearing out of his throat, "I'm just s-so overwhelmed and I-I *sob* I don't d-deserve you *sob* you should be with someone who isn't a—a—a—"

You kiss him.

You kiss him through the tears and the snot and the self loathing, and you don't pull away, and you don't look disgusted, and your hands are so gentle on his scarred skin, and he just— he just breaks down.

But it's just because he's overwhelmed by sex, okay?

He buries his face in your neck and sobs and you hold him, you hold him like he's something precious, something worth keeping, and his stupid dick is still half hard against your thigh because he doesn't know what else to do.

"I want you," you whisper into his hair, "just you, Jay. Always."

"...Promise?"

"Promise."

He pulls back, eyes red, face blotchy, looking like a mess.

And then he laughs— his cracked, broken laugh.

"Okay," he says, "okay. But if you're gonna kill me with sex, at least let me grab some water first. And maybe a snack. I'm not dying of dehydration before I make you come again."

You grin.

Yeah his girl's so pretty.

"Alright."

He's still crying a little. He's still hard. He's still certain he doesn't deserve this.

But you're here.

And you want him.

So he'll keep going until his heart gives out, because dying in your arms sounds like the best way to go.

TIM DRAKE

He has a spreadsheet.

No, wait, hear him out— it's not weird, okay? It's organized. It's practical. It's what any rational person would do when confronted with a girlfriend who wants to have sex literally all the time and he needs to make sure he's— that he's—

Meeting expectations.

Performing adequately.

Being a good boyfriend.

Column A: date. Column B: time of day. Column C: position. Column D: duration. Column E: number of times you said his name (sub column for "just Tim" vs. "oh god Tim" vs. the rare, precious "Timmy" that makes his whole body shudder). Column F: notes. (You like it when he flick his tongue. You didn't like when he tried to flip you over and almost dropped you. He needs to work on his upper body strength. He'll add more pull ups to his training regimen. Done. Noted.)

He's on his third coffee and it's 3 AM and you're asleep next to him— finally, finally asleep, worn out after four rounds and a fifth that he had to tap out of because his vision started doing that staticky thing—

And he's updating the spreadsheet.

Because he loves you. And love means making sure you're comfortable. Love means making you happy. Love means making sure he's the best possible version of himself for you, that he's anticipating your needs, that he always make you cum, that he never, ever falls short—

"What's that?"

Oh fuck him.

You're awake. You're squinting at his laptop screen. He slams it shut, but it's too late, you already saw the color coded tabs, the pie chart (yes, there's a pie chart, he was curious about the distribution of positions, sue him).

"Tim." Your voice is still sleepy and it does things to him, weird things, his body is already responding and he just finished updating a row that said he couldn't go again, scientifically, medically, his body has limits—

"It's nothing."

"Timothy Jackson Drake."

Full name. He's in trouble. He's so in trouble. His stomach flips and his dick twitches and god, why does you being like this make him harder—

"It's— a spreadsheet."

"Of our sex life."

"...Yes."

...

Why aren't you saying anything?

You're in shock aren't you? You're in so much shock you can't even talk.

Of course. You just saw your supposed normal boyfriend as the obsessive freak that he is.

"I'm sorry," he blurts, "I know it's weird, I just— I wanted to make sure I was doing a good job, that I wasn't missing anything, that you were— satisfied— because you want it so often and I thought maybe I wasn't enough and I had to do something—"

"Tim."

"—and I know it's creepy, I'm creepy, I'm a creepy insecure little bitch who can't just enjoy things—"

"Tim."

He shuts up.

You're smiling. A soft, fond, adoring smile.

"You want to know if you're doing a good job?"

He nods, throat too tight to speak.

"Come here."

He crawls into your arms and you pull him against your chest and he can hear your heartbeat and it's the most beautiful sound in the world.

"You're doing amazing," you murmur, stroking his hair, "you're perfect. You're so good to me, Tim. The best."

Best.

The words hit his bloodstream like a drug. He makes a sound— a high, needy, embarrassing sound— and presses his face into your collarbone, his whole body trembling.

"I love you," he whispers, "I love you so much, I'm sorry about the spreadsheet, I'll delete it—"

"Don't you dare. It's hot."

"...What?"

"Knowing you put that much thought into making me cum is honestly..." Your hand slides lower, and he sucks in a breath. "The sexiest thing anyone's ever done for me."

What the fuck?

"You— really?"

"Mmhmm. Now... you said that you couldn't go again, but maybe we should test that hypothesis?"

He's already kissing you before you finish the sentence.

He's going to need a new row. And a new coffee. And possibly a medical professional.

Worth it.

DAMIAN WAYNE

This is absurd.

You are absurd. Your libido is absurd. The fact that he— Damian al Ghul Wayne, heir to the League of Assassins, Robin, the son of the Batman— is currently hiding in the bathroom like a coward because his Beloved crooked her finger at him for the seventh time today is—

"Damian~"

Tt.

He clenches his jaw. His body betrays him instantly, heat pooling low in his stomach, his cock stirring traitorously against the zipper of his tailored slacks.

He is not a beast. He is not ruled by base urges. He was trained from birth to master his desires, to transcend the weakness of the flesh—

"Habibti, please, if you need release I will happily provide it, I am more than capable, but we have already—" his voice drops to a whisper, "—six times today, and I have a Wayne Enterprises board meeting in an hour—"

"And?"

And. You says and like it's nothing. Like his legacy, his reputation, his carefully constructed facade of professionalism isn't crumbling around him because of a woman who looks at him like he's a three course meal she hasn't finished.

He emerges from the bathroom.

Big mistake.

You're on the bed. His bed. Dressed in nothing but his shirt— the one with his family crest embroidered on the pocket, the one he wore the first time you fuck him— and you're looking at him with those lustful eyes—

"I missed you."

"You saw me twenty minutes ago."

"Too long."

He's already walking toward you.

Why is he walking toward you?

He should be walking away. He should be asserting dominance. He is a master of seventeen forms of martial arts and he cannot, for the life of him, make his feet move in the opposite direction of you.

"I have a meeting," he says, but his voice is pitiful, needy, and he hates how much he wants you, hates how you've turned him into this— this creature who craves your touch more than anything—

"Cancel it."

"I cannot cancel a board meeting, Beloved, there are protocols—"

"Tell them your girlfriend needed you."

"They will not accept that as a valid excuse—"

"Then make them."

Make them.

The sheer, casual authority in your voice sends a shiver down his spine.

You speak like you own him. Like he should do as you say. Like he should obey every order, as if—

He has his phone out before he can stop himself.

"Pennyworth. I will be... indisposed this afternoon. Inform the board the meeting is postponed."

"Very good, Master Damian. Shall I prepare a nutrient rich smoothie? You've been quite occupied lately."

He can hear the amusement in Alfred's voice.

Very amusing Pennyworth. Very amusing indeed.

He wants to die. He wants to crawl into a hole and never emerge. But then you're crooking your finger again and all thoughts of dignity evaporate like morning mist.

"I canceled the meeting," he says, approaching the bed, trying to maintain some shred of his pride, "I hope you are satisfied—"

You grab him by the tie and pull him onto the bed.

He yelps. He yelps. Like a startled cat. Like Titus when the vacuum cleaner turns on. And then you're straddling him, pinning him down with your body, which shouldn't be possible given his training but his muscles have apparently decided that being pinned by you is exactly what they want—

"I am never satisfied," you murmur against his lips, "not when it comes to you. You know that, right?"

His heart— his cold, closed off, carefully guarded heart— warm up a little.

"Beloved..."

"You're mine, Damian. Every inch of you. Every minute of your day. And I'm going to enjoy what's mine. Understood?"

He swallows hard.

"...Understood."

"Good boy."

His face flushes a deep, humiliating red, and his whole body trembles with the desperate need to hear those words from your lips, to know that he has pleased you, that he is worthy—

One day, he'll tell you. One day, he'll confess how much he needs your approval, your praise, your love. One day, he'll stop pretending he's above these feelings.

But not today.

Today, he'll just lie back and let his Beloved have her way with him for the seventh time, and he'll bite his lip until it bleeds to keep from begging, and when it's over he'll hold you like you're the most precious thing in the universe—

Because you are.

Tt.

He's getting hard again.

Pathetic.

But at least he's happy.

Happier than ever.

𝗂𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎'𝖽 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝖻𝖾 𝖺𝖽𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗆𝗒 𝖽𝖼 𝗍𝖺𝗀𝗅𝗂𝗌𝗍, 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗅𝖾𝗍 𝗆𝖾 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐 𖹭

© 𝗉𝗅𝗎𝗏𝗂𝖺𝗅-𝗅𝖺𝗄𝖾 . 𝖽𝗈 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗉𝗅𝖺𝗀𝗂𝖺𝗋𝗂𝗓𝖾, 𝗋𝖾𝗉𝗈𝗌𝗍, 𝗋𝖾𝗎𝗉𝗅𝗈𝖺𝖽, 𝗈𝗋 𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗇𝗌𝗅𝖺𝗍𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝗒 𝗈𝖿 𝗆𝗒 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗄𝗌 𝗈𝗇 𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗉𝗅𝖺𝗍𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗆𝗌 𝗈𝗋 𝗐𝖾𝖻𝗌𝗂𝗍𝖾𝗌 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗆𝗒 𝖾𝗑𝗉𝗅𝗂𝖼𝗂𝗍 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐𝗅𝖾𝖽𝗀𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗌𝖾𝗇𝗍. 𝖽𝗈 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝖿𝖾𝖾𝖽 𝗆𝗒 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗄𝗌 𝗍𝗈 𝖺𝗂 𝗈𝗋 𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗆 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝖺𝗇𝗒 𝖽𝖺𝗍𝖺𝗌𝖾𝗍𝗌, 𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝗈𝗋 𝗆𝗈𝖽𝖾𝗅𝗌.

[jaeyss]

icarus to the sun // r. grayson

index

xxix. i will love you the way justice loves to sit back and watch everything go wrong

summary: it was supposed to be a meet cute. it was supposed to be easy. it was supposed to be Kori. it was supposed to, supposedtosupposedtosupposedto- you're beautiful. everyone always tells Dick not to stare directly at the sun. it's too bad he can't stop himself.

[inspired by One Tree Hill]

taglist (open until said otherwise): @peachmartini @nico707 @kath-is-tired @soulsforsales @flyingcat96 @uxavity @hurtcomfortwhore @marcspectorondeeznuts @asapkeepmerockyyy @coffeebun17 @liabiamiakiawia @mewn1verse @6000-fandoms @littlemisstrashcan @makimakimi @xv-ellie-vx @afterhoursangell @mrs-cactus69 @ficcharsimpsblog @abeoavita @nightwingsleftescrimastick @coastalcowgirlie @neevy @karmaxq @gojoswaterbottle @notanotheroldman @catiwinky @arbolitodenamu @navvvvvi @brucewayneisavirgin @luv-rizzimura @amazingworldofcashew @cecilia-stuff @timdrakesfoot @sonnyssleepingangel

Dick can’t remember the last time he’s slept so well. 

Not even the early morning sun shining through the blinds could bother him, its warm rays gently coaxing him out of slumber.

He shuffles, attempting to roll over but stops halfway. 

His bed feels a little crowded. Why is that? 

It also feels a little warmer than usual, the heat wrapping around him in a cozy cocoon. Dick raises one hand to rub the sleep out of his eyes before turning his head slightly. 

Your messy bedhead greets him. 

Dick blinks before rubbing his eyes again. He must still be asleep – because there’s no way you’d be right next to him, your legs wrapped in his Ralph Lauren PJ’s and tangled with his under the sheets wearing a large shirt stolen from your father. 

Except — you’re actually here. 

And he’s in your bed. 

Dick freezes. 

His heart beats comically loud in his ears. If you can’t feel it, Dick is certain that you could hear it. Your nose twitches as you shift on your side, face buried in the pillow and arm slung around his waist, fingers clutching the fabric of his shirt like you reached for him sometime throughout the night and never let go. 

Dick breathes in slowly.

You smell of vanilla and spun sugar, like a dream he never wanted to wake up from, familiar in a way that makes his chest ache. The platinum bell on your bracelet sits on his chest, a soft and comforting weight resting across his ribs. 

Last night comes in fragments – too much take out, reruns of old Audrey Hepburn movies playing on the TV, a really heated make out session that makes Dick half-blush, half-smirk at the memory, and–

Want to stay the night? 

The words echo louder in his head than his own heartbeat. You had said it so nonchalantly, like the sentence didn’t make Dick’s head whip around so fast, his neck cracked. 

My bed is big enough for the both of us. You’d paused before closing your eyes in embarrassment. I’m not inviting you for sex – just saying that you can sleep comfortably. 

He remembers thinking he should go home. He remembers thinking that he should say no and just give you a kiss goodnight and then leave– 

But then you looked at him, eyes warm and patient, and every resolve he ever had crumbled instantly. 

You shift closer to him, slotting the crown of your head underneath his chin, your chest pressed up against his until your breathing matches. 

Dick swallows, turning his head to the other side in an attempt to calm down. His cheek brushes against something soft and fuzzy, plush against his skin. 

Your pink bunny smiles down at him, the plushie settled just above his head, tucked between the corner of the bed and the wall. 

Ah. 

A hand slips free from where it’s resting against your waist, reaching out to brush along the rabbit’s fur. 

His throat bobs as he swallows. He doesn’t let his hand move away – not just yet. Instead, he lets it rest against the bunny’s droopy ear, grounding himself in the texture of it.

Soft. Real. This was real. 

The stuffed chainsaw dog – Pochita, he vaguely remembers you calling it that – he won for you at the arcade sits next to the pink rabbit, smiling goofily into the air. 

He was right, they did look good with each other. 

Dick exhales slowly, letting his eyes float back to the ceiling, waiting for the sudden surge of panic that was sure to hit, the panic he always experienced when things were going too well, the panic of wanting something so much and finally having it –

But nothing happens. 

Instead, you mumble something incomprehensible, pushing yourself further into the folds of Dick’s body like you could burrow yourself into his chest if you tried. He smiles, the hand he was using to pet the bunny plushie reaching down to wrap you closer towards him.

Your eyes flutter open before they close again, the effort exhausting in your sleepy haze. 

“What time is it?” You mumble, words muffled by his shirt.

Dick glances at the bedside clock. “Almost eight.”

“What day is it?” 

“You forgot what day it was?” He laughs, his chest vibrating with the sound. 

You whine softly, hiding your face in his shirt. “Please just answer the question.” 

“It’s a Friday.”

You yawn. “Okay. No lecture until 11. Wake me up in an hour.” 

Instantly, your breathing evens out again, the fingers clutching his shirt relaxing once more. 

Dick stares up at the ceiling, listening as his heartbeat syncs with yours, committing the outline of your body pressed against his to his memory and thinks to himself that he could live out the rest of his life like this. 

x.

Kori Anders was best known for two things – being able to make the best pancakes and never being able to hide her feelings. 

But then again, it didn’t quite seem like she was trying to hide it all that well. 

Donna flips another page of her textbook, eyebrows knit together in concentration before she looks up towards Kori, who was staring into space. 

Donna follows her gaze, her lips pursing. 

Kori’s eyes were set blankly on you, your head bobbing up and down slightly as music blared from your headphones, fingers clicking away on your keyboard. Dick sat next to you quietly, tapping his stylus against his head as he studied the MATLAB on his IPad screen. 

Neither of you looked up, too engrossed in your work. Your water bottles sat between the two electronic devices, blue and pink like cotton candy. 

You reach for your bottle, finally looking up when you notice how light it is, eyebrows furrowed. Dick glances at you, sliding his closer to your hand before plucking yours from your fingertips and standing up, making his way to the water fountain. 

Kori stares as he fades into the hallway, eyes soft. 

Donna clears her throat lightly, reaching over to slide Kori’s textbook closer to her. “Are you on the next chapter already?”

Kori jumps, hurriedly looking back at the textbook. “What? Um, yes— I mean no— Sorry, I mean—“ She exhales slowly, her hands curling into fists on her lap before relaxing. “No, I’m not. I got distracted.”

Donna hums, nodding her head. “You should focus more on the textbook.” She looks at Kori pointedly. “You never know who’s paying attention.” 

Kori looks around the table nervously, her pulse thrumming wildly. Her green eyes find your figure immediately, but you’re none the wiser—still typing away on your keyboard, still too immersed in your music to notice what’s happening. 

Her shoulders loosen. 

She looks away quickly, the relief in her veins so strong, it makes her sick.

Kori casts another glance around the table, only stopping when she meets Roy’s steady gaze, his eyes sharp. 

Their gazes lock. Kori freezes, her hands clammy. 

Roy stares at her, flat and unimpressed. The muscle in his jaw jumps once before he looks away, a quick glance over towards you before retreating back to the anatomical diagram in front of him. 

Kori opens her mouth quickly. 

It’s not like that, she wants to say. I was just looking. 

She stops short, tearing her gaze away to your french-tipped manicured nail tapping softly to the beat of a song no one but you could hear on the table. 

Wasn’t… like what?

Kori bites her lip softly, feeling the blunt edges of her teeth digging into her skin. She didn’t want to think about it anymore. 

Dick returns, the smell of his lavender and bergamot cologne drifting in the air. Kori can’t help but sniff the air softly, something warm in her ribs blooming and her lips threatening to twitch upwards, before she hurriedly covers her mouth with her sweater-covered hands. 

She watches as he sets your pink water bottle down, bending over to press a chaste kiss on your temple before he takes his seat again. You look up at his touch, a smile on your face before pointing at your mouth, lips puckered exaggeratedly. 

She should look away. She needed to look away – but she couldn't. 

And so, Kori watches as Dick smiles fondly, a little quirk of his lips on one side pulling higher than the other, his hand gently cupping your face as he closes the distance, his thumb caressing the curve of your cheek.

She feels sick.

It’s a small kiss, a short one that barely even counts but it makes Kori’s stomach churn all the same – even more so when she catches the sparkle in your eye and the soft smile gracing your lips when the two of you pull apart. 

She forces herself to look away, swallowing the dryness in her throat. 

Bad, bad, bad Kori.

a/n: hi hi loves <33 just wanted to give you guys a quickie quick update - i'll be taking a short break due to some personal obligations + a bit of writers block from where im currently at while writing the next few chapters <//3 in any case, please wish me all the luck & maybe hehe run my imaginatino a little bit on where you guys think this is going !!

i wish you all a wonderful end of july/beginning of august <333

[alierecss]

What, like it's hard? | Dean Di Laurentis

summary: Dean Dilaurentis has been the only person in your class who comes close to your grade. You've been pretending not to notice him for three months. Then a professor pairs you together for a semester project, and suddenly you have no choice but to sit very close to him in a library for five weeks and figure out what to do about that.

notes: hii i'm back!! i really hope you guys enjoy this one as much as i enjoyed writing it. this came to mind because i'm obsessed with legally blonde the musical thanks to the show, and then obviously i had to rewatch the movie immediately. i read the dean book years ago so i genuinely didn't remember the plot, so for all intents and purposes let's just agree that he went to law school and moved on. also first time writing smut, so i think it's kind of mid, but i did my best 😭 also the legal cases i mention might not be entirely accurate since i am not a lawyer, but i do feel very comfortable using legal jargon in everyday life. thank you so much for reading and please let me know what you think 🤍

warnings: swearing, kind of academic rivals to lovers, library shenanigans, one very unhappy night librarian, legally blonde references (many), dean is a menace, reader is a menace back, sexual tension with footnotes, and SMUT (making out, oral f!receiving, unprotected piv, light dirty talk, "good girl", dean calls you baby and honey a lot) 18+ only please, mdni.

word count: 11.8k

For the past four years, you had spent countless moments thinking about these final months of college.

Truthfully, college had always felt like a dream, a dream that for a long time had seemed impossible and far away, so when the acceptance letter arrived all those years ago, you had been ecstatic in the disbelieving way of someone who had wanted something so long they had stopped being sure they deserved it. What nobody told you was that dreams came with deadlines, sleepless nights, and enough stress to make your eye twitch on a random afternoon for no particular reason.

The dream of becoming a lawyer had started when you were young. It hadn't started glamorously, no single defining moment, no courtroom drama that changed everything. Although you really did have a knack for binge-watching shows like How to Get Away with Murder and Suits. But the real want had started with the slow, accumulating understanding that the world was not fair, and that fairness was something you had to build rather than wait for, and that the people who built it tended to know the rules better than everyone else. You had decided, young and furious, that you were going to know the rules.

Now, years later, it finally felt within reach.

Last summer you had taken the LSAT. When the score came back — 176 — you had screamed so loudly your roommate came running from the other room convinced something had happened. Something had happened. Everything had happened. Applying to Harvard had been a no-brainer after that, the natural conclusion of four years of work that had never once felt like anything other than work. To say it had all been a dream would be a lie. You had earned every grade, every internship, every recommendation letter. Every achievement had come attached to long nights and sacrificed weekends and more cups of coffee than you were prepared to account for.

Still, every now and then, you allowed yourself a moment to appreciate how far you had come.

Then you remembered the Harvard interview scheduled in just a few weeks, and the knot in your stomach returned immediately. It lived there, that knot had been living there for months, through the application and the waiting and the acceptance, through every good thing that should have dissolved it and didn't. You had stopped expecting it to go away. You had just learned to work around it.

What if you stumbled over your words? What if they asked something you couldn't answer? What if four years of work came down to one bad afternoon?

Which was exactly why Professor Whitaker's announcement nearly made you lose your mind.

The second she wrote Semester Project across the whiteboard, a collective groan spread through the lecture hall. Over the next month, students would work in pairs to complete a research project on the evolution of constitutional rights in the United States , a project worth a significant portion of the final grade.

At any other point in your college career, that would have been merely annoying.

Right now it felt catastrophic.

You could not afford for your GPA to slip. Not when Harvard was finally within reach. Not when everything you had worked for was balanced on the edge of these last few months. And that meant you absolutely could not get stuck with a partner who didn't care like a jock who only cared about a sport, someone who would contribute three bullet points to a shared document at the eleventh hour and disappear for six weeks while your entire future quietly collapsed.

The thought alone made you grimace.

So as Professor Whitaker reached for her roster and began assigning partners, you found yourself doing something you almost never did.

Praying.

"The class will be sorted according to performance on the most recent exam," Professor Whitaker announced, scanning the room over her glasses. "That way the workload stays balanced and the pairing is fair for everyone."

A few students groaned.

You sat a little straighter.

Actually, that wasn't terrible. At least now there was a reasonable chance your partner wouldn't be dead weight. You had carried enough dead weight in your academic career to last a lifetime and you were done with it.

Professor Whitaker called your name first. You looked up from your notebook on instinct, even though she already knew exactly where you were. You hated change. You liked knowing where everything was. You liked routines, systems, the quiet reliability of things being where you left them.

More importantly, you liked being good at things.

Which was why hearing that your partner would be someone on your level was oddly comforting. Most of your life had been spent balancing on a very thin line between confidence and crippling self-doubt. On good days, you knew you were intelligent. On bad days, you were convinced everyone else was smarter and better than you. The trick was not letting either version get too loud.

Professor Whitaker glanced down at her roster.

The next five seconds would remain engraved in your frontal lobe for at least thirty years.

"Dean DiLaurentis."

Silence.

Jesus H. Christ.

Your head snapped up. Not because you needed to find him. You already knew exactly where he was sitting. You always knew where he was sitting, a fact you had never examined too closely and were not going to start examining now.

Middle of the sixth row. Today he was wearing a green cardigan over a white t-shirt, looking far too comfortable for someone who had just become the source of your newest academic crisis. He was mid-conversation with Beau Maxwell when his name was called, laughing at something, completely unaware that your entire carefully managed semester had just been handed to him without his consent or yours.

Dean turned around.

Then he smiled.

That smile. The one that belonged on toothpaste advertisements and nowhere else, the smile of someone who had never once in his life worried about whether he was welcome somewhere. It was the kind of smile that assumed the answer before the question had been asked, and it had always, privately, made you want to argue with it.

His eyes found yours immediately.

The realization landed half a second later, oh, you're my partner, and his grin widened, and then, because apparently the universe had a sense of humor that you had never personally found funny:

He winked.

He actually winked.

You stared back at him with the expression of someone who had just been personally wronged by the laws of probability.

You knew Dean. Not personally, god forbid. But you knew of him, the way everyone knew of him. Hockey player. Trust fund. Chronic flirt. The kind of person who walked into a room and somehow became the room. Loud and charming and surrounded by people at all times, the social gravity of someone who had never once had to earn a seat at the table.

Meanwhile, you considered making eye contact with strangers a form of cardio.

This could not be right. There had to be a mistake. How could Dean DiLaurentis possibly have a grade comparable to yours?

You spent your Friday nights in the library. You color-coded your notes by subject, by date, by relevance. You had cried over constitutional law, like actual tears, in the bathroom of the third floor study room, alone at eleven pm because that was what it cost and you had paid it without complaint.

Dean spent his weekends at hockey games and parties.

The math simply wasn't mathing.

Unless.

Oh.

Oh, god.

He was sleeping with the TA.

That had to be it. Everything suddenly made horrifying, perfect sense. The TA was a graduate student from somewhere in the Midwest who had spoken to you exactly three times all semester, and every single interaction had felt like she was being held at gunpoint. If Dean was somehow managing to maintain a functional relationship with her —

Honestly? He deserved the extra credit for that alone.

Three months earlier, it had started.

Professor Whitaker had a specific way of running discussion that you had privately categorized as controlled chaos. She threw a question into the room and stepped back and let whoever was going to talk, talk, with the quiet authority of someone who already knew what she thought and was waiting to see if anyone else did. The lecture hall always felt different during these sessions. Bigger somehow, the overhead lights slightly too bright, the charged quality of a room full of people deciding whether to say the thing they were thinking.

You almost always said the thing you were thinking.

Today the question was about Shelley v. Kraemer.

You had opinions about Shelley v. Kraemer.

"The court got it right," you said, when Whitaker's gaze landed on you. "State enforcement of a racially restrictive covenant is state action. The fourteenth amendment doesn't care that the covenant itself was private — the moment a court steps in to enforce it, the state is complicit. You can't separate the two."

Whitaker nodded — the small, noncommittal nod that meant continue or let someone else.

"I'd push back on that a little."

You turned.

Dean had his pen between two fingers, not quite raised, the posture of someone making a point rather than asking permission. He was looking at Whitaker, not at you, which was somehow more irritating than if he had been looking at you directly. Like the argument was with the room rather than with you specifically. Like you were incidental.

"The ruling is right," he said, "but the reasoning has a ceiling. If state enforcement equals state action, you've created a framework that depends entirely on whether someone decides to litigate. The protection isn't structural, it's reactive. It only exists if someone can afford to fight for it."

The room was quiet for a moment.

You became aware, distantly, that your jaw had tightened.

"That's not a flaw in the ruling," you said. "That's a flaw in the system the ruling exists inside of."

"Sure." Dean looked at you then, for the first time. His eyes were steady, interested in a way that wasn't performative. "But you're writing a decision, not a philosophy paper. The decision has to function in the system it's handed to."

"So your position is that the court should have ruled differently because the system might not implement it correctly."

"My position is that a protection that requires money and access to activate isn't really a protection." He said it evenly, without heat. "I thought that would be something you'd agree with."

The last sentence landed differently than the rest.

Not unkind. Not pointed exactly. Just specific, in a way that implied he had thought about what you would and wouldn't agree with, which was a thing he should not have been thinking about. Which meant he had been paying attention quietly and consistently.

Whitaker moved on.

You looked back at your notes and wrote nothing for the remainder of class. Outside the lecture hall windows the sky was the flat white of a November afternoon, and you sat with the particular discomfort of someone who had just been surprised by a person they had already decided to understand.

That was when it had started. Which meant that three months later, sitting in the lecture hall watching him smile at you like you were a problem he was looking forward to solving, you did not have the excuse of not knowing better.

The lecture hall emptied in a slow, shuffling wave that you had no patience for.

You were already packing your bag when you heard him.

"So." Dean dropped into the empty seat beside yours with the casual confidence of someone who had never once been unwelcome anywhere. He turned to face you, one arm resting on the back of the chair, bringing with him the faint smell of something clean, something woody, or the cold outside air. "Partners."

"Observant," you said, without looking up from your notebook.

He made a small sound, not quite a laugh, not quite not one. You could feel him watching you with that specific brand of unhurried attention that probably worked on most people and was currently working on you in ways you were categorically refusing to acknowledge.

"We should exchange numbers," he said. "Figure out when we can meet."

"I have time Thursday afternoon." You zipped your bag closed. "After three."

"Thursday I've got practice until five." He pulled out his phone, apparently unbothered. "What about evenings?"

"Tuesdays and Thursdays I tutor until nine." You finally looked at him. "Weekends I pick up extra sessions when I can."

Something shifted in his expression, brief, almost imperceptible. Not pity. Something more like recalibration, the specific adjustment of someone updating a model they had been working from.

You watched him process it and kept your face completely neutral, the way you always did when people did the math on your schedule and realized there was no give in it, no free afternoon that existed just for the sake of existing. You didn't need him to feel bad about it. You just needed him to understand that his time was not the only time being managed here.

"Okay," Dean said, and to his credit, he didn't make it weird. "Wednesday? I'm free after two."

"I have a session at two."

"After three, then."

You considered this. "Three. Library. Third floor."

"Done." He held out his hand for your phone with the easy expectation of someone who had never once been told no and somehow, inexplicably, made that feel more like charm than arrogance.

You looked at his hand for exactly one beat longer than necessary.

Then you unlocked your phone and placed it in his palm, your fingers brushing his warm hand briefly.

"Don't put anything weird in my contacts," you said.

Dean smiled and typed with the focused, two-thumbed efficiency of someone taking the instruction very seriously.

He handed it back.

You looked down.

Dean DiLaurentis 🏒 (ur partner deal with it)

You stared at it for a long moment.

"Truly," you said, "a legal mind."

He laughed then , a real one, surprised out of him, and stood to leave, shouldering his bag. He paused at the end of the row and looked back at you with the expression of someone who was about to say something and had decided against it.

"Wednesday, then."

"Wednesday," you confirmed, already looking back at your notes.

You did not watch him go.

You listened to his footsteps until you couldn't anymore and then looked back at your notebook and found the page completely blank.

By the time Wednesday rolled around, you had done the mental gymnastics of calculating exactly how much this project was going to cost you. Not much, you had decided. You were already at maximum stress capacity between the Harvard interview and the end of semester closing in, so there was simply no room left for anything Dean DiLaurentis-related to take up residence.

This was the conclusion you had reached.

You woke up early anyway, restless, and got ready with the focused efficiency of someone who was absolutely not anxious about a study session. In the kitchen, Elisa was at the stove, hair still in a braid from the night before, doing something that smelled like butter and brown sugar.

"Morning, sugar plum." She turned and pointed her spatula in your direction. "Do you want to have breakfast with me?"

Elisa was the easiest person you had ever lived with, which was not something you said lightly. You had moved into her house sophomore year knowing no one and she had made you feel like you had been there the whole time. Wednesdays were her day off no classes, no obligations, and she spent them cooking elaborate things and playing at domesticity in a way that you found deeply comforting. She called them the Tradwife Wednesdays, in a joking manner.

"I can't, I have a class I can't miss." You grabbed your bag from the hook by the door. "Sorry."

"That's okay." She stirred something. "Are you coming back for lunch? I'm trying a new caesar salad recipe I found on TikTok. Caesar 2.0."

"I can't do lunch either. I have a study session at noon."

"Bring your partner. We can all have caesar salad 2.0."

"My partner is —" you paused, already regretting what you were about to say — "Dean DiLaurentis."

Elisa put down the spatula.

"Shut up."

"I'm not going to —"

"No way. You hate him."

"I don't hate him."

"Despise, then."

"Not even that." You pulled on your jacket. "I don't care about him at all. He just exists in the same world as me."

"Sure," Elisa said, in the tone she used when she was humoring you. She picked up the spatula again. "Ask him if he remembers our little trip in the Mystery Machine."

"Goodbye, Elisa."

"Caesar salad is on the table if you change your —"

You closed the door.

session one

He was already there when you arrived.

That was the first thing that threw you off, small and inconvenient, the kind of detail that shouldn't matter and did anyway. Dean DiLaurentis, sitting at the table you had specifically chosen because it was tucked into the back corner of the third floor, away from foot traffic and group study noise and every possible social distraction. You had chosen it because it was your table, the one you came to when you needed to actually work, claimed over three years of afternoons and late nights. The carpet near the window had a worn patch from your chair. You knew which overhead light buzzed slightly and had learned to tune it out.

He was sitting in your chair.

He had a coffee on each side of the table.

Two coffees.

You stopped.

"I didn't know your order," he said, not looking up. "So I got you black. You seem like a black coffee person."

You were a black coffee person.

You sat down without commenting on it and pulled out your laptop.

"I started an outline," Dean said. "Sent it to your email."

You opened it without responding. It was actually structured. Clean headers, logical progression. You stared at it for a moment longer than you intended, turning it over, looking for the flaw. There wasn't one.

"You cited Marbury v. Madison in the intro," you said.

"It's foundational."

"It's also the first thing every professor expects to see. It makes us look like we opened the textbook once and called it a day."

He looked up then. "So where would you put it?"

"Section three. After we've established the framework."

Dean looked at the outline. Then back at you. "...Yeah, okay."

You pulled it up on your own screen and started restructuring. He watched for a second, then turned back to his own laptop without making it a thing, and something about that: the absence of wounded ego, the lack of argument, the simple yeah, okay, was quietly unexpected.

You worked in silence for a while. A real silence, the functional kind, punctuated only by typing and the occasional ambient noise of the floor around you, someone whispering two tables over, the elevator arriving and departing, the hush of a library in the afternoon when the day outside has gone grey.

At some point he shifted in his seat and his foot knocked against yours under the table. He pulled it back immediately, said a distracted sorry without looking up, and kept typing.

You looked back at your screen.

Ten minutes later it happened again his foot finding yours under the table, settling against it with the absent, unthinking quality of someone who wasn't paying attention to their own body. This time he didn't notice. Or didn't move. You couldn't tell which.

You didn't move either.

You looked at your screen and read the same sentence four times and told yourself it was nothing, the table was small, it meant nothing at all.

His ankle was warm against yours for the rest of the session.

An hour passed, and then another. The coffee went cold. The light through the window shifted from afternoon grey to early evening grey, and you were deep enough in the due process section that you had stopped noticing either.

"Take a break," Dean said, without looking up.

"I don't need a break."

"You've reread that page four times."

You looked up. He was still looking at his notes, which meant he had been paying attention to you without appearing to pay attention to you, which was somehow worse than if he had just been watching you openly.

You closed the case study.

"Fine," you said. "Break."

Dean leaned back in his chair all the way back, with the easy, unhurried comfort of someone who had never had to fight for a seat at any table he wanted to sit at. You had noticed that about him early, the specific posture of someone for whom things had always been available, every room an environment that had been pre-adjusted to suit him. It was the kind of thing that was difficult not to notice when you had spent your entire life doing the opposite.

"You know," you said, mostly because the silence was starting to feel companionable in a way you weren't ready for, "you hooked up with a friend of mine once."

Dean looked up. Something shifted in his expression mild interest, maybe the faintest trace of wariness. "Oh really."

"Daphne."

A pause. He turned the name over, and you watched the moment he didn't find it.

"I don't remember," he said.

"She was dressed as Daphne for Halloween. You were, surprisingly, dressed as Fred."

Something cleared in his expression. "Halloween two years ago?"

"That would be the one."

He considered this with the equanimity of someone who had made peace with a certain kind of personal history. "Can I ask why you're bringing this up?"

"No particular reason." You picked up your cold coffee. "Can you even remember her name?"

"I just said I couldn't."

"Right." You set the coffee back down. "Well. For the record."

Dean looked at you for a moment with the expression you were already starting to recognize the one that meant he was deciding whether to say the thing he was thinking. He usually said it.

"You know," he said, "you hooked up with a friend of mine too."

You kept your expression very neutral. "Did I."

"Garrett."

"We made out at a party freshman year," you said, with the patience of someone correcting a factual error. "Did he tell you we hooked up?"

"He didn't say anything." Dean's mouth curved slightly. "I saw you two leaving and made an assumption."

"A wrong one."

"Clearly." He tilted his head. "So. Has Daphne said anything? About her experience."

You considered the question with the gravity it deserved.

"She tried to tell me," you said. "I didn't want to hear it."

"So she didn't give a great review."

"Ravishing," you said pleasantly. "It almost made me want to sleep with you too." You paused. "But then I remembered I have something called self-respect."

Dean laughed a real one, sudden and unguarded. It was, you noted with some irritation, a genuinely good laugh. Warm and surprised, the laugh of someone who had not seen it coming and was delighted by that fact. The kind of laugh that made you want to have caused it again.

"That's funny," he said.

"I know."

He was still smiling when he looked back down at his notes. You looked back at your case study. The library settled back into its particular silence the low buzz of the overhead light, the distant elevator, thirty people pretending they weren't exhausted but something had shifted in the quality of it. Imperceptibly, the way temperature changes in a room before anyone acknowledges it's warmer.

You didn't say anything about it.

Neither did he.

Twenty minutes later he slid his notes across the table, pointing out something you had missed without making it feel like a correction. You leaned in to look without thinking about leaning in and then you were close, closer than you had been all session, his shoulder warm against yours, and you could see the slight curl of his handwriting on the page and the way his finger traced the line he was pointing to, and you became aware very suddenly of his hands. How big they were. How deliberate.

You had not thought about his hands before. Or you had thought about them in passing and moved on. But up close, right now, pointing at a citation on a page they were careful and unhurried, the kind that did things with attention.

You looked at the citation.

"You're right," you said. "Good catch."

He glanced at you sideways, briefly, with that expression.

You both looked back at the page.

Neither of you moved away.

It was near the end of the session when it happened. You were flagging sources, half your attention on the screen, the room around you reduced to the low hum of concentration, when Dean said, mostly to himself, still reading:

"You always sit in the same seat."

You glanced up. "What?"

He seemed to catch himself, just barely, a slight tensing around his jaw. "In Whitaker's class. Third row, right side, second from the aisle. Every lecture."

The air shifted in a way that was difficult to name. Outside the library window the sky had gone fully dark, the glass reflecting the room back at you, two people at a table, closer than they had been three hours ago, the space between them negotiated down to nothing without either of them signing off on it.

"I like consistency," you said, after a beat.

"Yeah." He looked back at his screen. Something in his jaw had gone slightly careful. "I know."

I know.

Two words. Completely neutral on the surface and yet carrying the specific weight of something that had not been meant to be said out loud. Not an admission exactly. More like a door opened a half-inch before he caught it and eased it shut , slowly enough that you both knew it had moved.

You looked at him for a moment.

He did not look back up.

"We should finish the first amendment section," you said.

"Yeah," Dean said. "Probably."

You both looked at your screens.

Neither of you said anything else about it.

You packed up at eight-fifteen, twenty minutes later than planned. The third floor was empty by then, the overhead lights on their late setting. You walked to the elevator in a silence that had become, somewhere in the last six hours, a different kind of silence entirely, not neutral, not loaded, just inhabited.

In the elevator he stood beside you with his shoulder against yours, the same way it had been at the table, and neither of you shifted. The floor numbers climbed down. You looked straight ahead.

His ankle had been warm against yours for three hours and you had not moved away once.

You filed that under the place where you kept everything you weren't ready to examine yet.

session two

The second study session had started with considerably less hostility than the first, which you were choosing not to read into.

It was late afternoon again, the library emptying out around you as people made the reasonable decision to leave, and you and Dean had been working for three hours straight with the focused efficiency of two people who were both too competitive to be the first to suggest stopping. The case briefs were spread across the table in a system that was half yours and half his and somehow, irritatingly, better than either would have been alone. Your color-coded tabs and his margin notes. Your precision and his instinct for where an argument wanted to go.

You had noticed that yesterday too. Filed it away.

What you had not filed away or had tried to and failed was the moment an hour into the session when he had reached across you to grab a case brief from your side of the table without asking, and his arm had crossed in front of you close enough that you felt the warmth of it before it was gone. He hadn't noticed. He had grabbed the brief and gone back to his side of the table and kept reading, completely unaware.

You had read the same paragraph for twelve minutes after that.

"Okay," Dean said, dropping his pen and leaning back. "Break."

"We just had a break."

"That was an hour ago."

You looked at the time. It had been an hour and twenty minutes, which meant you had lost track of time, which meant you had been absorbed enough in the work — in the conversation around the work, the back and forth of it, the way he argued a point and actually listened when you argued back — that the time had disappeared without asking permission.

You put your pen down.

"Fine," you said. "Break."

Dean stretched his arms above his head with the unselfconscious ease of someone completely comfortable in his own body, the cardigan riding up slightly, a sliver of skin at his waist, the line of his shoulders, the way his head fell back for a moment, which you observed in a purely detached and analytical capacity and then looked at the ceiling.

"So," he said. "Harvard Law."

"What about it."

"That's the goal?"

"That's the goal," you confirmed.

He nodded slowly, with an expression that was hard to read. Then, in a voice of complete casual confidence: "What, like it's hard?"

You turned to look at him.

He was already smiling.

"That's the second time today," you said, "that you have made a Legally Blonde reference."

"Is it?"

"You quoted it earlier when I said the admissions rate was three percent."

"I don't remember that."

"Dean."

"It's a great film."

You looked at him for a moment. "Is it your favorite movie?"

"Top two," he said, without hesitation. "Just after Top Gun."

You stared at him. Dean DiLaurentis. Hockey player, pre-law, top of the class, sitting in the library surrounded by case briefs, whose top two films were Legally Blonde and Top Gun.

"God," you said.

He laughed. "What?"

"Nothing." You picked up your pen. "It explains a lot actually."

"Does it."

"The confidence," you said, gesturing vaguely at him. "The hair. The complete inability to walk into a room without knowing exactly how you're going to be received." You paused. "You've watched both of those films a concerning number of times, haven't you."

Dean pointed at you. "Elle Woods and Pete Mitchell are two of the most —"

"Please don't finish that sentence."

"— compelling character studies in the history of American cinema."

You laughed and put your head down on the table.

His laugh was warm and close and you could feel it more than hear it, and when you looked up he was leaning on his elbow facing you — close, comfortable in the way he had gotten over the past two sessions, close enough that you could see the specific color of his eyes in the library light, and the way they crinkled at the corners when he was actually amused rather than performing it. The late afternoon light was doing something completely unreasonable to his face — the angles of it, the warmth of it, and you looked back at your notes with the focused energy of someone making a deliberate choice.

"Back to work," you said.

"Back to work," he agreed.

But he was still smiling when he turned back to his notes, and you were very carefully not smiling, and the library was quiet around you in that way it had been yesterday, warmer than it should have been, the silence between you easier than it had any right to be.

Top two, you thought, against your will. Just after Top Gun.

God help you.

You made it another forty minutes before it went sideways.

It started, as these things often did, over something small.

Dean wanted to include a law review article you thought was analytically weak. You had said so. He had disagreed. It had escalated with the particular efficiency of two people who were very good at arguing and had been carefully not arguing for weeks, the pressure of it finding the first available exit.

"It's not a weak source," Dean said, for the second time. "You just don't like the conclusion."

"I don't like the conclusion because the methodology doesn't support it. There's a difference."

"You've said that. You haven't explained it."

"I sent you three paragraphs —"

"You sent me three paragraphs about why you were right," he said. "That's not the same thing."

You looked up from your laptop. He was looking back at you with the expression that meant he was done being patient, and something about that, the specific quality of it, the fact that he was allowed to be done being patient when you had been managing your frustration for weeks —

"You know what, it doesn't matter," you said. "Include it. It's fine."

"Don't do that."

"Do what."

"Shut down and say it's fine when it's not fine." He closed his laptop halfway. "If you have a problem with the source, say it."

"I have a problem with a lot of things," you said, and it came out with an edge you hadn't entirely intended. "I have a problem with the fact that I have no idea how much of this grade I'm actually carrying."

The air in the room changed entirely. The low buzz of the overhead light was suddenly very audible.

Dean went very still. "What does that mean."

It means I've been doing this alone my whole life and I don't know how to stop assuming I'm about to have to do it again. That was what it meant. That was not what came out.

"It means," you said, and your voice was measured in the way it got when you were saying something you couldn't take back, "that I don't actually know how you scored high enough on that exam to get paired with me."

Silence.

Dean looked at you. Something moved behind his eyes, not hurt exactly. The thing that came just before.

"Say what you mean," he said quietly.

And because you were frustrated and tired and the Harvard interview was in two weeks and you had been holding this assumption for long enough that it had started to feel like fact —

"I thought maybe you were sleeping with the TA."

The silence that followed was a different kind entirely. Heavy and still, the kind that has a shape.

Dean sat back. He looked at you for a long moment with an expression you had never seen on him before — not the easy charm, not the careful attention, not the almost-smile. Something stripped of all of that, all the way down.

"I got a ninety-four on that exam," he said. "I got a ninety-four because I studied for it. I study for all of them." A pause. Each word placed with precision. "I know you think I'm here because of my last name or my hockey stats or whoever you've decided I'm sleeping with. I know that's easier than just —" he stopped. Exhaled slowly. "I've been doing the work. I've been here every session. I don't know what else you want from me."

You opened your mouth.

"And the TA," he said, " she has a girlfriend. So."

He opened his laptop again. The sound of it was very loud in the quiet room.

You looked at your screen. The cursor blinked in the document you had been sharing for two weeks, both your names in the top corner. You were acutely, uncomfortably aware of the specific kind of wrong you had just been.

Not about the source.

About him.

"Dean —"

"First amendment section," he said. Not cold. Not cruel. Just done. "Let's just finish."

You looked at him for a moment.

"Yeah," you said quietly. "Okay."

The Legally Blonde conversation felt like it had happened in a different library entirely.

Top two, he had said, and laughed, and looked at you like you were something worth looking at.

You stared at the cursor and said nothing else.

Neither did he.

session three

The third session was on a Tuesday.

You knew because Tuesdays you tutored until nine, which meant you had come straight from the library's second floor where you had spent an hour and a half walking a freshman through the commerce clause, and you were tired in the specific way of someone who had been performing competence for other people all day and had very little left over for themselves.

You had also been thinking about what you said for five days straight.

Not continuously. Like something that sits in the back of your mind and surfaces at inconvenient moments — in the shower, between tutoring sessions, at two in the morning when you should have been sleeping and instead were staring at the ceiling cataloguing every assumption you had ever made about Dean DiLaurentis and finding most of them wanting. I thought maybe you were sleeping with the TA. The words had a particular quality in retrospect, the quality of something that could not be unsaid, that existed now in the permanent record of things he knew about you.

You pushed open the door to the third floor reading room and told yourself you were fine.

Dean was already there.

Of course he was. He was always already there, with his laptop open and his notes spread out in the handwriting you had become, against your will, familiar with, slightly left-leaning, inconsistent spacing, somehow completely legible. He looked up when you came in. The room smelled like old paper and the particular warmth of a space that had been occupied for a while, and the overhead light buzzed its familiar note.

"Hey," he said.

"Hey," you said back.

You sat down. Not beside him, you took the chair across the table, the one you had started in, back when the table felt like a neutral territory that required a border. You pulled out your laptop and opened the shared document and did not look at him.

He did not comment on the seating arrangement.

That was somehow worse than if he had.

You worked. The session had the functional efficiency of two people who were both too professional to let personal things affect the work, which meant the work was fine and everything around it was not. He passed you sources without commentary. You flagged edits without explanation. The back and forth that had become almost conversational — the small arguments, the digressions, the way he said okay when you made a point he couldn't refute — was gone.

The overhead light buzzed. Someone turned a page three tables over.

Around the forty-minute mark he said, "the due process section needs another source."

"I know," you said. "I'm looking."

"I found one this morning. Sent it to your email."

"I haven't checked yet."

"It's good."

"Okay."

Silence.

You checked your email. The source was good. You added it to the document without saying so and heard, very faintly, the sound of him exhaling.

An hour passed like that.

You had just pulled up a new case brief when Dean leaned back in his chair and said, to no one in particular, "I don't actually care about the TA."

You looked up.

He was looking at the ceiling, not at you, with the expression of someone who had decided to say a thing and was committed to the delivery. "I just want you to know that. In case it was still sitting there."

Outside the library window, the campus was dark and wet with recent rain, the paths lit amber under the streetlights.

"It was sitting there," you admitted.

"Yeah." He brought his gaze down to his notes. "I figured."

"Dean —"

"You don't have to." He said it simply, without edge. "I'm fine. I just didn't want it to be weird for the rest of the semester."

"It's already a little weird," you said.

"I know."

Another silence — but this one had more air in it, the quality of a silence that had been cleared rather than accumulated.

"I'm going to apologize properly," you said. "I just haven't figured out how yet."

Dean was quiet for a moment. Then, very carefully, not quite a smile: "Does it involve food."

You said nothing.

"It does," he said. "Okay."

"Back to work," you said.

"Back to work."

You heard her before you saw her.

The click of heels on library floor that had nothing to do with studying, moving with the purposeful energy of someone who had a destination and knew exactly what they wanted when they got there. You didn't look up. You were in the middle of a paragraph and you had a system and you were not going to lose your place.

The heels stopped at your table.

"Hey." Not directed at you. You turned a page. "I've been looking for you."

"Hey." Dean's voice, easy and careful. "Didn't know you were on campus today."

"I wasn't. Now I am." A pause with a specific texture. "Come outside for like five minutes."

"I can't right now, we're working."

We. You noted the word and kept reading.

"Five minutes," she said again. "It's not a big deal."

"I know it's not. I just can't right now."

You turned another page. The paragraph was about tort law and you had read the same sentence three times and retained nothing.

"Dean —"

"Seriously." His voice was still easy but there was something underneath it now, something with weight. "I'll text you later, okay?"

A silence. The kind that meant she was deciding something.

"Who even is she?" The question was directed at you. You looked up for the first time, because that was directed at you, and you had opinions about being spoken about in the third person by someone standing four feet away.

The girl was pretty in the specific, polished way of someone who had never had to try very hard at it. She was looking at you with an expression that was more curious than hostile, which somehow made it worse.

"His project partner," you said pleasantly. "We have a deadline."

"It's literally five minutes —"

"We're aware of how long five minutes is," you said, in the tone you had been practicing for courtrooms. "He said he'll text you. The reading room is a shared space and we're trying to work, so." You smiled. "Thank you."

The girl looked at you. Looked at Dean. Looked back at you with an expression that had shifted into something more speculative, something that said she understood more than you had intended to reveal.

Then she left.

The heels clicked back across the library floor and faded, and the room settled back into its particular silence, and you looked back at your notes with the focused energy of someone who had not just done what they had just done.

From across the table, nothing.

You turned a page.

More nothing.

You looked up.

Dean was looking at his notes with the carefully neutral expression of someone using every available resource not to smile.

"What," you said.

"Nothing."

"Say whatever you're going to say."

"I'm not going to say anything."

"Dean."

"I'm just —" He pressed his mouth closed. The not-smile was winning. "Thank you for your help."

"I didn't do it for you," you said immediately. "She was interrupting. It was annoying."

"Completely understandable."

"I would have done the same for anyone."

"Of course."

"It had nothing to do with —" You stopped. "We have three more pages to get through."

"We do," Dean agreed, in the voice of someone being very, very agreeable.

You looked back at your notes.

I would have done the same for anyone.

You were a pre-law student. You were supposed to be good at arguments.

That one had convinced neither of you.

You packed up at nine-fifteen, later than planned, and Dean walked out with you the way he had started doing without either of you deciding he would.

"She's no one," Dean said, when the elevator arrived. Not defensive. Just offered.

You stepped inside. "You don't have to explain yourself to me."

"I know." The doors closed. "I wanted to anyway."

You looked at the floor number climbing. He looked straight ahead. The elevator was small and you were standing close , his arm against yours, the cedar smell of him in the enclosed space, and something about the cleared air of the session, the I'm going to apologize properly, the we he had said without thinking, settled between you like something that had decided to stay.

The doors opened.

"Wednesday," you said.

"Wednesday," he confirmed.

You walked out into the night and did not look back.

You were going to need a very good cake.

session four

It was week four of the project, and Dean had gone back to sitting beside you, in the most inconspicuous way possible.

It had been gradual and deniable at every individual step. First the chair had been angled slightly toward yours. Then it had migrated. Now your thighs brushed every time either of you shifted, and you were acutely, unhelpfully aware of the warmth of his forearm against yours, the cedar-and-cold-air smell of him that you had catalogued in the first session and had been trying unsuccessfully to un-catalogue since.

Things had been a little strange since the fight.

The fight you had caused. With assumptions you had made. About a TA who, it turned out, had a girlfriend.

You had settled, eventually, on cake — specifically the lemon cake Elisa had made that morning, wrapped in foil and sitting on the table between your laptops like a small citrus-scented olive branch, which Dean had looked at when you arrived and had not yet commented on.

You had not told him it was Elisa's. You were not going to examine why.

"So," you started.

Dean looked up from his laptop.

"I would like to apologize."

He held your gaze for a moment. Something in his expression shifted — careful, like he was deciding how much to give you. "It's okay."

"It really isn't, Dean." You turned to face him, which was a tactical error because it meant you were now very close to him, close enough that you could see the dark blue of his eyes in the library light, and the soft fabric of the cardigan where your knee was almost touching his. "I made assumptions. I think the worst of people sometimes and I let it get ahead of me. You've been doing the work. I knew that and I said it anyway. That wasn't fair."

Dean looked at you for a long moment.

"It's truly okay," he said quiet and uncomplicated, completely without performance. "I get it. I know what it looks like from the outside."

"That doesn't make it okay."

"No," he said. "But it makes it understandable."

You looked at him. He looked back at you. The study room was very quiet, the overhead light doing its particular low buzz, the air carrying old paper and coffee and the warm-wool smell of his cardigan.

"The cake is Elisa's," you said, because you needed to say something. "My roommate. She made it this morning and I brought it."

Dean's mouth curved. "You brought me a peace offering."

"I brought us a snack."

"A lemon cake wrapped in foil."

"We've been here three hours."

"That," he said, "is the most you thing I've ever heard." He reached over and broke off a piece without ceremony, and you watched his hands doing it those careful, deliberate and huge hands of his, and felt something tighten somewhere that you immediately filed under irrelevant.

"Good?" you asked.

"Really good." He looked at you with the quiet expression, the one that sat closer to the surface. "Tell Elisa thank you."

"Tell her yourself," you said, and then realized what that implied, and looked back at your laptop.

Dean didn't say anything.

But he didn't look away.

You worked. The tension in the room had changed quality, no longer the awkward residue of an unresolved argument, something else now, something that had been building for four weeks and was running out of places to go. You were aware of him the way you had been aware of him since that first session, the warmth of his arm against yours, the sound of his breathing in the quiet room, the way he tucked the pen behind his ear when he was reading something carefully.

You were looking at your screen. You were not reading anything on it.

He shifted beside you. His knee pressed against yours under the table, not accidentally, not with the absent quality of the foot under the table in session one, but deliberately, with the specific patience of someone making a point without words.

You looked at your screen.

His knee stayed where it was.

Fine, you thought. Fine.

You did not move away.

Another twenty minutes passed like that, both of you working, neither of you acknowledging the point of contact, the room very warm and very quiet. And then Dean reached over, not for a case brief this time, his hand finding yours on the table, covering it, not grabbing, just resting there. Still. Like a question asked very quietly.

You looked down at his hand on yours.

You looked up at him.

He was already looking at you and he didn't say anything, didn't push, just held your gaze with the patience of someone who had been waiting for a while and had decided to stop waiting quietly.

You turned your hand over under his.

Something shifted in his face. Not the smile, something more careful than that, something that meant more.

Then his hand came up slowly, fingers brushing your jaw, turning your face toward his unhurried, giving you every opportunity to move.

You didn't move.

His eyes met yours — a question, patient and certain — and you answered it by closing your eyes and leaning in, and then his mouth was on yours.

You had kissed people before.

This was categorically different.

It started soft and then didn't stay that way. His hand slid into your hair and yours found the front of his cardigan — soft wool under your fingers, the solid warmth of him underneath — and when his tongue met yours you made a sound you were going to spend considerable time not thinking about.

The kiss was unhurried. Calculated in the best possible way. Dean kissed you like he had all the time in the world, and when air became a necessary concern he pulled back smiling, pressed a soft peck to your lips, and began a slow trail of kisses along your jaw and down your neck.

His mouth was warm on your neck, lips dragging slow enough to make your breath catch, and his hand slid down your thigh with a deliberate patience that made it very clear he was in no hurry whatsoever.

You pulled his hair and got a low, rough sound against your skin in return, and then his hand found your waist and pulled, dragging you onto his lap until you were straddling him and there was no distance left to negotiate.

You could feel exactly what four weeks of thighs brushing and careful silences had done to him.

Dean — you heard yourself saying. Dean, Dean —

Your hands had found their way under his shirt, palms flat against his stomach, and when you dragged your nails lightly down his skin he smiled against your mouth and rolled his hips up into yours with a slow, pointed pressure that dissolved whatever thought you'd been forming completely.

A loud, deliberate cough came from the doorway.

Mrs. Miller, the night librarian, stood in the entrance with the expression of a woman who had seen too much and was being paid nowhere near enough.

You scrambled back. Dean straightened. A beat of absolute silence.

"We're leaving," you said, with as much dignity as the situation permitted. "We're so sorry, Mrs. Miller."

Mrs. Miller said nothing. She held the door open with the energy of someone who had made peace with humanity's worst impulses but did not have to enjoy them.

You gathered your things in record time. Dean had the audacity to look almost completely composed, which was deeply unfair given the state of his hair, which was your fault. You looked away.

Outside in the hallway you made it three steps before he said:

"So."

"Don't."

"I was just going to —"

"I know what you were going to say."

A pause. Then, with great personal restraint: "Okay."

You made it to the elevator before you looked at him. He was already looking at you.

"The cake was really good," he said.

"Shut up, Dean."

He laughed. The elevator doors closed. You stood in the small lit space of it with your shoulders touching and said nothing else the whole way down.

You were both smiling though.

session five

The fifth session was on a Wednesday.

You had been avoiding him since the awkward encounter with Mrs. Miller.

Not obviously, you were too disciplined for obvious. You had shown up to every class, done every piece of work, responded to every text within a reasonable time. You had simply pulled back the parts of yourself that had started, over four weeks of thighs brushing and functional silences and one extremely ill-advised study room incident, to lean toward him without permission.

You were good at pulling back. You had been doing it your whole life.

The third floor smelled like old paper and the warmth of a space occupied all day, the radiator ticking in the corner, the last of the evening light grey through the windows. Dean was already at the table. He looked up when you came in. You sat across from him, the original position, the border re-established, and he looked at it and then looked at his laptop and said nothing.

You worked.

The project was almost finished. This was the last session, a conclusion, a bibliography built jointly over five weeks, your color-coded tabs and his margin notes. It was good work. You were going to get an A on this project.

You were also going to have no reason to sit in this library with Dean DiLaurentis after next week.

You were not examining that.

"We need to talk about the conclusion," Dean said, around the hour mark.

"I know. I drafted something last night, it's in the doc."

He found it. Read it. Was quiet for long enough that you looked up.

"It's good," he said.

"I know."

Another silence. He wasn't reading anymore.

"Are you going to keep doing this," he said, "or."

"Doing what."

"You know what."

"Dean —"

"Because I can." Simply, without heat. "If that's what you want, I can pretend that kiss didn't happen and we finish the project and that's it. I'm not going to make it weird." A pause. "Weirder."

You said nothing. Outside the window the campus was dark and wet, the paths amber-lit below.

"But I'd like to know," he said, "so I can stop waiting for you to tell me."

The library was very quiet. The radiator ticked. The overhead light buzzed.

"It's not that simple," you said finally.

"Okay." He waited.

"I have the Harvard interview in four days. I have a GPA I cannot let slip. I cannot afford to be distracted by —" you stopped.

"By me," he said.

"By anything."

He was quiet. "That's fair."

"And you don't —" you stopped. Started over. "You don't do this. Whatever this would be. I've heard enough to know that's not something you do. Rollercoaster ride or something like that."

Dean looked at you then. Fully, the way he didn't always let himself — all the way, no management.

"What have you heard," he said.

"Dean."

"No. Specifically."

You met his gaze. "That you don't do relationships. That it's always casual. That you're consistent about that."

He held your gaze.

"That was true," he said. "For a long time that was true."

"And now?"

He looked at you like the answer was obvious and he was simply waiting for you to arrive at it, with the patience of someone who had been waiting for a while.

You looked back at your laptop. Your chest felt tight. You had spent five weeks building a careful wall and he had just put his hand flat against it and pushed, gently, without drama, without raising his voice.

The same way he had put his hand over yours on the table.

Just resting there. Like a question asked very quietly.

"Four more pages," you said.

Dean was quiet for a beat.

"Yeah," he said. "Okay."

You both looked at your screens.

You finished the project.

Professor Whitaker announced the grades on a Thursday morning.

You were in your seat when she read them out.

A plus.

You looked up. Dean was already looking at you from the sixth row, and the smile on his face was the quiet one, the one you had catalogued in week two and had been trying not to think about since. It crossed the room and landed somewhere specific.

You gathered your things after class with the focused efficiency of someone with somewhere to be, and you almost made it to the door.

"Hey." He fell into step beside you in the hallway, easy and unhurried, bringing with him the cedar smell. "A plus."

"A plus," you confirmed.

"Told you the Marbury placement was better in section three."

"That was my idea."

"I agreed with it enthusiastically."

"You said yeah, okay and went back to your laptop."

"Enthusiastically," he repeated.

You stopped walking. The hallway moved around you, students flowing past, and Dean stopped too, and you were standing in the middle of it looking at him.

You had done it. You had actually done it. Four years of work and one extremely stressful semester and a project partner you had spent the first two weeks convinced was going to ruin everything, and you had gotten an A plus and the Harvard interview was tomorrow.

The knot in your stomach, which had lived there so long you had stopped noticing it, was gone.

Dean was looking at you with an expression that had gone soft in a way you weren't ready for.

You hugged him.

You weren't sure you had decided to. Your arms were around him and his were around you a half second later, one hand flat between your shoulder blades, and he was warm and solid and smelled so good, and you stayed there for a moment longer than was strictly necessary.

The hallway moved around you. Neither of you moved.

When you pulled back he was still looking at you.

"Good luck tomorrow," he said quietly. "You don't need it. But good luck."

You nodded. Looked at him for one more second.

Then you walked away.

You made it to the end of the hallway before you thought —

oh.

oh no.

And kept walking anyway.

the wednesday after

The Wednesday after the interview, you were in the kitchen with Elisa when the doorbell rang.

Elisa looked at you. You looked at Elisa.

"Are you expecting someone?" she asked.

"No."

"Should I get it?"

"I'll get it," you said, in the tone of someone who had a feeling.

You opened the door.

Dean DiLaurentis was standing on your porch in a green cardigan — of course he was, he owned approximately nine of them — holding grocery store flowers and a DVD copy of Legally Blonde.

You stared at him.

"Hi," he said.

"Hi."

"I heard the interview went well."

"How did you hear that."

"Beau knows your roommate apparently."

You were going to have words with Elisa. "It went well," you confirmed.

"Good." He held out the flowers. The stems were slightly damp from the cold outside. "These are for you."

You took them. "And the DVD."

"Also for you."

"Dean." You looked at him. "I don't own a DVD player."

Something flickered in his expression, that almost-smile. "I know."

"So this is."

"A reason to invite me in," he said simply. "So we can watch it on your laptop. If you want."

"My laptop also doesn't have a DVD player."

He made a gesture as if to throw the DVD across the lawn, which made you laugh despite yourself.

You looked at him standing on your porch and thought about five weeks of sessions, the foot under the table, the arm reaching across you, the knee pressed deliberately against yours, the hand resting over yours on the table, quiet as a question.

"You drove here," you said, "with a DVD."

"I did."

"That's extremely old fashioned. You might as well stand under my window with a boombox playing George Michael."

"If that's what you want."

"Most people would have just texted."

"I'm not most people," he said, simply, without needing anyone to confirm it.

You stepped back from the door.

"Elisa made caesar salad," you said. "She's been waiting for an excuse to feed someone new."

Dean stepped inside. The warmth of the house closed around him.

"I love caesar salad," he said.

"I know you do," you said, closing the door. "It's very you. That and like, Steak Tartare."

"What's wrong with Steak Tartare?"

Elisa lasted forty-five minutes before she announced she was going to her boyfriend's and picked up her keys with the energy of someone who had orchestrated something and was not going to pretend otherwise. You did not look at Dean when she left. You heard the door close and the house settle into quiet and then it was just the two of you on the couch with the TV on and Elle Woods on the screen, his arm warm along the back of the cushion behind you, close enough that you could feel the heat of it without it quite touching.

You had made it approximately eleven minutes into the film.

"I got in," you said, to the screen.

Dean went still.

"The interview —" you stopped. The room was very quiet. The lamp on the side table cast everything amber, warmer than the library had ever been. "They called this morning. I got in."

A beat of silence.

"Harvard," he said.

"Harvard," you confirmed.

Another beat, long enough that you turned to look at him. He was already looking at you.

"I knew you would," he said.

And then he kissed you.

It felt like something he had been waiting to do since the door opened, like Elisa leaving had simply removed the last obstacle between the moment and itself. His lips were on yours immediately, and Dean tasted like mint, and you found yourself wondering distantly if he had come here prepared for this, if this was always how tonight was supposed to end.

He didn't kiss like a careful person. His tongue was thorough and consuming and somewhere in the back of your mind you remembered that cliché about tongues fighting for dominance, that was what Dean was doing, except you found you had absolutely no desire to fight him for it. You would give him whatever he wanted.

Your hands found his shoulders. His found your waist, your thighs, and then settled, decisively, with intent, on your ass. An ass man, you noted, which tracked completely. He pulled you closer and you went willingly, swinging one leg over his knees until you were straddling him. He groaned in satisfaction, his hands pulling you flush against him, his hips rising to meet yours.

Air became a problem. You pulled back, opening your eyes, and found Dean with his eyes still closed, already searching for your mouth again. You gave him a small peck, then made a slow path of kisses from his mouth to his ear to his neck.

On his neck you bit him, lightly, experimentally, and the response was immediate. His hand came down on your ass in a sharp reflexive slap that startled a breathless laugh out of you. Through your skirt and his jeans you could feel exactly how much he was enjoying this, and you rolled your hips deliberately. The sound that came out of him made you stop entirely.

God. You wanted to hear that sound on repeat for the foreseeable future.

He seemed to resurface from wherever he had gone, and then he was standing, actually standing, with you in his arms, your legs wrapping automatically around his back.

"So," he started, eyes dropping to your mouth in a way that was frankly unfair. "Where's your bedroom?"

"Up the stairs, first door on the left," you answered against his neck, punctuating it with another bite.

"Stop teasing me or I'll drop you."

As a direct response you attempted to suck a mark into his neck. He fake-stumbled dramatically on the first step, which made you shriek and then immediately muffle it, and he laughed, low and warm and entirely too pleased with himself.

"I told you," he said.

You made it to your bedroom, and you silently praised the rare burst of energy that had led you to tidy it the night before. He dropped you onto the bed and you propped yourself up on your elbows and watched him pull off his cardigan and then the white shirt underneath.

You let out a slow whistle.

Hockey had been very, very good to him.

"Has anyone ever told you you're kind of annoying?" he said, dropping to his knees at the foot of the bed and pushing your legs open. His eyes went to your underwear. Something in his expression softened. "Cute underwear."

"Only this blond guy I'm sort of into," you said, focusing very hard on something other than what was about to happen. "And I wasn't planning on sleeping with anyone today, hence the polka dot Snoopy panties."

"No, I genuinely think they're cute," he said, and pressed a kiss to your clothed center that made your breath catch. "But they do have to go."

He hooked his fingers in the waistband and pulled them down, and then — you watched, incredulous — tucked them into the back pocket of his jeans.

"Absolutely not —"

"Focus," he said.

"You're so wet," Dean murmured, his gaze on you in a way that made you feel simultaneously embarrassed and triumphant. He kissed the inside of your knee, your inner thigh, everywhere except where you needed him. "All from just kissing?"

"Stop teasing," you whined.

"Not so funny anymore, is it."

"Please, Dean —"

"Please?" He looked up at you, and the expression on his face was criminal. "So you're telling me I spent weeks and months putting up with you being rude to me, when I could have had you this polite just by bending you over a table?"

The image that produced made you moan before you could stop yourself.

"You have no idea how long I've wanted to do this," he said, voice low. "To taste you."

His tongue pressed flat against your center and you moaned so loudly you were immediately grateful Elisa had left. He explored you with single-minded thoroughness, his tongue parting you, learning you, the sounds filling the room obscenely, the wet heat of his mouth and your increasingly frantic responses.

When his mouth found your clit your hands flew to his hair, pulling, trying to bring him impossibly closer.

"You taste so fucking sweet," Dean said against you.

"Fuck — Dean —"

The feeling built and crested and his hand came down across your stomach to hold your hips in place as they jerked. Your thighs trembled. He felt the way you clenched around nothing and knew.

"Be a good girl and come for me."

The orgasm hit like a wave breaking — sudden and total.

"Dean — oh my god —"

He worked you through it, his tongue slowing gradually until he finally pulled back. When he stood you were completely wrecked, sprawled across the bed, unable to form a sentence, staring up at him. His chin was wet. He looked insufferably composed.

He removed his jeans and helped you out of your dress, then came down over you on the bed, his weight settling between your thighs. He kissed you slowly, his hands cradling your jaw with a tenderness that was almost absurd given what had just happened, sweet and careful and at complete odds with the rest of the evening.

You felt him against your thigh.

Oh. He was — yes.

"Breathe, honey."

It was annoying how well he could tell when you'd stopped.

Your hips rolled up against him instinctively, looking for him.

"I need you inside me, Dean —"

"So demanding," he said, cutting you off with a kiss. His hand slid down between you, pressing the length of him against your folds, and the sound you made was not dignified in the slightest. He tapped the head of his cock against you and you dug your nails into his back.

"Please — Dean — please, please —"

He finally gave you what you were asking for, positioning himself at your entrance. The thick head breached you slowly, stretching you out, and you tried to pull him deeper faster.

"Oh fuck —" you moaned as he bottomed out.

"God damn," he breathed. "You're so tight."

His hips pulled back and snapped forward and then he was properly fucking you, hard, deep, everything you had imagined during different library sessions. His mouth found your collarbone, your chest, and then he took one nipple between his lips and you arched off the bed.

"You really do have the most absurd —" he said against your skin.

"Do not finish that sentence —"

"— tits. I could spend all day here."

Your walls tightened around him as the second orgasm built.

"I'm gonna come —" you breathed.

"I know."

He moved back up to your mouth, kissing you as you fell apart, and at the last moment he pulled out, the warmth of him spilling across your stomach. He stood and disappeared into the bathroom, returning with a cloth to clean you up. He discarded it somewhere, then lay down beside you and pulled you against his chest without ceremony, your legs tangling together.

The room was quiet. The lamp was still on. Outside the window the November street was dark and still.

"So," you said finally, staring at the ceiling. "You really are an overachiever."

"Shut up, (Y/N)," Dean said, and kissed you.

You stayed like that for a while, his heartbeat under your cheek, the lamp casting everything amber, the particular quiet of a house when everyone who needed to leave has left.

You had spent four years not allowing yourself anything that wasn't useful. Not a detour, not a distraction, not a single afternoon that didn't have a purpose.

Dean DiLaurentis, you thought, had been the worst possible use of your time.

You pulled his arm tighter around you.

Worth it.

[pucksandpower]

the scientific method (part one)

Dean Di Laurentis x Reader

Summary: when the pre-med girl with the perfect GPA meets the hockey player with the far from perfect reputation, neither of you expects to become each other’s biggest distraction. You’ve got your whole life planned out. He’s never planned anything past Friday night. But somewhere between study sessions and split lips, you discover that the scariest thing isn’t falling, it’s admitting you want to

Read part two here

The bass is so loud you can feel it in your chest, and you’re pretty sure that’s not supposed to be a good thing.

“This was a terrible idea,” you shout over the music, but your roommate Maggie just laughs and pulls you deeper into the chaos that is The Boy’s House.

“You literally never go anywhere!”

“I go to the library!”

“That doesn’t count!” Maggie’s still dragging you through a sea of bodies, past the kitchen where someone’s doing a keg stand, past a couple making out against the wall with such enthusiasm you have to look away. “You need to live a little. Have fun. Maybe even-”

“Don’t say it.”

“-talk to a guy.”

You stop walking, forcing Maggie to stop too. “I didn’t come here to talk to guys. I came here because you said, and I quote, ’If you don’t come with me I’ll tell Professor Lawrence you’re the one who accidentally broke his microscope.’“

“Blackmail is just another word for effective persuasion.” Maggie grins, completely unrepentant. “Come on, let’s get you a drink. A non-alcoholic one,” she adds quickly when she sees your face. “I know, I know. 4.0 GPA. Pre-med. Future doctor. You’ve mentioned it.”

“Once or twice,” you mutter, but you follow her anyway.

The kitchen is somehow even more crowded than the living room. Red Solo cups litter every surface, and there’s a girl sitting on the counter who looks like she’s about three seconds from passing out. You make a mental note to check on her in a few minutes — instincts already kicking in, apparently.

“Maggie!” A tall guy with dark hair and an easy smile pushes through the crowd. “You made it!”

“Logan, hi!” Maggie lights up in a way that makes you wonder why she really wanted to come to this party. “This is my roommate, Y/N. Y/N, this is Logan.”

“Nice to meet you,” Logan says, and he seems genuinely friendly. “Want a drink? We’ve got beer, jungle juice — which I don’t recommend unless you want to hate yourself tomorrow — or there’s probably some Coke in the fridge.”

“Coke sounds perfect,” you say, grateful.

Logan grins. “A woman who knows what she wants. I like it.” He turns to rummage in the fridge, and Maggie elbows you.

“See? This isn’t so bad.”

You’re about to respond when a burst of laughter from the living room makes everyone turn. Through the doorway, you can see a guy sprawled on the couch — not just any guy, you realize, but the guy. Even you, with your library-heavy social life, know who Dean Di Laurentis is. Member of the hockey team. Walking, talking definition of “big man on campus.” And currently, very occupied.

There are two girls with him. One blonde, one brunette, and they seem to be taking turns kissing him and occasionally each other, which — okay, you definitely need to look away from that.

“That’s Dean,” Logan says, handing you a Coke. He doesn’t sound judgmental, just matter-of-fact. “He’s, uh … he’s having a good night.”

“He has a lot of good nights,” Maggie says, and you catch something in her tone — not jealousy, exactly, but maybe a kind of weary resignation that this is just how things are.

You take a sip of your Coke and try very hard not to look at the couch again.

You fail.

***

Dean’s having a great time. Or he should be having a great time. Rachel — or is it Rochelle? — is doing this thing with her tongue that’s usually his favorite, and the other girl (he definitely didn’t catch her name) has her hand in his hair, tugging just right, and yeah, this is exactly how Thursday nights are supposed to go.

Except.

Except he can’t stop looking at the girl in the kitchen.

She’s not his usual type. She’s wearing jeans and a sweater that looks like it came from the clearance rack at Target, and her hair is pulled back in a ponytail that’s starting to come loose. She’s not trying to catch his attention. She’s not trying to catch anyone’s attention. She’s just standing there, looking vaguely uncomfortable, holding her Coke like it’s a life preserver.

And Dean can’t look away.

“Dean?” Rachel-or-Rochelle pulls back, pouting. “Where’d you go?”

“Nowhere, babe,” he says automatically, flashing the smile that usually works. “Just thought I heard something.”

But his eyes drift back to the kitchen. The girl’s talking to Logan now, and she’s smiling — really smiling, not the practiced, flirty smile he sees at these parties, but something genuine and a little shy. Logan says something that makes her laugh, and Dean feels something weird in his chest.

Huh.

“I need a drink,” he announces, extracting himself from the tangle of limbs with practiced ease. “Be right back.”

“Dean!” Both girls protest, but he’s already moving.

Logan spots him first. “D! Good party, man.”

“Yeah, it’s alright.” Dean’s looking at the girl now, really looking. She’s got these eyes — he can’t tell what color they are in the shitty lighting, but they’re watching him with something that might be wariness. “Who’s your friend?”

“This is Y/N,” Logan says. “Maggie’s roommate. Y/N, this is-”

“Dean Di Laurentis,” you finish, and your voice is different than he expected. Clear and direct. “I know who you are.”

“Good things, I hope,” Dean says, turning on the charm. It’s automatic, like breathing.

“That depends on your definition of good.”

Logan chokes on his beer. Maggie looks like she’s trying not to laugh. Dean just stares at you for a second, genuinely thrown.

“Okay,” he says slowly. “That’s fair.”

You take another sip of your Coke, and Dean notices your hand is steady. Not nervous. Just unimpressed.

“Are you having fun?” He tries again.

“Not particularly.”

“Want me to show you around? Give you the grand tour?”

“I think I can navigate four rooms on my own, thanks.”

Maggie makes a strangled noise. Logan’s grinning so wide it looks painful. Dean can feel his own smile shifting into something more genuine, more interested.

“You’re not a fan of parties,” he observes.

“You’re very perceptive.”

“So why are you here?”

You glance at Maggie. “Effective persuasion.”

“That sounds like a story.”

“It’s really not.” You set your Coke down on the counter. “Maggie, I’m going to check on that girl who looks like she’s about to fall off the counter. Then maybe get some air.”

“Want company?” Maggie asks, but you shake your head.

“I’m good. You stay, have fun.”

You move past Dean, and he catches a whiff of something clean and simple — not the heavy perfume most girls wear to these things, just soap, maybe? Shampoo? Whatever it is, it’s driving him crazy.

“Nice meeting you,” you say to Logan. To Dean, you just nod. Polite. Distant.

And then you’re gone, navigating through the crowd with single-minded determination toward the drunk girl on the counter.

“Dude,” Logan says.

“Yeah,” Dean agrees.

“She just …”

“Yeah.”

“That never happens to you.”

“I know.”

Logan’s laughing now. “Oh man, this is beautiful. This is the best thing I’ve seen all semester.”

“Shut up.” But Dean’s watching you help the drunk girl off the counter, watching the way you’re gentle and efficient, getting her to sit down, checking her pupils. “Who is she?”

“I literally just met her five minutes before you did.”

“Maggie!” Dean turns to your roommate, who’s watching him with undisguised amusement. “Tell me about Y/N.”

“Why should I?”

“Because I’m asking nicely?”

Maggie snorts. “That’s not as compelling as you think it is.” But she relents, maybe because she’s a good friend, or maybe because she’s curious about what’ll happen. “She’s pre-med. Crazy smart. Like, scary smart. She has a 4.0 and she’ll probably keep it all four years. She studies constantly. She’s literally never had a boyfriend.”

“Never?” Dean’s eyebrows go up.

“Never. She went to all-girls schools before Briar. I don’t think she’s even been kissed.”

Logan whistles low. “And you brought her here? To our party?”

“I thought it would be good for her! You know, broaden her horizons.”

“Pretty sure her horizons just got an eyeful of Dean and the twins making out on the couch,” Logan points out.

Maggie winces. “Okay, yeah, that might have been poor timing.”

Dean’s not really listening anymore. He’s watching you crouch down next to the drunk girl, talking to her in a low, calm voice. Someone hands you a water bottle and you help her drink it, supporting her head like you’ve done this before. Like you know exactly what you’re doing.

“She’s going to be a doctor,” he says, more to himself than anyone else.

“That’s the plan,” Maggie confirms.

“Huh.” Dean tilts his head, still watching. “I like her.”

“Dude, she shut you down in like thirty seconds flat.”

“I know.” Dean’s grinning now, a real grin, not the practiced one. “It’s amazing.”

Logan and Maggie exchange a look.

“This is going to be a disaster,” Logan predicts.

“Oh, absolutely,” Maggie agrees.

But Dean’s already moving.

***

You manage to get the drunk girl — her name is Amy, apparently — to drink some water and eat a few crackers someone scrounges up from somewhere. Her friends finally surface from whatever corner they’ve been in and promise to take care of her. You make them promise to take her back to her dorm, not let her drink any more, and check on her every few hours.

“Are you a doctor?” One of them asks.

“Pre-med,” you say. “But still, seriously. Keep an eye on her.”

“We will. Thank you so much.”

You escape to the backyard before anyone else can need medical attention. The air is cold — it’s early October in Massachusetts, and you can see your breath — but it’s a relief after the heat and noise inside. There are a few people out here, but they’re mostly in clusters, talking and laughing. You find a spot on the porch steps and sit down, pulling your phone out of your pocket.

Three new emails. One from your advisor about next semester’s schedule, one from your organic chemistry professor about the exam next week, and one from your mom with the subject line “Just Checking In!” which means she’s worrying about you again.

You’re composing a response in your head when someone sits down next to you.

“You’re good at that,” Dean says.

You don’t jump, but it’s close. “At what?”

“Taking care of people.” He’s got a fresh beer in his hand, but he doesn’t look drunk. Just comfortable, like he owns the space he’s in. Which, technically, he kind of does. “That girl looked rough.”

“She’ll be fine as long as her friends actually watch her.” You pocket your phone. “Shouldn’t you be inside? With your … company?”

“They’ll survive without me for a few minutes.” He takes a sip of his beer. “You don’t like me very much, do you?”

The question catches you off guard. Not because it’s rude — it’s not, really — but because it’s direct. Honest.

“I don’t know you,” you say carefully.

“But you know of me.”

“Everyone knows of you.”

“And what does everyone say?”

You look at him properly for the first time since he sat down. He’s objectively attractive — you’re not blind — with the kind of face that probably gets him whatever he wants. Blond hair that looks like he’s been running his hands through it, sharp jawline, eyes that are actually kind of distracting in the porch light. And he’s looking at you like he’s genuinely interested in what you’re about to say.

“They say you’re a great hockey player,” you offer.

“True.”

“That you’re charming.”

“Also true.”

“That you go through women like most people go through socks.”

He laughs, and it’s a real laugh, surprised and genuine. “Okay, ouch. But probably fair.”

“You asked.”

“I did.” He’s still smiling, though. “What else?”

“That you’re rich. That your family owns hotels or something.”

“My mom’s family. Hotels, some restaurants, a few other things. But that’s them, not me.”

“Isn’t it, though?” You tilt your head. “You live in this house. You throw these parties. You don’t exactly seem to be struggling.”

“No,” he admits. “I’m not. I’m lucky as hell. But I also work my ass off on the ice. I’m getting a degree in political science that I’ll actually use. And my parents would kill me if I turned into some trust-fund asshole who thinks money solves everything.”

There’s something in his voice that makes you think he’s being honest. Or at least, honest about this.

“Why do you care what I think?” You ask.

“I don’t know,” he says, and he sounds almost surprised by his own answer. “You’re different.”

“Different how?”

“You looked at me like I was just some guy. Not the captain of the hockey team, not Dean Di Laurentis, just … some guy.”

“You are just some guy.”

“See?” He grins. “That. Nobody talks to me like that.”

“Maybe they should.”

“Maybe.” He takes another sip of his beer, looking out at the backyard. There’s a group of guys playing beer pong, and someone’s playlist is drifting through an open window. “Maggie says you’re pre-med.”

“She talks a lot.”

“She’s a good friend. Trying to hype you up.”

“I don’t need hyping up.”

“No,” Dean agrees, looking at you again. “You really don’t.”

There’s something in the way he says it that makes your heart do a weird little flip, which is annoying. You don’t do heart flips. You do studying and lab work and carefully planned career trajectories.

“I should go,” you say, standing up. “I have studying to do.”

“It’s Thursday night.”

“So?”

“So don’t you ever take a break?”

“This was my break.” You gesture vaguely at the house. “Party attendance: checked off the list. Now I can go back to my regularly scheduled programming.”

Dean stands too, and you’re reminded that he’s tall. Taller than you expected. “Can I get your number?”

“Why?”

“So I can text you.”

“Why would you text me?”

“To ask you out.”

You blink. “No.”

“No, I can’t have your number, or no, you won’t go out with me?”

“Both.”

“Can I ask why?”

“Because I’m not interested in being another notch on Dean Di Laurentis’s bedpost.” The words come out sharper than you intended, but you don’t take them back.

Something flashes across his face — surprise, maybe, or hurt — but it’s gone quickly. “That’s not what I-”

“Yes, it is.” You’re not angry, just tired suddenly. Tired of this conversation, this party, this whole night. “Look, I’m sure you’re used to girls falling all over themselves for a chance with you. And that’s fine. That’s their choice. But I have plans for my life, and they don’t include getting my heart broken by a guy who’s just looking for his next conquest.”

“You think that’s all this is?”

“Isn’t it?”

He opens his mouth, closes it again. Runs a hand through his hair. “I don’t know,” he finally says, and points for honesty again. “Maybe. Probably. But I’d like to find out.”

“Well, I wouldn’t.” You pull your phone back out. “I’m going to call an Uber. Have a good night, Dean.”

“Let me at least walk you to the front-”

“I’m fine.”

“Y/N-”

“Seriously. I’m fine.” You soften slightly, because he does look genuinely concerned, which is almost worse than if he were just annoyed. “Thank you for the conversation. It was … enlightening.”

You make it to the front of the house before Maggie finds you.

“Hey, where are you going?”

“Home. I’m Ubering.”

“Already? We just got here!”

“You just got here. I’ve been here for an hour and I’ve already hit my social quota for the week.” You show her your phone screen. “Car’s three minutes away.”

Maggie looks back toward the house, then at you. “Did something happen? Did someone-”

“No, nothing like that. Everyone was fine. I’m just tired.”

“Dean was talking to you.”

“Dean talks to everyone.”

“Not like that, he doesn’t.” Maggie’s eyes are bright with curiosity. “What did he say?”

“He asked for my number.”

“And?”

“And I said no.”

Maggie’s mouth falls open. “You said no? To Dean Di Laurentis?”

“Is that really so shocking?”

“YES!” Maggie’s practically shouting now. “He never asks for numbers! He doesn’t have to! Girls just throw themselves at him!”

“Well, I didn’t throw myself anywhere except toward the door.” Your Uber’s pulling up. “Look, stay, have fun with Logan. He seems nice. Text me when you get home so I know you’re safe.”

“You’re really leaving.”

“I really am.”

Maggie hugs you suddenly, fierce and quick. “You’re crazy. But I love you.”

“Love you too. Be safe.”

You slide into the Uber, give the driver your address, and lean back against the seat. Through the window, you can see the house, still bright and loud and full of people having the time of their lives.

And standing on the front porch, watching your car pull away, is Dean.

***

“So let me get this straight,” Garrett says the next morning over breakfast. He’s making pancakes, which is the only reason Dean’s awake before noon on a Friday. “You asked for her number, and she said no.”

“Yep.” Dean’s nursing his coffee like it’s the only thing keeping him alive. He didn’t sleep well. Kept thinking about eyes he still can’t quite place the color of.

“And then you asked her out, and she said no to that too.”

“Correct.”

“And then she called an Uber and left.”

“You’ve got it.”

Tucker wanders in, looking even more hungover than Dean feels. “Who left?”

“This girl Dean’s obsessed with,” Garrett says cheerfully.

“I’m not obsessed.”

“You’ve mentioned her thirteen times since I woke up.”

“I have not.”

“You literally started the conversation with ‘So there’s this girl.’”

Tucker perks up slightly. “A girl turned down Dean? This I have to hear.”

“There’s nothing to hear. She’s just … different.”

“Different how?” Tucker’s pouring himself coffee now, settling in.

Dean tries to explain it. The way you looked at him like he was just another guy. The way you handled drunk Amy with competence and care. The way you called him out without being mean about it, just honest. The way you smiled at Logan’s joke, genuine and unguarded.

The way his chest did something weird when you walked away.

“Oh man,” Tucker says when he’s done. “You’re screwed.”

“I’m not screwed.”

“You’re so screwed,” Garrett agrees. “This is amazing.”

“This is not amazing. This is annoying.” Dean drops his head to the table. “Why can’t I stop thinking about her?”

“Because she’s the first girl who’s ever said no to you,” Logan says, appearing in the doorway. He’s somehow showered and dressed already, looking fresh and put-together in a way that makes Dean want to throw his coffee at him. “It’s basic psychology. We want what we can’t have.”

“It’s not just that.”

“Then what is it?”

Dean doesn’t have an answer. Or rather, he has too many answers, none of which make sense.

He’s attracted to you, obviously. But he’s attracted to lots of girls, and he usually stops thinking about them approximately five minutes after they leave his bed.

He’s intrigued by you. Your intelligence, your focus, your complete lack of interest in impressing him.

He’s challenged by you. You saw through his charm in about thirty seconds and called him on his shit without being cruel.

And he wants to see you again. Not just hook up with you — though yeah, okay, he wouldn’t say no — but actually see you. Talk to you. Figure out what color your eyes are. Learn what makes you laugh.

“I’m in trouble,” he says to the table.

“Finally figured that out, did you?” Garrett slides a plate of pancakes in front of him. “Eat. You’ll need your strength.”

“For what?”

“For winning over the first girl who’s ever seen right through you.”

Dean picks up his fork, but he’s not really thinking about pancakes.

He’s thinking about you in the library, probably. Studying. Focused on your 4.0 and your medical school dreams and your carefully planned future.

A future that apparently doesn’t include him.

Well.

Dean Di Laurentis has never backed down from a challenge in his life.

He’s not about to start now.

***

You don’t think about Dean at all on Friday.

(That’s a lie. You think about him three times during organic chemistry, twice during your shift volunteering at the campus health center, and once during dinner when Maggie asks how you’re doing and gives you a look that suggests she knows exactly what you’re not saying.)

You definitely don’t think about him on Saturday.

(Another lie. You think about him when you see a hockey jersey in the bookstore. When someone in the library mentions the game tonight. When you’re trying to fall asleep and your brain helpfully replays the conversation on the porch, the way he looked at you when you walked away.)

By Sunday, you’re annoyed with yourself.

“I met him for like twenty minutes,” you tell Maggie, who’s watching you with barely concealed amusement. “Why is he taking up this much space in my head?”

“Because he’s hot and rich and into you?”

“He’s not into me. He’s into the challenge.”

“Okay, but what if he’s into both?”

“Maggie.”

“Y/N.” She mimics your tone perfectly. “Would it kill you to consider that maybe, just maybe, you made an impression on him too?”

“It doesn’t matter if I did. I have a plan. Medical school, residency, building a career. No time for distractions.”

“You sound like a robot.”

“I sound focused.”

“You sound scared.”

That stops you. “I’m not scared.”

“No?” Maggie tilts her head. “Then why are you so determined to write him off before you even give him a chance?”

“Because I know how this story ends. Girl meets charming hockey player. Girl falls for charming hockey player. Charming hockey player gets bored and moves on to the next girl. Girl is left with a broken heart and ruined GPA.”

“That’s one possible ending,” Maggie allows. “But it’s not the only one.”

You don’t have a response to that.

Your phone buzzes. Unknown number.

Unknown: hey, it’s dean. got your number from maggie (don’t be mad at her, i can be very persuasive). just wanted to make sure you got home okay thursday night.

You stare at the screen.

“Did he just text you?” Maggie leans over, reading. “Oh my god, he texted you!”

“You gave him my number?”

“He asked very nicely! And he seemed genuinely worried about you!”

You read the text again. And again.

You: I got home fine. Thank you for checking.

You hit send before you can overthink it.

Three dots appear immediately.

Dean: good. i was worried you might have gotten lost in the library and been shelving yourself with the medical textbooks

You: That’s not how libraries work

Dean: you sure? you seem like the type who’d be very organized about it. probably alphabetized by author

Despite yourself, you smile.

You: I’m more of a Dewey Decimal girl

Dean: knew it. so listen, i know you said you’re not interested, and i respect that. but i was thinking

Dean: what if we were friends?

You blink at the screen.

You: Friends?

Dean: yeah. no pressure, no ulterior motives. just friends. we could study together, grab coffee, whatever friends do

You: You want to study with me

Dean: i’m taking business finance as an elective this semester and it’s kicking my ass. you’re smart. seems like a win-win

You: And this has nothing to do with trying to change my mind about going out with you?

Dean: scout’s honor

You: Were you even a scout?

Dean: no but i’m honest when it counts. so what do you say? friends?

You look at Maggie, who’s reading over your shoulder and nodding frantically.

This is a bad idea. You know it’s a bad idea.

But there’s something about the way he texts — casual, funny, not trying too hard — that makes you want to say yes.

You: Fine. Friends. But if you try anything-

Dean: i won’t. promise. when are you free?

You: Tuesday afternoon. Library, 2pm

Dean: it’s a date. i mean a friend date. a friend meeting. a platonic gathering of two people who are definitely just friends

You: You’re ridiculous

Dean: you’re smiling though aren’t you

You are. You don’t respond.

Dean: see you tuesday, friend

You put your phone down and find Maggie grinning at you.

“Don’t,” you warn.

“I’m not saying anything.”

“You’re thinking it very loudly.”

“I’m just thinking that this is going to be interesting.”

“We’re just friends.”

“Uh huh.”

“We are!”

“Okay, babe. Whatever you say.”

But as you go back to your studying, you can’t quite shake the smile off your face.

And in a house across campus, Dean is grinning at his phone like he just won the championship.

“Friends?” Garrett asks, reading over his shoulder.

“Friends,” Dean confirms.

“Right. Because that’s going to work out exactly as planned.”

“It will.”

“Dean, buddy. You’re already gone.”

Dean doesn’t argue.

Because Garrett’s probably right.

But as far as Dean’s concerned?

This is only the beginning.

***

Three weeks of “friendship” with Dean Di Laurentis has taught you several things.

One: He’s actually smart. Not just hockey-smart or street-smart, but genuinely intelligent. Your Tuesday study sessions have evolved into genuine collaboration, and he’s helped you understand financial models for your Healthcare Economics elective while you’ve kept him from failing Business Finance.

Two: He’s funnier than you expected. Not in a trying-too-hard way, but in a quick, observational way that catches you off guard and makes you laugh when you’re supposed to be studying.

Three: He’s a terrible liar.

“So, as my friend,” Dean says, drawing out the word in a way that tells you he’s about to ask for something, “you should come to my game Friday night.”

You don’t look up from your organic chemistry notes. “Should I.”

“Yes. Friends support friends. It’s in the friendship handbook.”

“There’s a handbook?”

“Absolutely. Chapter three, section two: Thou shalt attend thy friend’s athletic events and cheer loudly.”

“I don’t cheer loudly.” You flip a page. “I barely cheer quietly.”

“You could learn.” He leans back in his chair, and you can feel him watching you. “Come on, Y/N. You’ve never been to a game.”

“I’ve never been to a lot of things.”

“Which is exactly why you should come. Broaden your horizons. Live a little.”

“You sound like Maggie.”

“Maggie’s a smart woman.” He pauses. “I’ll buy you nachos.”

Now you look up. “Are you trying to bribe me with stadium food?”

“Is it working?”

You consider. You’ve been to the library every Friday night since school started. You’re ahead on all your reading. And there’s something in the way Dean’s looking at you — hopeful and a little uncertain — that makes your resistance crack.

“Fine,” you say. “But I’m not wearing a jersey.”

His face lights up. “You don’t have to wear anything-” He stops, recalibrating. “That came out wrong. You can wear whatever you want. Just come.”

“I’ll come.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You try to sound casual about it, like this isn’t a big deal. Like your heart isn’t doing that annoying flutter thing again. “As friends.”

“As friends,” he agrees, but his smile suggests he’s already won something.

***

Friday night, and Garrett is giving Dean a look.

“You know she’s going to see right through whatever you’re planning, right?”

They’re in the locker room, suiting up. The game starts in forty-five minutes, and Dean’s been checking his phone every three seconds like you might cancel.

“I’m not planning anything,” Dean lies.

“Dude, you’ve been weird all week.”

“I’m focused.”

“You’re distracted.” Logan pulls his jersey over his head. “Which is going to get you checked into the boards if you’re not careful.”

“I’m fine.”

“Is she actually coming?” Tucker asks, lacing his skates.

“She said she would.”

“And you believe her?”

Dean does, actually. In three weeks of friendship, you’ve been nothing if not reliable. If you say you’ll be somewhere, you show up. Usually with coffee for both of you and color-coded notes that make his business homework actually make sense.

“She’ll be here,” he says.

And right before the game starts, when he skates out for warm-ups and scans the crowd, he sees you.

You’re in the student section, sitting next to Maggie, wearing jeans and a navy blue sweater, looking simultaneously interested and slightly overwhelmed by the chaos around you. Your hair is down tonight, and even from the ice he can see you’re taking it all in with those analytical eyes.

Then you see him looking, and you wave.

It’s a small wave, almost shy, but it does something to his chest that makes him nearly miss the puck Garrett sends his way.

“Focus!” Garrett yells, skating past.

Right. Focus. Hockey. Winning.

He can think about you later.

***

Hockey is violent.

This is your main takeaway fifteen minutes into the first period. You’ve seen clips before, obviously, but watching it live is different. The speed, the impact, the way bodies slam into the boards with a sound that makes you wince.

“Is this legal?” You ask Maggie over the roar of the crowd.

“What, the checking? Yeah, totally legal.”

“Someone’s going to get a concussion.”

“Probably!” Maggie’s grinning, completely unbothered by this fact. “That’s hockey, babe!”

You watch Dean skate backward, cutting off an opposing player with casual efficiency. He’s good — even you can tell that. Fast and smart, always seeming to know where the puck is going before it gets there. And when he steals it and sends it flying up the ice to Logan, who scores, the arena erupts.

“LET’S GO BOYS!” Maggie’s screaming, and you find yourself clapping, caught up in the energy despite yourself.

Dean skates past your section during the celebration, and even with his helmet on, you can tell he’s looking for you. When he finds you, he taps his stick on the ice.

“Was that for you?” Maggie demands.

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“That was totally for you!”

“We’re friends.”

“Uh huh. And I’m the Queen of England.”

You don’t answer, but you’re smiling.

The game is close — tied 2-2 going into the third period. You’ve started to understand the rhythm of it, the strategy. Dean’s not a flashy player, but he’s essential. He breaks up plays, protects the goal, makes the kind of smart, unglamorous decisions that keep the other team from scoring.

“He’s really good,” you say to Maggie during a stoppage.

“One of the best defensemen in college hockey,” she says proudly, like she had something to do with it. “NHL scouts come to watch him play.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. There’s talk he might sign with a team. Go pro.”

This information sits strangely with you. The idea of Dean leaving, going off to some NHL team in some other city. Not that it matters. You’re friends. And friends can be happy for each other from a distance.

Right?

With two minutes left, Logan scores again. The arena goes insane. Briar wins 3-2, and the team piles on each other in celebration, sticks raised, the student section chanting “HAWKS! HAWKS! HAWKS!”

And you’re on your feet with everyone else, cheering for reasons you’re not entirely ready to examine.

***

Dean’s high lasts through the handshake line, through the initial celebration, right up until they get back to the locker room and he remembers his plan.

His stupid, impulsive, absolutely terrible plan that he’s been thinking about all week.

“Okay,” he says to Garrett, who’s the only one he’s told. “I’m going to do it.”

“Don’t do it.”

“I’m doing it.”

“Dean, this is the dumbest thing you’ve ever thought of, and you once tried to longboard down the library steps.”

“That was Tucker’s idea.”

“You still did it!” Garrett grabs his shoulder. “Dude, just ask her out like a normal person.”

“I’ve tried that. She said no.”

“So try again!”

“I need an edge. Something that’ll-” He stops. “Never mind. You wouldn’t understand.”

“I understand you’re about to give yourself an actual injury to fake an injury, which is literally insane.”

But Dean’s mind is made up. He’s been thinking about this since Tuesday, when you mentioned your volunteer shift at the campus health center. How you’d patched up a guy who’d split his lip playing basketball, how you’d been gentle and efficient and completely in your element.

He wants to see you like that. Focused on him. Those careful hands on his face. Just the two of you, without the “friendship” buffer.

Is it manipulative? Maybe.

Is it ridiculous? Definitely.

Is he going to do it anyway?

Absolutely.

He waits until most of the team is in the showers. Then, before he can think better of it, he grabs his stick and-

CRACK.

“JESUS CHRIST!” Logan appears from around the corner just in time to see Dean lower his stick, blood already dripping from his lip. “DID YOU JUST HIT YOURSELF IN THE FACE?”

“Maybe,” Dean says, tasting copper.

“ON PURPOSE?”

“Keep your voice down-”

“GARRETT! TUCKER! DEAN JUST SMASHED HIMSELF WITH HIS STICK!”

So much for subtlety.

Within seconds, he’s surrounded by half the team, all staring at him like he’s lost his mind.

“Why?” Tucker asks, genuinely baffled.

“It’s not that bad,” Dean says, even though his lip is throbbing and there’s definitely blood on his jersey now.

“You’re bleeding everywhere!” Garrett’s looking at him with something between horror and reluctant admiration. “This is about that Y/N, isn’t it?”

“What?” Logan asks.

“Y/N! He’s trying to make her go all Meredith Grey on him!”

“By giving himself an actual injury?” Logan looks impressed despite himself. “That’s … that’s actually kind of genius?”

“It’s psychotic,” Tucker corrects.

“It’s both,” Garrett decides. “Dean, you’re an idiot.”

“Noted.” Dean grabs a towel, pressing it to his lip. “Now can someone go tell her I need medical attention?”

“You need psychiatric attention,” Garrett mutters, but he’s already moving.

***

You’re waiting outside the locker room with Maggie and a handful of other girlfriends and friends when Garrett emerges, looking harried.

“Y/N? Dean’s asking for you.”

Your stomach drops. “Why? What happened?”

“Took a stick to the face during the game. His lip’s split. He’s bleeding pretty good.”

You’re already moving. “How bad? Is he dizzy? Nauseous? Did he lose consciousness at any point?”

“Uh-”

“Never mind, I’ll check myself.” You push past him into the locker room, medical training overriding any sense of propriety.

Dean’s sitting on the bench in his hockey pants and undershirt, holding a rapidly reddening towel to his mouth. When he sees you, he lowers it, and — yeah, that’s a decent split. Upper lip, maybe half an inch long, still bleeding freely.

“Hi,” he says, and it comes out mushy because his lip is already swelling.

“What happened?” You’re already kneeling in front of him, tilting his head toward the light. Your hands are gentle but firm on his jaw, and Dean’s trying very hard to focus on not revealing that this is exactly what he wanted and not on how close you are or how good you smell or-

“Took a high stick in the scrum in front of the net,” he lies. “Didn’t even feel it until after.”

“Adrenaline,” you murmur, examining the cut. “You’re lucky it didn’t get your eye. Did you bite through? Let me see your teeth.”

He opens his mouth obediently.

“Okay, no tooth damage. That’s good.” You look around. “Do you guys have a first aid kit in here?”

“There’s a full medical setup in the training room,” Logan offers. He’s watching this with undisguised amusement, and Dean makes a mental note to murder him later.

“Show me.”

Five minutes later, you’ve got Dean sitting on a training table, supplies laid out with the kind of organization that makes him smile despite the pain. You’ve washed your hands twice and put on gloves, and now you’re back between his knees, carefully cleaning the wound.

“This is going to sting,” you warn.

“I can handle—OW.”

“I warned you.” But your voice is soft. “Stay still.”

He stays still.

“You know,” you say, working carefully, “hockey is incredibly dangerous. Repeated head trauma, chronic traumatic encephalopathy, not to mention acute injuries like fractures and lacerations-”

“Are you giving me a lecture right now?”

“Yes.” You don’t look up from your work. “Someone needs to. You’re all insane, throwing yourselves into walls and each other for fun.”

“It’s not for fun, it’s for glory.”

“Glory isn’t going to help you when you can’t remember your own name at forty.”

“Wow, you really know how to make a guy feel better.”

“I’m not trying to make you feel better, I’m trying to make you be smarter.” You lean back, examining your work. “You might have a scar.”

“Chicks dig scars.”

You give him a look. “Did you seriously just say that?”

“I’m concussed, I don’t know what I’m saying.”

“You’re not concussed. I already checked.” But you’re fighting a smile. “Though I’m starting to think you have a different kind of brain damage.”

“Ouch.”

“Hold still, I’m not done.” You’re applying something to the cut now, some kind of adhesive. “You’re going to need to keep this clean. No kissing anyone for at least a week.”

“There’s only one person I want to kiss anyway,” he says before he can stop himself.

Your hands pause. Just for a second. Then you continue working. “Dean.”

“Sorry. Friends. I know.”

“I’m serious about the kissing thing. If this gets infected-”

“It won’t.”

“You can’t know that.”

“Then you’ll just have to check on me. Make sure I’m being good.”

You step back, pulling off your gloves. “You’re never good.”

“I’m good at hockey.”

“You just got hit in the face.”

“Occupational hazard.” He touches his lip carefully. “How bad does it look?”

“Like you got hit with a hockey stick.” You’re packing up the supplies now, not looking at him. “Which you did. Because you play a violent sport with no regard for your personal safety.”

“You’re really worried about me.”

“I’m worried about anyone who voluntarily puts themselves in danger repeatedly.”

“But especially me.”

Finally, you look at him. Really look at him. And there’s something in your eyes that makes his heart race faster than any game ever has.

“Yeah,” you say quietly. “Especially you.”

The moment stretches. Dean’s very aware that you’re still standing between his knees. That your face is close enough that he could lean forward and kiss you if his lip wasn’t split open. That you’re looking at him like you’re trying to figure out a particularly complicated equation.

“Y/N-”

“I should go.” You step back quickly. “Keep it clean. Ice for the swelling. If you develop a fever or the pain gets worse, go to the health center.”

“Will you be there?”

“Dean.”

“What? It’s a legitimate question. I want to make sure I see a qualified professional.”

“Any of the nurses can handle a split lip.”

“But you handled this one.”

“Because Garrett came and got me.”

“Lucky me.”

You shake your head, but you’re smiling. “You’re impossible.”

“You like it.”

“I tolerate it. There’s a difference.”

“Is there?”

You’re saved from answering by Garrett sticking his head in. “Everything okay in here? Dean still alive?”

“Barely,” you say. “He needs to be more careful.”

“Good luck with that,” Garrett says. “He’s the least careful person I know.”

“I’m careful,” Dean protests. “I’m very careful.”

“You just got hit in the face with a stick.”

“That’s—yeah, okay, fair point.”

You gather your bag. “I really should go. Maggie’s waiting.”

“Let me walk you out,” Dean says, hopping off the table.

“You should stay here and rest.”

“I’m fine.”

“Dean-”

“Y/N.” He matches your tone exactly, and you huff out a laugh.

“Fine. But if you pass out, I’m leaving you where you fall.”

“That’s fair.”

He walks you out of the training room, past his teammates who are all very obviously pretending not to watch, through the locker room and out into the hallway where Maggie’s waiting.

“Oh my god,” Maggie says when she sees his face. “That looks painful.”

“It’s not that bad,” Dean says.

“It looks awful,” you correct. “He needs to rest and ice it.”

“I need to take you home first.”

“We have an Uber-”

“Cancel it.” He’s already pulling out his phone. “I’ll drive you.”

“Dean, you just played a full game and took a stick to the face. You should not be driving.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine, you’re-”

“Stubborn?” Maggie suggests. “Determined? Completely gone for you?”

“Maggie!” You elbow her.

But Dean’s grinning now, despite the pain it causes. “All of the above.”

“You’re ridiculous,” you say, but you don’t argue when he leads you to the parking lot.

His car is exactly what you’d expect — a sleek black Audi that probably cost more than your entire college tuition. He opens the passenger door for you, which makes Maggie practically swoon in the back seat.

“Such a gentleman,” she stage-whispers.

“Shut up,” you whisper back.

The drive to your dorm is short, but Dean takes the long way, which doesn’t escape your notice.

“You missed the turn,” you point out.

“Did I?”

“Dean.”

“I’m concussed, remember? No sense of direction.”

“You’re not concussed!”

But you’re laughing, and he counts that as a win.

When he finally pulls up to your dorm, Maggie tactfully announces she needs to “check the mailroom” and disappears, leaving you alone in the car with Dean.

“Thank you,” you say. “For driving us. And for inviting me to the game. It was … actually really fun.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Even though you scared me with the whole bleeding thing.”

“Sorry about that.”

“No, you’re not.”

He grins. “No, I’m not.” He pauses. “So, would you come to another game? As friends?”

You’re quiet for a moment, looking at him. His split lip, his hopeful eyes, the way he’s trying so hard to be patient when patience is clearly not his strong suit.

“Dean,” you say carefully. “Why are you doing this?”

“Doing what?”

“This. The friendship thing. The study sessions. Tonight. Why?”

He could lie. Should lie, probably. Keep up the pretense that this is all casual, all friendly.

But he’s tired of pretending.

“Because I like you,” he says simply. “I’ve liked you since the moment you told me I go through women like socks. I like how smart you are. How focused. How you don’t take any of my shit. I like that you see me as just some guy, not the hockey captain or Dean Di Laurentis. Just me.”

You’re staring at him.

“And I know you have plans,” he continues. “Medical school and saving lives and all that. And I know you think I’m just going to break your heart and mess up your GPA or whatever. But I’m not asking you to change your plans. I’m just asking for a chance to be part of them.”

“Dean-”

“I know. You want to just be friends. And if that’s all you can give me, I’ll take it. But you asked why I’m doing this, and that’s why. Because you’re worth it.”

The silence that follows is the longest of Dean’s life.

Then you unbuckle your seatbelt.

“Your lip,” you say.

“What about it?”

“I said no kissing for a week.”

“You did say that.”

“So this is a terrible idea.”

“Probably.”

“It could get infected.”

“I’ll risk it.”

You lean across the console, and Dean stops breathing.

“This doesn’t mean anything,” you whisper, your lips inches from his.

“Okay,” he whispers back.

“We’re still just friends.”

“Whatever you say.”

“I mean it, Dean. This is-”

He kisses you.

Or you kiss him.

Honestly, he’s not sure who moves first, but suddenly your hand is in his hair and his hand is on your waist and you taste like mint chapstick and something sweet and he never wants to stop.

You pull back after a moment, breathing hard.

“Your lip,” you gasp.

“Don’t care.”

“It’s going to start bleeding again.”

“Still don’t care.”

You kiss him again, softer this time, mindful of the injury. It’s gentle and sweet and somehow more intense than anything Dean’s ever felt.

When you finally pull away, you’re both flushed.

“I should go,” you say, not moving.

“Probably.”

“Maggie’s waiting.”

“Definitely.”

Neither of you moves.

“This was a one-time thing,” you say.

“Sure.”

“I’m serious, Dean. This doesn’t change anything.”

“Of course not.”

“Stop smiling.”

“Can’t help it.”

You kiss him one more time, quick and impulsive, then scramble out of the car before he can pull you back.

“Ice your lip!” You call back. “And text me if anything changes!”

“Yes, doctor,” he calls after you.

He watches you disappear into your dorm, probably to face Maggie’s interrogation. Then he touches his lip — which is definitely bleeding again — and grins so wide it hurts.

Worth it.

Completely, absolutely worth it.

His phone buzzes.

Garrett: so did your insane plan work?

Dean: better than i could have imagined

Garrett: you’re an idiot

Dean: yeah but I’m an idiot who just kissed y/n

Garrett: WHAT

Tucker: WHAT

Logan: FINALLY

Dean’s still grinning when he drives home, still grinning when he gets into bed, still grinning when he finally falls asleep.

And in your dorm room, you’re lying in bed, fingers touching your lips, trying to convince yourself that this was a mistake.

Trying.

Failing.

“So,” Maggie says from her bed. “Just friends, huh?”

“Shut up.”

“That’s what I thought.”

You don’t answer. You’re too busy replaying the kiss in your mind. The way Dean looked at you. The way he said you were worth it.

The way you’re starting to think he might be worth it too.

Your phone buzzes.

Dean: for the record, that was the best worst idea you’ve ever had

You: I told you it was a terrible idea

Dean: terrible ideas are my specialty

You: I’ve noticed

Dean: so … still friends?

You stare at the message for a long time.

You: we’ll see

Dean: i’ll take it

Dean: sweet dreams, friend

You: goodnight Dean

You put your phone on your nightstand and stare at the ceiling.

What have you gotten yourself into?

And why does it feel so much like exactly where you’re supposed to be?

***

The shift from library to living room happens gradually.

First, it’s just one Tuesday when the library’s too crowded and Dean suggests his place. “It’ll be quieter,” he says, which is a lie because Tucker and Logan are playing video games at top volume, but his room is quiet, and you get more done than you have in weeks.

Then it becomes a regular thing. Tuesdays and Thursdays at The Boy’s House, sprawled across Dean’s bed with textbooks scattered around you, his desk chair pulled close so he can see your notes.

“This is dangerous,” Maggie says when you tell her.

“We’re studying.”

“In his bedroom.”

“It’s more comfortable than the library.”

“Uh huh. And how long before ‘studying’ becomes something else?”

“We’re taking things slow,” you say, which is true. Since the kiss in his car three weeks ago, there’s been more kissing. A lot more kissing. But always with boundaries. Always with you pulling back when things get too intense, and Dean letting you, patient in a way you didn’t know he was capable of being.

“You’re falling for him,” Maggie observes.

“I’m not falling for anyone. I’m focused on my goals.”

“You can do both, you know.”

“Can I?”

Maggie just looks at you, and you don’t have an answer.

***

Dean’s failing at the whole “just friends” thing spectacularly.

“You’ve got it bad,” Garrett says, watching Dean reorganize his desk for the third time. You’re coming over in twenty minutes, and he’s acting like the President is visiting.

“I’m just cleaning.”

“You never clean.”

“I clean.”

“You literally have a service that comes once a month to clean because you never clean.”

Dean throws a pillow at him. “Get out of my room.”

“Gladly. This is painful to watch.” But Garrett pauses at the door. “You know you’re going to have to actually talk to her about what you are, right? This weird limbo thing can’t last forever.”

“We’re taking it slow.”

“You’re taking it glacial. And one of you is going to crack.”

Dean knows this. Feels it every time you bite your lip in concentration, every time you absently touch his arm while explaining a concept, every time you look at him like you’re trying to solve an equation that doesn’t have an answer.

But he’s trying to be good. Trying to be what you need, which apparently is a friend who kisses you sometimes but doesn’t push for more.

Even if it’s killing him.

The doorbell rings — you always ring the doorbell instead of just walking in like everyone else — and Dean takes the stairs two at a time.

You’re standing on the porch in leggings and an oversized sweater, backpack slung over one shoulder, hair in a messy bun. You’re not wearing makeup. You look tired.

You look perfect.

“Hey,” you say.

“Hey.” He steps aside to let you in. “Rough day?”

“Organic chem exam. I think I aced it, but my brain feels like mush.”

“Want to reschedule?”

“No, I need to focus on something else or I’ll obsess over every answer.” You’re already heading up the stairs to his room, comfortable now in a way that makes his chest tight. “Please tell me you have coffee.”

“Made a fresh batch ten minutes ago.”

“You’re a saint.”

“I’m really not,” he mutters, following you up.

***

Two hours later, you’ve made significant progress on Dean’s Business Finance case study and your Healthcare Economics paper. You’ve also consumed an entire pot of coffee and are now lying across Dean’s bed on your stomach, ankles crossed in the air, reading an article on your laptop.

Dean’s at his desk, supposedly working on his own assignment, but mostly just watching you. The way you scrunch your nose when you read something confusing. The way you absently twist a strand of hair around your finger. The way you’ve made yourself completely at home in his space.

“I can feel you staring,” you say without looking up.

“Can’t help it. You’re very watchable.”

“That’s not a word.”

“Sure it is. I just used it.”

You finally look at him, and you’re smiling. “You’re distracting me.”

“Sorry.” He’s not sorry.

“No, you’re not.”

“You’re right, I’m not.”

You shake your head, but you’re still smiling. You go back to your article, and Dean goes back to pretending to work.

Ten minutes later, he notices you’ve stopped scrolling.

“Y/N?”

No answer.

He turns in his chair. You’ve fallen asleep, face pillowed on your arms, laptop still open beside you. Your breathing is deep and even, and there’s a small crease between your eyebrows like you’re concentrating even in sleep.

Dean stands slowly, carefully. He should wake you. Let you go home. But you look so peaceful, and he knows you’ve been running yourself ragged with classes and volunteering and somehow still making time for him.

He gently closes your laptop and sets it on his nightstand. You don’t stir.

He should really wake you.

Instead, he finds himself carefully pulling the throw blanket from the foot of his bed and draping it over you. You make a small sound, shifting slightly, and his breath catches. But you just burrow deeper into his pillow.

Dean stands there for a long moment, just watching you sleep in his bed, and something in his chest cracks wide open.

He’s in love with you.

The realization should terrify him. Dean Di Laurentis doesn’t do love. He does fun and casual and uncomplicated.

But you’re none of those things, and he doesn’t care.

He’s in love with you.

“Fuck,” he whispers.

You sleep on, oblivious.

Dean grabs his spare pillow and a second blanket. He should sleep on the floor. Or in the living room. But the thought of being away from you, even just downstairs, is impossible.

So he lies down on top of his covers, careful not to jostle you, keeping a respectful distance.

He’ll just close his eyes for a minute.

Just a minute.

***

You wake up warm.

That’s the first thing you register. Warm and comfortable and-

Your eyes fly open.

Dean’s bedroom. Dean’s bed. And Dean is-

Oh god.

Sometime in the night, you’ve migrated together. Your back is pressed against his chest, his arm is wrapped around your waist, and his face is buried in your hair. You can feel his breath on your neck, slow and steady.

He’s still asleep.

You should move. Extract yourself carefully. Pretend this never happened.

But he’s so warm, and you’re so comfortable, and when was the last time you felt this safe?

“Y’wake?” Dean’s voice is rough with sleep, and you feel it rumble through his chest.

“Yeah.”

“What time is it?”

You crane your neck to see his alarm clock. “Six thirty.”

“In the morning?”

“Yeah.”

He groans, but his arm tightens around you. “Too early.”

“I should go.”

“Why?”

“Because I fell asleep here. In your bed.”

“So?”

“So that’s not … we’re not …”

“We’re not what?” His thumb starts tracing absent circles on your hip, and you’re pretty sure he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it.

“Dean.”

“Hmm?”

“We should talk about this.”

“About what? Two friends having a sleepover?”

“Friends don’t usually sleep like this.”

“Maybe they should. It’s very comfortable.”

Despite yourself, you laugh. “You’re impossible.”

“You say that a lot.”

“Because it’s consistently true.”

He shifts, and suddenly he’s propped up on one elbow, looking down at you. His hair is a mess, and there’s a crease on his cheek from the pillow, and he’s looking at you like you’re the most interesting thing in the world.

“Hi,” he says.

“Hi.”

“You drool when you sleep.”

“I do not!” You swat at him, but he catches your hand.

“Okay, you don’t. But you do make these little snoring sounds.”

“I don’t snore!”

“They’re cute. Everything about you is cute.”

Your heart does that annoying flutter thing. “Dean-”

“I know. Taking it slow. Being patient. I’m being good.”

“Are you?”

“I’m trying.” His eyes drop to your lips. “It’s really hard when you look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you want to kiss me.”

“I-” You stop. Because he’s right. You do want to kiss him. You want to do more than kiss him. You’ve been wanting to for weeks now, and the wanting is starting to override the carefully logical reasons you’ve built up for why this is a bad idea.

“Can I kiss you?” Dean asks, and his voice is soft. Careful.

“We’re in your bed.”

“I noticed.”

“If we start kissing in your bed, it’s going to lead to other things.”

“Not if you don’t want it to.”

“That’s the problem. I’m starting to think I do want it to.”

Dean goes very still. “Y/N-”

“I should go,” you say quickly, sitting up. “I have a class at nine and I need to shower and-”

“Hey.” He catches your hand again. “Don’t run.”

“I’m not running.”

“You’re definitely running.” But he lets go, giving you space. “I’ll drive you.”

“You don’t have to-”

“I want to.”

The drive back to your dorm is quiet. Not uncomfortable, just weighted. Like you’re both thinking the same thing but neither of you knows how to say it.

When he pulls up to your building, you unbuckle your seatbelt but don’t get out.

“Dean?”

“Yeah?”

“Last night … it was really nice.”

He turns to look at you, and something in his expression makes your breath catch. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You lean over and kiss him, quick and soft. “I’ll see you Thursday?”

“Thursday,” he confirms.

You make it halfway to the door before he calls your name.

“Y/N?”

“Yeah?”

“You can fall asleep in my bed anytime you want.”

You smile. “Good to know.”

And you definitely don’t spend the entire day thinking about the way he held you. The way you fit together. The way you’ve never felt safer than you did waking up in his arms.

Definitely not.

***

Thursday becomes a repeat of Tuesday. You study, you talk, you laugh. And when you start to fade around eleven, Dean just hands you a t-shirt.

“You can’t sleep in jeans,” he says. “They’re not comfortable.”

“Dean-”

“I’ll turn around. I promise.”

He does, facing the wall while you change quickly, and when you climb into his bed wearing his shirt and your underwear, he doesn’t comment. Just lies down on top of the covers again, maintaining that careful distance.

Until you wake up tangled together anyway.

It becomes a routine. Study sessions that run late. You, falling asleep in his bed. Dean, sleeping above the covers. Both of you waking up intertwined.

“This is ridiculous,” you say one morning, still wrapped in his arms. “You’re sleeping on top of the covers.”

“I’m being respectful.”

“You’re being uncomfortable.”

“I’m fine.”

“Dean.” You turn to face him. “Just get under the covers. We’re going to end up cuddling anyway.”

“You sure?”

“I’m sure.”

That night, when you start to fade, Dean just lifts the covers.

“Come here,” he says, and you do.

You fit against him like you were designed for it. His arm around your waist, your head on his chest, legs tangled together.

“This okay?” He murmurs into your hair.

“Yeah,” you whisper. “This is okay.”

And it is. It’s more than okay.

It’s perfect.

Read part two here

[alierecss]

Don't let me down | John Logan

summary: You've been filming John Logan for many months. Forty seven saved clips, only eleven of them for work. You know his tells, his angles, his best light. You know him better than you probably should for someone who is just the social media girl. What you don't know is that the night he finally asked you out, there was a check involved. A thousand dollars. And three months of the most real thing you've ever felt sitting on top of a secret that was always going to cost someone.

notes: hii i'm back!! after a week of writing between breaks this one finally came to life and i really hope you guys enjoy it, also i've been informed that puck flying accidents are not very common but we're all going to pretend together, also may contain some hockey inaccuracies, i love the game but i'm definitely not a pro. as always thank you so much for reading and please let me know what you think, your comments genuinely keep me writing!!

warnings: swearing, a bet that was a terrible idea, one thousand dollars, dean being dean, forty seven saved clips, angst with a happy ending.

word count: 12.2k

When you started working on the social media position for the hockey team at Briar U, you didn't understand how it was possible for people to take you even less seriously than you already took yourself. But then there would come the moment that they needed you, and things would change, and you would think oh, how the tables have turned.

You understood this in the first week. The girl who came before you, Liana, had walked you through everything: cameras, angles, schedules, the way the athletics department liked their content formatted. But had failed to mention that the players would not look at you so much as look through you at first. Like you were part of the furniture. A tripod with a heartbeat.

In a way, that was fine. Being invisible was a perfectly good way to do the job. Players acted more naturally when they forgot the camera was there, and natural content was always better than posed content. This was something you had understood instinctively from the beginning.

You had been doing this job since the beginning of fall semester. It had come to you not accidentally but not exactly sought either, you had always followed the team, always been a genuine fan. Liana, the former social media girl, was a friend from a very boring Thursday morning class you had both suffered through together. When she came close to graduating she recommended you for the job. You had been working the library circulation desk before that. When the athletics department called it had seemed like a no-brainer.

A few months in, you knew the inner workings of the team the way you knew the layout of your own apartment. Their training schedule, their game schedule, the subtle social architecture of a group of people who spent most of their waking hours together. You knew which players were camera shy and which ones had a natural appeal and actively enjoyed being filmed — cough Dean cough — and by now you knew everyone's best angle, best light, best moment.

Which brought you to Logan.

You were also, which was a separate and entirely unrelated issue, completely down bad for one of the players.

It had not happened all at once.

You had known who John Logan was before you got the job, everyone who followed Briar hockey knew who he was, which was most of the campus, but knowing of someone and being in the same building as them four times a week were different things entirely.

You had known about his escapades too. His romantic history was the kind of thing that Olivia, your friend and a woman of genuinely exceptional gossip quality, had mentioned more than once with the relish of someone who considered this information a public service. Before the job, you had laughed about it the way you laughed about things that had nothing to do with you.

Now that you actually knew him, not knew knew him, but saw him daily, which was its own specific category, you thought about his former, and hopefully past, escapades and felt something uncomfortably close to jealousy.

The crush had consolidated gradually and against your will, the way water finds its way through things. A practice here. A post-game there. The specific way he looked when he was focused on something, the way he talked to his teammates, the way he sometimes looked directly into your camera with an expression that suggested he had briefly forgotten it was there and was just looking.

And then there was the other thing, which was honestly the worst part: he was so unfairly polite. He said good morning and good afternoon. He smiled when he caught you filming something. He said goodbye when he left and apologized if the puck flew in your direction, which it occasionally did, and each time he said sorry about that with the specific sincerity of someone who actually meant it.

You knew you had a crush on him. Obviously. That part was not new information.

What was new information was the following Tuesday, late after practice, the rink mostly empty, you sitting in the stands with your laptop open and the tiredness of someone who had been on their feet for three hours. The players were filtering out through the doors and you were reviewing footage on autopilot, not really watching, when you looked up without thinking about it.

You were looking for Logan before you had decided to look for him.

When you found him, he was at the boards, removing his helmet and pushing a hand through his hair.

Fuck me, you thought.

And then it seemed like he had heard you, because he lifted his eyes and looked straight at you across the empty rink and smiled.

You smiled back and closed your laptop.

Time to go home and think about John Logan in bed.

You reached for your camera on the tripod — force of habit, you always checked the last few shots before packing up — and opened the gallery.

Logan drinking water. Logan laughing at something Garrett said. Logan tying his skates. Logan high-fiving Tucker after a good drill. Logan making a face directly at the camera, having clearly just noticed you filming him, looking entirely unbothered about it.

You stared at the screen.

Oh.

Oh no.

The real problem came later.

The game was at Harvard, which meant the bus, which meant a situation you had been successfully avoiding for six months. You never took the team bus, too much male energy, too many large people occupying space in a way that made you feel like you had accidentally wandered into someone else's environment. You usually went with the student bus, which was fine, which was your preferred option.

The student bus had a mechanical issue and couldn't make the drive in time.

So you, along with the other team staff, boarded the team bus with approximately forty hockey players and the quiet resignation of someone who had lost a negotiation they hadn't known they were in.

The game itself went fine, nothing groundbreaking, but Briar won, which was all that mattered. You packed up your equipment and joined the line filing back onto the bus, looking for the same seat you'd had on the way there.

You were making your way down the aisle when you spotted Logan sitting alone.

You slowed down. Made the calculation. Gave yourself approximately four seconds of internal encouragement.

A freshman defenseman sat down next to him before you could finish the thought.

You did not pout. You were a professional.

"Aw, look who it is." Dean's voice came from the seat directly behind Logan. He was sitting in the aisle seat, legs stretched out, watching you with the expression of someone who had seen everything. "You can sit with me."

"Sure," you said.

"Geez, don't look so happy about it." He pulled his legs in so you could slide past. "I even let you have the window."

"What a gentleman," you said, settling in and pulling your laptop from your bag.

"Are we watching a movie?" Dean pointed at the laptop.

"No. I'm working."

"Bummer," he said, shifting in his seat to get comfortable. Dean was a broad person and the seats were not designed with broad people in mind, which meant that when you sat down you were immediately, unavoidably in contact, arms pressed together, shoulders touching. You had briefly considered putting the armrest down for some personal space, but Dean seemed completely unbothered by the proximity, which somehow made it easier to be unbothered yourself.

This was the thing about Dean that had surprised you most when you first started the job: there had never been an awkward phase. No stiff introductions, no careful professional distance, no period of working out who you were to each other. He had simply decided you were friends and proceeded accordingly, and somehow six months had passed and it felt like you had known each other much longer than that.

You connected your camera to the laptop and started pulling up photos from the game. Selected the best ones. Started uploading them to the shared drive.

"Uh oh," Dean said, leaning over. "That's not my best angle."

You looked at the photo. He was facing almost entirely away from the camera.

"Shut up," you said, lightly slapping his hand away from the screen. "What do you mean not your best angle? Are you not proud of your very nice backside?"

This was a callback, and Dean knew it. He had said something similarly direct about you at a party two months ago in the shameless way that Dean said most things, and you had decided that the only appropriate response was to give the same energy back.

 "I am," he said, "but the front is much better. You should check it out sometime."

"Are you referring to your face as the front of your backside?"

Dean repeated the question back to you in a mocking tone.

You opened the photos and started scrolling through them, and approximately three seconds later you noticed the pattern and began praying, quietly and sincerely, that Dean would not notice it too.

Too late.

"Why do you have so many pictures of Logan?" He was looking at the screen with his eyebrows raised. "There are like ten Logan pictures for every one of anyone else."

"Logan just photographs well."

"He photographs well."

"Yes."

"That's your explanation."

"That's my explanation."

Dean looked at you with the expression of someone assembling a conclusion. "You have the hots for Logan."

"The hots? Dean, what is this, a Disney Channel movie? And no. I don't."

"Yeah? Explain the hundred photos of him drinking water. Sorry, but you can't use those for Instagram." He paused. "Unless you're using them for something else. Like, I don't know. Your spank bank."

You gasped and punched his arm. "Shut up."

"Admit it."

"I plead the fifth."

"That's not how that works."

"I don't want to talk about it."

"You have to. I'm your best friend."

"No you're not. It's Olivia."

"On the team, I meant."

"It's probably Tucker."

"Tucker?" Dean looked genuinely wounded. "Tucker? Don't try to change the subject."

You closed the laptop.

"Go to sleep, Dean."

"This conversation is not over."

"Yes it is."

"No it's not."

"Yes it is."

"No it's not," he said, adjusting himself against the seat with the decisive energy of someone settling in for a nap. You let your head fall back against the window. A moment later his head dropped onto your shoulder with the comfortable weight of someone who had decided this was acceptable.

"Do not drool on me," you said.

"I bet if it was Logan you wouldn't mind," he said, eyes already closed. Of course not.

"Don't be disgusting."

"And by the way —" he opened one eye "— he has the hots for you too."

"Oh my god," you said. "Stop talking like this is iCarly."

He closed his eye again.

The bus moved through the dark and you sat there with Dean's head on your shoulder and the laptop closed on your knees and tried very hard not to look at the back of Logan's head in the row in front of you.

Oh no, you thought, again, for the second time that week.

A couple of weeks later, Dean found you setting up the tripod in the corner of the film room before pre-game interviews.

"So," he said, appearing at your elbow with the energy of someone who had been waiting for the right moment. "I saw that you didn't RSVP to the invitation for mine and Beau's birthday bash. And it's tomorrow."

You winced. You had been avoiding this topic.

"I have a thing," you said, very casually, adjusting the tripod height without looking at him.

"A thing." He repeated it back with the tone of someone who found this deeply insufficient. "What thing could possibly be more important than my birthday?"

"They painted a new wall in the hallway of my apartment so —"

"Shut up," he said, moving closer. "You're coming. Also —" he said it with the specific energy of someone deploying their strongest argument "— Logan is going to be there."

You kept your eyes on the tripod. "I would assume so. Since you live together."

"You know what I mean."

"I really don't."

"Yes you do."

"I'm working tomorrow night," you said.

"It's a Saturday."

"Content doesn't take weekends off."

"You literally schedule everything in advance and you know it." Dean leaned against the wall with his arms crossed. "Come to the party. Talk to him. He's going to be right there."

"I talk to him all the time. It's my job."

"Yeah, but when you talk to Logan you do the thing."

You looked up for the first time. "What thing."

"The thing." He gestured vaguely at your face. "The thing where you forget to be normal."

"I am always normal."

"You called his assist last Tuesday 'genuinely cinematic.'"

"It was a good play."

"To his face."

"As a professional observation —"

"He smiled about it for the rest of practice." Dean looked at you steadily. "Come to the party."

You turned back to the tripod.

"I don't think Logan has the hots for me, you know," you said. "He's like a hot athlete. And I'm like the social media nerd."

Dean stared at you with the expression of someone who had just heard something that offended him on multiple levels simultaneously.

"Geez," he said. "You're not the girl in every romcom who doesn't know she's pretty." He paused. "Also you may be a nerd but — with all due respect to you and to my buddy Logan — you're pretty hot."

You pushed his shoulder and muttered a low stop.

"I'm being sincere!" He caught himself on the wall, laughing. "Party. Tomorrow. Eight o'clock. Logan will be there." He pointed at you one more time. "You will also be there."

He walked away before you could respond.

You looked at the camera. The camera looked back at you.

Genuinely cinematic, you thought, mortified.

You were definitely not going to that party.

The thing about watching two people be completely oblivious to each other was that it was, at first, entertaining.

Dean had found it genuinely funny in the beginning, the way you would track Logan across a room without realizing you were doing it, the way Logan would find reasons to be wherever you were without announcing that was what he was doing. It was like watching a nature documentary.

It had been funny for approximately three weeks.

It was now week seven and Dean was losing his mind.

It was a Thursday practice, nothing special about it. Dean was on the ice going through drills with Tucker when he caught it, the peripheral awareness of someone who had been watching a situation develop for too long.

You were in your usual spot in the stands, laptop open, camera on the tripod, doing the thing you always did where you looked like you were reviewing footage but were actually, if you knew what to look for, tracking Logan across the ice without moving your head.

Logan, for his part, was doing the thing he always did where he skated past your section of the stands more than was strictly necessary for any drill that had been assigned.

"He's done that four times," Tucker said, appearing at Dean's elbow.

"Five," Dean said. "You missed one while you were talking to the coach."

Tucker watched Logan complete another unnecessary loop near the boards. "Are they ever going to do something about that?"

"Apparently not," Dean said.

On the ice Logan slowed near the boards not stopping, that would have been too obvious, just slowing and said something up toward the stands. You looked up from your laptop and said something back. Logan smiled. You looked back at your laptop immediately, in the specific way of someone using a screen as a shield.

Logan skated away looking slightly more cheerful than he had thirty seconds ago.

"It's painful," Tucker said.

"It's excruciating," Dean agreed.

"Wow, that's a big word" Tucker said mocking Dean and skating away.

After practice Dean was still thinking about it in the locker room.

He was unwrapping his tape when Garrett sat down across from him.

"You have a face," Garrett said.

"I'm thinking."

"About what."

"Logan and the social media girl, or as I call her, (Y/N)"

"So her name—" Garrett replied.

Garrett looked at him with the mild, steady expression he used when he was waiting for someone to either say something sensible or stop talking. "And?"

"And they've been doing this for like seven weeks and nothing is happening and I'm tired of watching it."

"So tell him to do something about it."

"I've told him." Dean had, in fact, told Logan approximately six times in varying tones of directness. "Telling doesn't work. Logan needs a push."

"A push," Garrett repeated.

"A significant push."

Garrett looked at him for a long moment. "What kind of push."

"A financial one," he said.

"Dean —"

"Hear me out."

"I don't think I want to."

"A thousand dollars," Dean said. "I bet him a thousand dollars that he won't ask her out. He needs the money, he likes her, this solves both problems simultaneously. It's elegant."

Garrett stared at him. "It's really not."

"It gets him to do the thing he already wants to do."

"By paying him."

"By incentivizing him."

"Those are the same thing."

"Garrett," Dean said, in the tone of someone who had considered the counterarguments and dismissed them. "They have been doing this for weeks. At this rate they'll still be doing it at graduation. I'm helping."

Garrett looked at the ceiling briefly. "You shouldn't do this," he said finally.

"Noted," Dean said.

He did not change his mind.

Logan came in from the showers to find Dean sitting on the bench across from his locker with an expression that meant something was coming.

Tucker was in the corner pretending to check his phone. Garrett was lacing his shoes with more focus than the task required.

"What," Logan said.

"I have a proposition," Dean said.

Logan looked at Tucker. Tucker looked at his phone. Logan looked at Garrett. Garrett looked at his shoes.

"What kind of proposition," Logan said.

"A thousand dollars," Dean said. "All you have to do is ask her out."

He didnt't have to specify who the her was.

The locker room was quiet.

Logan opened his locker. Got his jacket. "No."

"Logan —"

"No, Dean."

"You like her."

"That's not —"

"You've skated past her section of the stands five times today during drills that don't require you anywhere near the boards." Dean's voice was completely even. "I counted."

Logan said nothing.

"You check her posts before anyone else on the team," Dean continued. "You know her schedule better than your own. You said sorry to her last Tuesday when the puck went near her even though it didn't come close to actually hitting her." A pause. "You apologized preemptively."

"I was being polite."

"You were being in love with her," Dean said, simply. "Which is fine. Great, actually. And fixable. With one conversation and a thousand dollars."

Tucker made a small sound that was not quite disapproval and not quite agreement.

Garrett said nothing, which was its own kind of answer.

Logan looked at his jacket in his hands. He thought about the time that had passed, the practices and bus rides and the specific way you closed your laptop when you were trying to hide something. He thought about his bank account, which was having a difficult semester. He thought about the rent that was due. The equipment he needed.

He thought about asking you out, which he had been meaning to do, which he had been telling himself he was going to do, which he had not done.

I was going to do it anyway, he told himself. The money doesn't change what I was going to do anyway.

"Fine," he said.

Tucker made the sound again, slightly louder.

Garrett looked up from his shoes for the first time. His expression was not angry, not exactly. More like a person watching a decision being made and knowing already how it was going to cost someone.

Dean produced a check from somewhere — written on the back of a receipt, which was so Dean that Logan almost laughed — and held it out.

Logan took it.

He folded it once and put it in his jacket pocket and did not look at Garrett again.

I was going to do it anyway, he thought.

He almost believed it.

The subject of the party was a sore one.

Part of you wanted to go and part of you didn't, and the two parts had been arguing since Dean walked away from the tripod, and by the time you got back to your apartment you had resolved nothing except that you needed to talk to Olivia about it.

Olivia listened to the full recap of the Dean conversation with the focused attention of someone taking notes. When you finished she was quiet for approximately three seconds.

"We're going," she said.

"I said I wasn't sure —"

"I've made up my mind. You were invited so you need to go, and I'm coming with you because—." She looked at you with the expression of someone who had already decided the fun they were going to have and was simply waiting for logistics to catch up. "What's the theme?"

"Dynamic duo."

"Perfect for us." She was already opening her laptop. "I know exactly what we're wearing."

"I don't even know what to wear," you breathed out, dropping flat onto your bed and staring at the ceiling. "What kind of theme even is that? Dynamic duo? That's so vague."

"It's not vague, it's versatile." She turned the screen to face you. "Clueless. Cher and Dionne. The plaid."

You looked at the screen. You looked at Olivia.

"Obviously," you said.

You walked into the party in matching plaid ,short skirt, blazer, the whole thing and felt immediately, objectively, like you had made the right costume choice. Olivia walked in beside you with the confident energy of someone who had never had a bad entrance in her life.

The house was full and warm and smelled like every college party you had ever been to. You did a quick scan of the room in the completely professional way of someone who was not looking for anyone specific.

You found him in approximately four seconds.

Logan was in the kitchen with Dean, drink in hand, laughing at something. He was wearing a sleveless gray shirt with a pair of wings.

You gave a small wave in their direction. Dean spotted you first and his face did something immediately, and then he clapped a hand on Logan's back and pushed him in your direction with the subtlety of a person who had never heard the word subtle.

Logan crossed the room.

"Hey —" His eyes moved over you and something in his expression shifted slightly. "Clueless?"

"Yeah," you said, nodding perhaps a few more times than necessary.

Beside you, Olivia made a sound that she converted, barely, into a cough. She had been documenting your inability to form complete sentences in Logan's presence for approximately three months and found it genuinely hilarious.

"You look very pretty," Logan said.

"Oh — thanks." The blush arrived before you could do anything about it. Compose yourself.

Logan seemed to remember that you were not alone. "You too, Olivia."

"Yeah, right," Olivia laughed. "I'll go get a drink."

She disappeared into the crowd. As she passed behind Logan she turned to face you and mouthed make a move with the enormous unsubtle energy of someone who had been waiting three months to say it.

You looked back at Logan.

"I'm glad you came," he said. "Dean mentioned you weren't sure."

"I had some content to edit," you said.

"This is more important," he said, lightly, like a joke, but with something underneath it that wasn't entirely a joke.

"Yeah," you said.

And then you were both just standing there. Drinks in hand, the party moving around you, talking the way you had discovered you talked when you were alone together, which was easily, which was the specific ease of two people who had been in the same orbit long enough to have figured out each other's rhythms without officially acknowledging it.

"So what are you supposed to be anyway?" you asked, taking the opportunity to look at him properly. The gray shirt. The wings. The arms, which were — you looked at his face instead. "Jacob Elordi in Saltburn?"

Logan laughed — a real one, surprised and warm. "Bird and the bee. I'm the bird. Tuck's the bee."

"Oh," you said. "That tracks."

"Does it."

"The bee has better energy," you said. "No offense to you."

"I'll tell Tucker you said that."

"Please don't."

Dean chose this exact moment to appear between you.

"Hello, you two." He looked between you with barely concealed delight. "What are we talking about?"

"The birds and the bees," you said, and watched Dean's eyebrow go up in real time.

"Oh, I like where this is headed."

"No — I mean his costume," you said quickly. "What are you supposed to be?"

"Maverick." He pointed across the room to where Beau was talking to a very beautiful brunette. "Beau's Goose."

You considered this. "Was there not a dynamic duo where one of them didn't have a tragic ending? You could have been Ice."

"Ice and Maverick hated each other," Dean said.

"No they didn't! In your own words they had the hots for each other."

Dean opened his mouth. Closed it. Pointed at you. "That is actually a fair point."

"Thank you."

"You're insufferable," he said, smiling. He looked between you and Logan one more time. "I'm going to go find Beau. You two —" he gestured vaguely at the space between you "— continue."

He disappeared back into the crowd.

You looked at Logan. Logan looked at you.

"He's not subtle," you said.

"No," Logan agreed. "He really isn't."

The party continued around you. At some point you had moved slightly closer together. Neither of you had announced it. At some point his hand had found the small of your back, briefly, when someone pushed past in the crowd. It had stayed there a moment longer than strictly necessary. You had not moved away.

At some point Olivia had caught your eye from across the room and given you a look of such unrestrained triumph that you had been forced to look at the floor to keep from laughing.

"So —" Logan started. He stopped. Tried again. "I've been thinking. For a while actually." He looked at you with the expression of someone abandoning a rehearsed script entirely in favor of just saying the thing. "Would you like to go out? With me. On a date."

Inside your chest, something that had been very carefully managed for months made a sound like:

YESYESYESYESYESYESYESYES —

"Yes," you said, with great composure. "I'd like that."

Something settled in his expression warm and certain. "Good. I was hoping you were going to say that."

"I was hoping you were going to ask," you said.

He smiled. Not the polite one, not the team-photo one the real one, the one you had forty-seven saved clips of and only eleven of them were for work.

Across the room, completely uninvited into this moment, Dean let out a noise of triumph loud enough that Tucker turned around to look.

You and Logan both looked at Dean.

Dean pointed at both of you, then at himself, then gave two thumbs up with the energy of a man who had absolutely no shame about any of this.

"He planned this," you said.

"Obviously," Logan said.

You looked at Dean, who was now saying something to Beau that was making Beau look confused and Dean look extremely pleased with himself.

"I'm going to delete all his content," you said.

"Probably," Logan said. "But maybe tomorrow."

You looked back at him.

"Yeah," you said. "Maybe tomorrow."

What you did not know — what you would not know for three months — was what had happened two hours before that conversation.

The first date was a Tuesday.

Logan had asked on a Saturday and then spent the intervening three days being completely normal about it, which meant he had checked his phone approximately forty times and suggested three different restaurants to Dean who had not asked for his opinion and had given it anyway.

He picked you up at seven. You had worn something simple and he had looked at you the way he sometimes looked into the camera, direct, unhurried, like you were something worth paying attention t, and said you look great in the specific voice he used when he meant things, and you had said thanks, so do you and meant it, and the evening had been easy in the way that things were easy when they had been building for a long time and had finally found the right outlet.

You talked for three hours. Not about anything important about the team, about your job, about the things you had noticed about each other without ever saying so. He told you about the preemptive puck apology before you could bring it up and looked slightly embarrassed about it, which you found endearing in a way you did not make him aware of. You told him about the forty-seven saved clips and watched his expression do something warm and complicated.

He walked you back to your dorm. He kissed you at the door — soft and unhurried, the specific patience of someone who had been waiting a while and had decided that arriving was enough for now.

You went inside and stood in the hallway for a moment.

Oh, you thought. Not oh no this time. Just — oh.

What followed was three months that assembled themselves quietly and completely, the way good things tended to do when you stopped trying to manage them.

You learned the specific rhythm of being with Logan, which was different from the rhythm of being near Logan, which you had spent seven months memorizing from behind a camera. Being with him was easier. Less careful. The things you had noticed from a professional distance — the way he focused, the way he was with his teammates, the particular quality of his attention when he was genuinely listening were the same up close, just without the glass between you.

He remembered things. That was the detail that accumulated the most weight over three months small things you had said once, in passing, that he filed away and produced later in the specific way of someone who had been listening more carefully than you knew. The coffee order. The fact that you hated the overhead lights in the film room. The name of the professor whose class you had shared with Liana.

You told Olivia about the coffee order detail on a Thursday night and she looked at you with an expression that said everything she was choosing not to say out loud.

"Don't," you said.

"I'm not saying anything," she said.

"You have a face."

"I have my normal face."

"Olivia."

"I'm just glad," she said simply, and went back to whatever she was doing, and you sat with that for a moment and found that you were too.

Logan was also, three months in, still thinking about the check.

Not constantly. Not the way he had in the beginning, when it had surfaced at inconvenient moments, the first dinner, the first time you laughed at something he said, the first time you fell asleep on his shoulder watching something neither of you were paying attention to. Those early weeks it had been a persistent background noise, a low-level static of something he should have said and hadn't.

But the weeks had passed and the static had gotten quieter, the way noise does when you choose not to listen to it long enough. He had paid his rent. He had replaced the equipment. He had told himself, again and again, that he had been going to ask you out anyway, that the money had been incidental, that what they had built in the three months since was real regardless of how it started.

All of that was true.

The part that was also true, the part he didn't let himself look at too directly, was that you didn't know. And not knowing was its own kind of thing, a thing that existed in the space between you without you being aware of it, that he was aware of every time you said something honest to him, every time you looked at him the way you looked at him.

He had meant to tell you. In the beginning. There had been a window, early on, when it would have been a small thing — by the way, Dean made a bet, it's a whole thing, I was going to ask you anyway—. He had rehearsed it. He had not said it. The window had closed, and then it had been a week, and then a month, and then three months, and now saying it felt like dropping something large into a quiet room.

So he didn't say it.

He told himself it didn't matter because it hadn't changed anything real.

He was getting better at believing that.

It was a Saturday afternoon in February, the specific grey-white quality of a winter afternoon that had given up pretending it was going to improve, and you were in Logan's room doing nothing in particular.

This had become one of your favorite things — the doing nothing in particular. You had a tendency, left to your own devices, to fill time with productivity, with scheduled content and edited footage and the general sense that unoccupied time was time being wasted. Logan had, over three months, introduced you to the concept of lying on a bed on a Saturday afternoon and simply existing, which you had resisted and then accepted and now found genuinely necessary.

He was on his back, one arm behind his head, reading something on his phone. You were beside him, legs tangled, working your way through a Cosmopolitan from 2003 that you had found at the thrift store the previous weekend when you had gone with Allie. It had a younger Jennifer Lopez on the cover and approximately forty pages of advertisements for perfumes that no longer existed, and you had bought it for fifty cents because something about it felt like an artifact.

"Listen to this," you said.

"Mm."

"It's a quiz." You held up the magazine. "Is your relationship ready for the next level? I feel like we should take it."

"I feel like that magazine is older than some of our teammates."

"That's what makes it valuable." You turned back to the page. "Okay. Question one. When you picture your future, does your partner feature prominently? Options are: always, sometimes, or only when I'm feeling optimistic."

"Always," Logan said, without looking up from his phone.

You looked at him sideways. He was still reading, expression neutral, like he had answered a question about the weather.

"Okay," you said, and looked back at the magazine, and did not make anything of it, because making something of it would have required acknowledging that it had landed somewhere specific and stayed there.

You worked through several more questions — about communication, about conflict, about shared values — Logan answering in the same unhurried, matter-of-fact way, like the answers had already been decided and he was simply reporting them.

And then you got to the last one.

"Okay, last question." You shifted onto your side to face him. "If your partner made a serious mistake — something that hurt you — what would it take to make things right? Option A: a heartfelt conversation and genuine apology. Option B: time, space, and proof of change. Option C —" you paused, because option C was very 2003 "— a grand romantic gesture. Flowers, candlelight, the whole thing."

You said it like it was funny. You said it with the lightness of someone reading from an old magazine on a Saturday afternoon.

Logan put his phone down.

He looked at the ceiling for a moment. Then he turned his head and looked at you with an expression that was doing something complicated underneath the surface.

"What would you pick?" he said.

You considered it. "Honestly? C, but private. Like not in front of everyone. Just — showing up. With flowers, or peonies, they are my favorite. And meaning it." You paused. "The meaning it is the important part."

Logan looked at the ceiling again.

"Many flowers," he said. His voice was even. Carefully even.

"Like an unreasonable amount," you said. "Like someone made a decision about it."

"Right," he said.

He was quiet for a moment. You looked at him — at the careful evenness of his expression, the specific stillness of someone sitting with something — and almost asked what he was thinking about.

Then he turned back to you with the warm unhurried expression you knew, and kissed your temple.

"Good to know," he said.

You looked back at the magazine. Jennifer Lopez looked back at you, unbothered.

You did not know, lying there on a grey February Saturday, that you had just handed him the exact shape of something he was going to need.

Logan knew.

He stared at the ceiling after you looked away and thought about a check written on the back of a receipt and a conversation in a locker room and the specific, settling weight of something that had been waiting a long time to be said.

Too many flowers, he thought. Private. Meaning it.

He closed his eyes.

I have to tell her, he thought.

He did not tell her.

Allie had not been looking for information.

She had been in the kitchen at the off campus house on a Wednesday evening, waiting for Dean to finish getting ready so they could go to dinner, scrolling through her phone with the patience of someone accustomed to waiting for Dean to finish getting ready. She was not listening. She was not paying attention to anything except the particular injustice of being told seven-fifteen and it being seven-thirty-two.

And then Dean's phone rang on the counter.

She glanced at it automatically. Logan.

Dean came out of the bathroom still pulling on his jacket and picked it up. "Hey. What's up."

Allie went back to her phone.

"What do you mean you need to tell her." Dean's voice had shifted into something lower, more careful. "What's — Logan. Logan, have you not told her yet?"

Allie looked up.

Dean had his back to her, one hand pressed to the counter, the specific posture of someone having a conversation they hadn't prepared for. "It's been three months, man. How have you — okay. Okay, calm down. Just — tell me what happened."

A pause. Dean listening.

"So tell her," Dean said. "Just — tonight. Call her and tell her. It's been long enough, she'll —" another pause "— Logan, I know it's not going to be easy but you can't just — yes I know you actually love her, that's not the — okay, listen —"

Allie set her phone down on the counter very carefully.

"What," she said.

Dean turned around.

The expression on his face moved through several things in quick succession — surprise, recalibration, and then the specific, flattening look of someone who understood exactly what had just happened.

"Allie —"

"What did you do," she said. Not a question.

Dean lowered his phone slowly. On the other end Logan was saying something, unaware.

"Dean." Her voice was very even. "What did you do."

He told her.

He told her all of it — the bet, the thousand dollars, the locker room — and Allie stood in the kitchen and listened with the stillness of someone who was getting progressively more furious in a way that had not yet found its exit.

When he finished she said nothing for a moment.

"She's my friend," she said finally.

"I know —"

"She is my friend and you let her date him for three months without telling her."

"It wasn't supposed to —"

"Dean." She picked up her keys from the counter. "Do not follow me."

"Allie, please just —"

"I have to tell her," she said. "She's my friend. I'm not going to —"

"Please," Dean said, and his voice had lost all its usual confidence, stripped down to something that was just — asking. "Please just give me a chance to fix it. I'll tell Logan to tell her tonight. Just give me —"

"You had your chance to fix it three months ago," Allie said. "And two months ago. And last month." She looked at him for a long moment. "I love you. And you did something really wrong. And she needs to know."

She left.

Dean stood in the kitchen alone and listened to Logan's voice still coming from the phone in his hand.

He put the phone to his ear.

"She already knows," he said.

You were in your aparment when Allie knocked.

She told you everything standing in your doorway, quickly and directly, the way Allie did things — no preamble, no softening, just the facts arranged in order. The bet. The thousand dollars. The locker room. Three months.

You stood very still while she talked.

When she finished you said nothing for a long moment.

"Get your keys," you said.

"(Y/N) —"

"Get your keys, Allie."

The drive to the off campus house took four minutes. You did not speak. Allie drove and you looked at the road ahead and felt cold clarity of someone who had moved past the part where things hurt and into the part where they simply had to be dealt with.

The lights were on when you pulled up. Of course they were.

You didn't knock.

You walked in and Logan was already in the hallway, like he had heard the car, like some part of him had known — and the expression on his face when he saw you was the expression of someone who had been waiting for this and was still not ready for it.

Dean was behind him. Tucker and Garrett further back, in the doorway of the living room, with the expressions of people who understood the room and had decided to stay very still.

"Hey —" Logan started.

"Did you take a bet," you said, "to ask me out."

The hallway was very quiet.

"Yes," Logan said.

The word landed.

"How much," you said.

"A thousand dollars."

You looked at him. This person. This person whose coffee order you knew, whose preemptive apologies you had found endearing, whose smile you had forty-seven saved clips of and only eleven of them were for work.

"You had to be paid," you said. Your voice was very quiet. "Someone had to pay you. To ask me out."

"It wasn't —"

"A thousand dollars," you said. "That's what it cost. That's what asking me out was worth to you. A thousand dollars and someone else's idea."

"That's not —"

"I told you I loved you." The words came out steadier than you expected. "Three weeks ago. In your room. I told you I loved you and you said it back and the whole time —" you stopped. Started again. "The whole time there was a check. There was a check and you knew and you said it back anyway."

"I meant it," Logan said. "I mean it. I love you, that has nothing to do with —"

"It has everything to do with it." Your voice cracked slightly and you pushed past it. "Because maybe you do. Maybe you actually do love me. But I will never know that now. Do you understand that? I will never know which part was real and which part was a thousand dollars because you didn't tell me. You had three months to tell me and you didn't."

"I was going to —"

"When?" you said. "When were you going to tell me? After another month? After a year? Were you ever actually going to tell me or were you just going to keep it and hope I never found out?"

He said nothing.

"That's what I thought," you said.

You turned to Dean.

Dean was standing very still with an expression that had none of his usual ease in it, stripped down, uncomfortable, genuinely ashamed in a way that you recognized as real and that made it worse rather than better.

"I thought you were my friend," you said. Your voice was different now, not cold, something more broken than cold. "I thought — you were supposed to be my friend. I told you things. I told you how I felt about him and you used it. You turned it into a transaction and then you watched me fall in love with him and you said nothing."

"I know," Dean said. His voice was very quiet. "I know."

"I taught you how to use the camera," you said, which was not what you meant to say but came out anyway, and somehow it was the most honest thing — the small specific intimacy of it, the way you had shown him the angles and the settings and he had been genuinely interested and you had thought this is what a friend looks like. "I showed you everything. I thought you were —"

"I was," Dean said. "I am. I'm so sorry."

"Don't." You picked up your bag. "Don't apologize right now. I can't — I need you to not talk to me right now."

You looked at Logan one more time. He was standing in the hallway with his hands at his sides and the open, devastated expression of someone who had run out of words and knew it.

"Please," he said. Just that. Just the word, quiet and without any of the composure he usually wore like a second skin.

"I have to go," you said.

"Please just let me —"

"Logan." Your voice broke on his name, just slightly, and you steadied it. "I have to go."

You walked to the door. Behind you you heard him take a step.

You opened the door.

"You two fucking suck," you said, to the hallway, to both of them, to the three months of Tuesday practices and bus rides and magazine quizzes and I love you said and meant and received by someone who was keeping a check in his jacket pocket the whole time. "Never talk to me again."

You walked out.

Allie was waiting by the car. She took one look at your face and said nothing, just unlocked the doors, and you got in, and she drove, and the campus moved past the windows dark and quiet and entirely indifferent.

You did not cry until you got back to your aparment.

And then you did, for a while, with Olivia sitting beside you saying nothing because there was nothing to say, just being there the way people who actually loved you were there when things went wrong.

You had to be paid, you thought, in the dark.

A thousand dollars.

The house was very quiet after you left.

Tucker and Garrett had retreated to the living room. Nobody was saying anything.

Dean sat on the bottom step of the stairs and put his head in his hands.

Logan stood in the hallway where you had left him and looked at the closed door and thought about everything — the check, the locker room, the first dinner, the magazine quiz on a grey February Saturday, too many flowers, private, meaning it — and underneath all of it, constant and quiet, the thing he had known for three months and had managed to convince himself didn't matter:

You had deserved to know.

You had deserved to know from the beginning and he had chosen not to tell you and you stood in his hallway and said I will never know which part was real and he had had no answer because there was no answer that fixed that.

Garrett appeared in the doorway of the living room. He looked at Logan for a long moment.

"I told you not to," he said. Not unkindly. Just said.

"I know," Logan said.

"From the beginning. I told you."

"I know, Garrett."

Garrett looked at him for another moment. Then he went back to the living room without saying anything else, which was somehow the most devastating response available.

Logan sat down on the floor of the hallway with his back against the wall and stared at nothing.

I have to fix this, he thought.

He had absolutely no idea how.

The email to the athletics department went out the following morning.

It was professional and brief — you cited personal reasons, thanked them for the opportunity, offered to train your replacement, gave two weeks notice. You sent it before you could think about it too hard, before the part of you that loved the job could talk the other part out of it.

You were not going to sit in that rink anymore. You were not going to film those practices or those games or stand in that corridor outside the locker room with your tripod and your equipment bag and pretend that everything was the same as it had been before.

Your phone had messages from Logan and Dean by noon. You read none of them.

The football team's social media coordinator reached back out by the end of the day.

You started the following Monday.

The football team was different from the hockey team in ways that were both obvious and unexpected. Louder, in some ways. Different rhythms, different energy. The guys were nice and the work was interesting and you were good at it, because you were good at this, that had never been in question.

You were fine.

You were getting finer by the day, which was either progress or a very convincing impression of it.

Allie texted. Garrett texted — I'm sorry, for what it's worth I told him not to — which you appreciated more than you could say. Tucker sent a single text that just said I tried to talk him out of it and you believed him and told him so.

You did not respond to Logan.

Logan's days had a new shape to them and he hated it.

Practice was the same, same drills, same ice, same team, but the stands were wrong. The spot where you always sat, third row back on the left side, was empty now, and he knew it was empty without lookin. He looked anyway. Every practice, every morning skate, every film session, he looked, and the spot was empty, and he looked away.

Logan texted you every three days. Not long messages, just checking in, just your name sometimes, just I know you don't want to hear from me right now but I'm sorry. He did not expect responses. He sent them anyway because not sending them felt worse.

He watched your football content. Every post, every reel, every behind-the-scenes clip. He watched the way you filmed the new team — the same eye, the same instinct for the right moment, the same ability to make something look like something worth watching — and felt the specific, particular ache of someone who understood what they had lost because they had been paying attention to it the whole time.

He had always been paying attention.

That was the thing that made it so much worse.

Three weeks after you left, the hockey team got a new social media person.

Her name was Jade. She was a sophomore, enthusiastic, slightly overwhelmed, and she had asked you to walk her through the setup on a Tuesday morning when the team had a late practice, which meant you were in the rink, with your old equipment, showing someone else how to use the angles you had spent seven months learning, when the team came off the ice.

You had not planned for this. You had assumed they would be gone by the time you were done.

They were not gone.

You heard them before you saw them, he familiar noise of the team coming out of the locker room corridor and then Tucker saw you first and stopped walking so abruptly that Garrett walked into him.

"What —" Garrett looked up. Saw you. His expression did something complicated.

The rest of the team filtered out around them, and then Dean, and then Logan, and the corridor went through a specific collective recalibration.

You kept your face completely neutral. "Hey," you said, to the general group. "This is Jade. She's taking over the social media. I'm just showing her the setup."

Jade waved cheerfully, unaware of the atmospheric pressure of the corridor.

"Taking over?" Tucker said slowly.

"Yes," you said. "I moved to football." You said it simply, like it was information and not anything else. "Jade is great, she's going to do a really good job."

The team was looking at you with various expressions. Tucker looked pained. Garrett looked like he was doing math.

Dean was looking at the floor.

Logan was looking at you with the expression of someone watching something leave that they had already lost and were only now understanding the full shape of. You could feel it without looking directly at him. You had spent seven months learning the specific weight of his attention.

"You're actually leaving," Tucker said. "Like permanently."

"I already left," you said. "This is just the handover."

"But —" Tucker started.

"Tuck," you said, gently. "It's fine. Jade is great."

Jade smiled again.

"We kind of made you leave," Tucker said, in the specific tone of someone who had been holding something for three weeks and had finally said it out loud.

"Tucker —"

"No, like —" he stopped. Looked at Dean. Looked at Logan. Looked back at you. "We made you leave. That's what happened. And I just — I'm sorry. I don't know what else to say but I'm sorry."

The corridor was very quiet.

"You didn't make me leave," you said carefully. "You tried to talk him out of it. I know that."

Tucker nodded. Still pained.

"Right," Garrett said finally, in the tone of someone deciding to be graceful about something painful. "Good luck with football."

"Thanks," you said.

You turned back to Jade and kept going with the walkthrough, and the team filed past, and you did not look at Logan as he walked by even though you could feel him slowing down, even though you could feel him wanting to say something.

"Hey," Logan said. Very quietly. Just that.

You kept your eyes on the camera settings you were showing Jade.

He stood there for a moment. Then his footsteps continued down the corridor.

You exhaled very quietly and kept talking to Jade about angles.

Behind you, fading, you heard Dean say something low and urgent to Logan that you couldn't make out. And Logan's response, quieter still:

"I know."

Logan started showing up.

Not to you, he respected the never talk to me again enough not to push himself into your space. But he started showing up in the ways that were available to him.

He fixed the tripod mount in the storage room that had been broken since October — the one you had mentioned once, months ago, in passing, because it made the camera angle slightly off and you had learned to compensate for it. He left a note on it that said finally fixed it. sorry it took so long. No signature. He didn't need one.

He started showing up to the football team's games.

Not every game. Not in a way that was dramatic or obvious. Just there, in the stands, with the quiet patience of someone who had decided that if the mountain wouldn't come to him he would go to the mountain and sit in the stands and watch from a respectful distance.

Olivia told you the second time it happened.

"He was there again," she said carefully.

You said nothing.

"He's not doing anything," she said. "He's just — there. Watching."

You said nothing.

"I thought you should know," she said.

You knew.

You knew because you had clocked him the first time — third row back, left side,— and you had kept filming and not said anything and thought about it for three days.

He texted you after the third game.

logan: you got a good shot of the QB in the third quarter. the one right before the play call. it was good.

You stared at the message for a long time.

yn: how would you know

logan: i was there

A long pause.

logan: i'll keep coming if that's okay. i won't bother you. i just want to be there.

You put your phone down.

You picked it up.

yn: it's okay

Dean did not sleep the night you found out.

He lay in his bed and stared at the ceiling and thought about the specific expression on your face when you said I thought you were my friend — not angry, which would have been easier, but broken, which was not easier at all.

At four in the morning he picked up his phone.

dean: allie

allie: i'm awake

dean: i know i really messed up

allie: yes

dean: i don't know how to fix it

A long pause.

allie: you start by not trying to fix it. you start by just being sorry.

dean: i am

allie: i know. she needs to hear it from you. not a text. not through anyone else. you.

dean: she said never talk to her again

allie: i know what she said. give her time. and then go.

Dean put his phone down.

He stared at the ceiling until it got light outside.

You took your own sweet time.

Not to feel better, you were not operating under the illusion that time fixed everything, but to feel what you needed to feel without an audience. You went to classes. You went to work. You filmed the football team's Tuesday practice and focused on the angles and the light and the professional satisfaction of a job done well, and you did not think about hockey, and you did not look at your phone when certain names appeared on the screen, and you let Olivia bring you food and watch bad television with you without making you talk about it.

On the fourteenth day Dean was waiting outside your lecture hall.

He looked terrible. Not dramatically terrible — Dean was constitutionally incapable of looking terrible — but tired.

You stopped when you saw him.

He held up both hands. "I'm not here to make excuses," he said. "I know you said never talk to me again. I know. I just — five minutes. And then I'll go and I won't bother you again if that's what you want."

You looked at him for a long moment.

You stepped to the side of the path, out of the flow of people. He followed.

"Say what you have to say," you said.

Dean looked at you with the expression you had never seen on him before, no performance, no charm deployed at the right moment, nothing managed. Just a person who had done something wrong and knew it and was standing in front of the person he had done it to.

"I've never had a friend like you before," he said. "Like — actually. I have guy friends. I have girls I've hooked up, almost dated or whatever. But I've never had a girl who was just — a friend. Who I talked to and who talked to me and who I could be around without it being anything else." He paused. "And I took that and I made it into a scheme. And I told myself I was helping and maybe part of me was but part of me just — didn't think far enough ahead. Didn't think about what it would mean to you if you found out. Didn't think about you at all, honestly, which is the thing I'm most sorry about." He held your gaze. "I thought about Logan being in love with you and I thought about the bet being clever and I didn't think about you being a person who deserved to know the truth. And I should have. You should have been the first thing I thought about."

The path had mostly emptied. A bird somewhere was doing something aggressively cheerful.

"I miss my friend," Dean said. "I know I don't get to just say that. I know. I just needed you to know that it's real. You are actually my friend and I actually miss you and I'm actually sorry, not sorry like I feel bad, sorry like I understand what I did."

You looked at him.

You thought about the bus and his head on your shoulder and on the team, I meant and the way he had looked genuinely wounded when you said Tucker was probably your better friend on the team.

"It's going to take time," you said finally.

Something in his expression shifted — careful, not quite hope yet.

"I know," he said.

"You don't get to just be normal yet. We have to rebuild that."

"I know."

"And you have to actually be different," you said. "Not just sorry. Different."

"I will be," he said. "I already am. Or I'm trying to be." He paused. "Is that enough to start with?"

You looked at him for a long moment.

"It's enough to start with," you said.

The careful-not-quite-hope became something more than that.

"Thank you," he said quietly.

"Don't thank me yet," you said. "We have a long way to go."

"I know," he said. "I'll go as slow as you need."

You looked at the path ahead.

"I have class," you said.

"I know. Go."

You went.

It was a start.

Logan was harder.

Not because you were angrier at him — you were, if you were being honest, angry at both of them in equal measure, just differently. Dean had betrayed a friendship. Logan had betrayed something larger, something that had your name on it, something you had handed him on a grey February Saturday when you said I love you and meant it with everything you had.

You saw him at the football games. Third row back, left side, every time. Not looking at you directly, just there, present, with the quiet patience of someone who had decided that showing up was the only thing available to him and had committed to it without reservation.

He sent you a text after every game. Not about him, not about them, about your work. Good shot in the second half. The one where you caught the receiver right before the snap. The slow motion reel you posted was really good. The timing was perfect. Small specific things that said I was paying attention without saying anything else.

You read them all.

You responded to some of them.

Small things. Thanks. I almost didn't post that one. Nothing that opened a door, just acknowledgment. The acknowledgment of someone who was not ready and was not pretending to be and was also not entirely gone.

He was not pushing. That was the thing you noticed most. He had shown up to three football games and fixed a broken tripod mount and sent careful specific texts about your work and he had not once asked for anything in return. Had not once said I think we should talk or please give me a chance or any of the things that would have made it easier to keep the door closed.

He was just — there.

Being different.

The grand gesture arrived on a Thursday, five weeks after the fight.

You were in the football team's equipment room going through footage on your laptop when someone knocked on the door. One of the managers looked in.

"There's someone outside asking for you," he said, with the specific expression of someone who had seen something and found it notable.

You went outside.

The path outside the athletics building was where you found him — Logan, in the cold, with flowers. Not a bunch. Not a normal amount. An amount that represented a decision — sunflowers and peonies and something small and white, wrapped loosely in paper, assembled with the specific intention of being too many, more than one person could reasonably carry, held in both arms with the careful energy of someone who had thought about this and decided it was not enough and added more anyway.

You looked at the flowers. You looked at him.

He looked tired in the same way he had looked tired since the night you left — not dramatic, not performing it, just genuinely worn down in the way of someone who had been carrying something for five weeks without putting it down.

"You said private," he said. "Too many flowers. Someone made a decision." He paused. "I made a decision."

Your throat did something inconvenient.

"Logan —"

"I'm not asking you to forgive me today," he said. "I just you said meaning it was the important part. And I needed you to see that I mean it. That's all. I'm not asking for anything."

You looked at the flowers. Peonies. He had gotten peonies specifically.

"You remembered the peonies," you said.

"You mentioned them once," he said. "A long time ago."

"You were paying attention," you said.

"I was always paying attention," he said quietly. "That was never the problem."

You stood there in the cold outside the athletics building and thought about I will never know which part was real and the third row left side and the texts about your work and five weeks of him being different without being asked to prove it.

"This isn't enough," you said.

Something flickered in his expression.

"I know," he said.

"I need more than flowers."

"I know," he said again, steadily. "Tell me what you need. Whatever it is. I'll do it."

You looked at him for a long moment.

"I need time," you said. "Real time. Not rushing. Not us going back to how things were because it was comfortable and we missed each other. Actually starting over and doing it right."

"Okay," he said.

"I need you to keep showing up," you said. "Not just when it's easy. When it's hard and uncertain and you don't know if it's working. You keep showing up anyway."

"I will," he said.

"And I need you to understand that I might get angry again," you said. "Even after I've forgiven you. It might come back and I might need to say something and you have to let me say it without shutting down."

"I will," he said. "I'll listen. Every time."

You looked at him.

"The texts," you said. "About my work."

"Yeah."

"You were at every game."

"Yeah."

"Third row back. Left side."

He looked at you quietly.

"I know," you said. "I noticed."

Something in his expression shifted.

"I was always going to ask you out," he said. "I need you to know that. Not as an excuse. Just as a true thing. The money didn't change what I felt. It just — it gave me a reason I shouldn't have needed and I took it and I'm sorry. But what happened between us was real. Every single part of it was real."

"I know," you said, which surprised you slightly, because you hadn't known you knew until you said it. "I know it was real. That's what made it hurt so much."

He nodded.

"Give me the peonies," you said.

He carefully extracted the peonies from the arrangement and held them out. You took them.

"The rest you can take home," you said.

"Okay."

"And Logan —" you paused. "The showing up. Don't stop."

Something broke open in his expression — not dramatically, not loudly, just quietly and completely, the expression of someone who had been holding something for five weeks and had finally been given a place to put it down.

"I won't," he said. "I promise."

You looked at him for one more moment.

"Slow," you said.

"As slow as you need," he said. "I'm not going anywhere."

You went back inside.

You stood in the equipment room with the peonies and thought about everything — the check and the bet and the fight and five weeks of third row left side and too many flowers on a Thursday afternoon in the cold.

You were not okay yet.

But you were standing with peonies, which was somewhere.

It was enough to start with.

The getting back together did not happen all at once.

It happened the way the crush had happened — gradually, against nobody's will this time, the way things did when they had been building for a long time and had finally found the right conditions.

The first time you went back to the rink it was not for work.

It was a Saturday game, mid-March, the kind that mattered for standings, and you had told yourself you were going because Allie and Hannah were going and Olivia was going and it was a group thing and had nothing to do with anything else.

You brought your camera.

Not the work camera your personal one, the smaller one you used when you were filming for yourself rather than for a content schedule. You told yourself it was habit. You told yourself you just liked having it.

You sat third row left side.

The thing about watching hockey when you actually knew what you were looking at was that it was a completely different experience from watching hockey when you were just there for the atmosphere. You knew the plays. You knew the patterns. You knew which moments were about to become something before they became something, the specific pre-motion stillness that preceded a good play, the way certain players telegraphed their intentions without knowing they were doing it.

You knew Logan's tells better than anyone.

Which was why you had your camera up and ready when he got the puck in the second period the slight shift of his weight, the way his head came up a half second before anyone else's, and then the play unfolding exactly the way you had known it would, clean and fast and entirely worth watching.

You got the shot.

Forty-three seconds of it, actually.

You lowered the camera and looked at what you had captured and felt something settle in your chest that was warm and quiet and entirely familiar.

Genuinely cinematic, you thought, and smiled at the ice.

Briar won.

The team filtered out of the locker room in the usual way in ones and twos, loud and post-game, spilling into the corridor where the usual group had gathered. Allie found Dean. Hannah found Garrett. Tucker found someone to complain to about a call in the third period.

You were reviewing footage on your camera when you felt someone stop beside you.

You looked up.

Logan was still in half his gear, hair damp, and he was looking at you with the expression you had forty-seven saved clips of — the real one, the one that had nothing managed about it — except that now you were allowed to look at it directly, which was still something you were getting used to.

"You came," he said.

"I came," you confirmed.

"You brought your camera."

"I brought my camera."

He looked at it. He looked at you. "Did you get anything good?"

You turned the camera around and hit play. The second period play unfolded on the small screen — the weight shift, the half second of stillness, the clean fast movement of something that knew exactly where it was going.

Forty-three seconds of it.

Logan watched it. Something in his expression went soft in the specific way it did when he was actually feeling something and had decided not to manage it.

"That's —" he started.

"Genuinely cinematic," you said.

He looked at you.

You looked back at him.

And then he kissed you right there in the corridor.

It was warm and certain and tasted like relief of something that had been a long time coming and had finally, simply, arrived.

When you pulled back he was smiling the real one, the one you had been filming without quite admitting why for seven months.

"So," he said.

"Yeah," you said. "We're back together." You pointed at him. "Don't fuck up."

Logan laughed a real one, surprised and warm, the kind that carried down the corridor and made Tucker laugh too without knowing why.

"I won't," he said.

"I mean it."

"I know you mean it."

"Good." You tucked your camera back into your bag. "Buy me food. I've been at a hockey game for two hours and I'm starving."

"Done," he said immediately.

You started walking and everything was different from before, which was the whole point, which was exactly what you had asked for.

Better. Not the same. Better.

Behind you, fading, you heard Tucker say something to Garrett.

"Called it," Tucker said.

"You called nothing," Garrett said.

"I said they'd get back together —"

"You said that last week —"

"Which was a call —"

"Tucker —"

You and Logan kept walking.

"Do they ever stop?" you said.

"No," Logan said.

"Good," you said. "I missed it."

He looked at you sideways. That expression.

"Yeah," he said quietly. "Me too."

[thebriarbunny]

Congratulations … 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓰𝓲𝓻𝓵 𝓲𝓷 𝓫𝓮𝓽𝔀𝓮𝓮𝓷

𝒟𝑒𝒶𝓃 𝒟𝒾 𝐿𝒶𝓊𝓇𝑒𝓃𝓉𝒾𝓈⁶⁶ 𝓍 𝓇𝑒𝒶𝒹𝑒𝓇

2.6K words

c/w ᝰ.ᐟ jealousy + insecurity, ex mentions, crying (both), drunkenness/intox, miscommunication, possessive!dean, pet names (princess, baby, angel, baby doll + no y/n), angst with comfort, party setting + language

“There you are, princess.”

You smile before you can stop yourself as Dean presses a rough kiss against your cheek, his body sliding in behind you, big and warm against your back while the crowd moves around both of you.

“Havin’ fun?” He asks, mouth brushing your neck while his hands settle on your hips.

“Mhmm,” you giggle.

“You drunk, baby doll?”

“Mhmm…”

His laugh rumbles against your skin. “Yeah? Are you askin’ me or tellin’ me?”

You laugh harder at that, turning your head slightly when he nudges his nose against your cheek. Dean catches your mouth, kissing you deep and slow before pulling back with a grin still spread against your lips.

“You wanna dance?”

“Okay,” you say, and the second that word leaves your lips he’s pulling you away.

The dance floor is packed by the time the two of you push your way into the middle of it. Bodies crowd tight around you beneath flashing lights, Dean’s hand tightening on your waist, pulling you against him.

The two of you start dancing, your body moving easily with his while the crowd shifts around you.

“You look so fuckin’ good,” he mumbles, low and deep against your ear, making you press into him a little more.

His hands hold your hips again, turning you and pulling you close, your arms wrapping loosely around his neck while a smirk tugs at his lips and his hands move lower.

The chain around his neck glints beneath the lights as he dips in, pulling you closer by the small of your back, his lips on yours, sending a wave of warmth rushing through you.

A smile breaks across his lips as the music changes—something slower—putting you right where he wants you. Your back hits his chest, breath catching in your throat.

His hands wrap around your body, his face tucked so close you can feel every warm breath, the two of you grinding slower now.

Your eyes flutter open and a wave of unease rushes over you as you lock eyes with a few people you recognize from the rink. The second you catch them staring, they look away, one of them muttering something into his red SOLO cup while the other nods in agreement.

Dean starts singing along to the music, his deep voice vibrating against your neck. You focus on that, the corners of your lips trembling as they pull into a smile you wish wasn’t so weak.

You try to let yourself fall back into him, focusing on the heat of his body and the smell of his cologne. His hands drag you closer, but it doesn’t stop the unease this time. When you open your eyes again, the insecurity hits harder.

Wellsy… She gives you a small smile, tight around the edges just like yours.

You close your eyes again before the doubt can settle too deep, Dean’s head tucking back into your neck. His lips move slow against your skin beneath the pounding music, his grip firming on your waist instinctively.

He turns you around again, one hand sliding over your waist while the other curls loosely around your throat, pulling you back against him before kissing you so deep your thoughts scatter for a second.

His mouth moves against yours, slow and messy, warm from beer. Dean kisses like he gets distracted by it—like he forgets there are people around once he gets ahold of you.

Your fingers tighten in the front of his shirt, as a lump forms in your throat, your breathing tightening in your chest as the thoughts come rushing in.

Maybe if she called, it would be over.

What if he wishes he were kissing her instead?

What if he wishes you were someone else?

“Dean,” you whisper softly, your voice breaking against his lips.

“Angel,” he murmurs, kissing you again.

You swallow hard, collecting yourself for a moment. “Do you wanna go upstairs?”

Dean grins so boyishly it makes the hurt worse.

He grabs your hand, pulling you through the crowd so fast you barely have time to keep up with him. He drags you through the packed house, still glancing back at you with that stupid excited smile.

And when you reach the steps he hooks an arm underneath your thighs and lifts you clean off the floor, starting up the stairs with you. A startled laugh slips out of you, but he swallows it, not catching the way it waivers on his lips.

Your fingers slide into his messy blond hair as he carries you farther upstairs. You close your eyes tighter, stomach sinking as you become all too aware of the sting building behind your eyes—tears balancing dangerously along your lashes.

You’ve felt weird all day. Ever since this morning when you opened Instagram and saw Dean’s name underneath one of Allie’s posts.

One stupid comment. Congratulations!

That was it. Nothing flirty. Nothing inappropriate.

Nothing that should latch on and refuse to let go, but it does.

Allie was standing on some giant stage in New York smiling beneath bright lights while thousands of people flooded the comments underneath her post and somewhere in between all of them was Dean.

And now, those weird looks and whispered conversations downstairs suddenly feel loaded. Every glance feels like the people around you know something’s going to happen, and you don’t, and they don’t want to miss the chance to see when he finally finds his person again.

Like you’re temporary.

Just the girl standing in the middle of whatever unfinished thing still exists between Dean and the girl everybody thought he’d end up with.

Dean shoves the bedroom door open, and kicks it shut, the bass downstairs making the pictures in his room rattle against the wall, the hum of the party seeping through the bottom of the door.

You reach for the ties of your top, trying to pull yourself together as he tears the t-shirt over his head, the both of you stripping between messy kisses before he’s dragging you down onto the mattress with him.

You crawl toward him slowly, knees sinking into the comforter while Dean watches. “Fuck, baby…” He lies down on the bed, guiding you on top of him as he brushes his hair off his face, biceps flexing with it. “Been waiting for this all day.”

Those six words heal something in you for a moment. Inching you back to that place you had been before you woke up this morning.

He reaches his arm up, hooking his hand around the back of your neck, lowering you toward his lips. “I love you—”

“Allie?”

You blink down at Dean once, thinking you heard him wrong, but it sounded like he said her name. Dean’s head snaps toward the door—all the color draining out of his face.

A person from behind the door tries again. “Allie, Dean? You in there?”

Dean goes completely stiff beneath you. “No—” The word flies out of him. “No, dude, what?”

Your stomach drops so hard it makes you sick.

Dean’s already trying to recover before you can even think straight.

“You need something?” He calls quickly, voice tighter now.

“Just wanted to say ‘hi’, man. Sorry.”

You shove off him, knee catching in the comforter as you stumble toward your discarded clothes on the floor, heart shattering so hard it aches.

“Hey—hey.” Dean catches your wrist, fingers wrapping around you fast enough to stop you mid-step. “Baby.”

“Let me go,” you whimper, and he does, his hands drawing back but he follows after you anyway as you struggle back into your clothes.

“What—what’s goin’ on?” He asks breathlessly. “I’m sorry about the Allie thing, alright? I’m sorry, baby.”

The room around you swims with the tears waiting to fall from your eyes, trying not to blink because you know once they fall there’s no stopping them. But you break anyway.

“That’s just Cooper,” Dean says quickly, words starting to trip over each other now. “I haven’t seen him in forever, he just—he’s fuckin’ dumb, alright?” He laughs nervously, but there's nothing funny about it and he can feel that.

Your fingers shake so badly fumbling with the zipper of your jeans it takes three tries to get it up.

“Baby, c’mon.” Dean’s voice whispers over your shoulder, his big hand coming down to rest on your hip. “Just talk to me.”

You lift the sleeve of your top, brushing away your emotion. You can feel him staring at you now, looking over your shoulder, but he can't see enough—not yet.

“Oh, fuck,” he breathes, turning you toward him, hands gripping your arms. “Baby—hey, hey.” His blue eyes search your face desperately. “No, no, no. Don’t cry. Please don’t cry.”

You try to look away from him, but Dean pulls you into his chest before you can, his arms wrapping around you tight. One hand cradles the back of your head, the other pressed against your back, trembling with adrenaline.

“Baby,” he says again, softer now. You can feel his heartbeat pounding underneath your cheek, suddenly sober, that loose buzz he’d been feeling downstairs long gone.

He pulls back just enough to look at you, big hands cupping your face while his thumbs swipe beneath your eyes trying to catch the tears.

“Baby… I—That. That can’t just be because of that, right?” He asks, voice stumbling over itself now. “I mean—yeah, okay, wait. That—that was insensitive as fuck…” His brows pull together harder the longer he looks at you. “What aren’t you telling me?”

Your lip trembles, and Dean’s entire expression shifts, his thumb brushing along it too like he's trying to stop that from happening. The panic on his face gets worse, blue eyes moving frantically over your face, trying to figure out how this got so bad.

“Talk to me,” he whispers but you bite your lips instead to keep from crying, complete whiplash from the girl laughing and wrapped around him downstairs twenty minutes ago—but you were putting on an act for the both of you.

Allie’s name breathing into the room at the same time that Dean was telling he loves you was just it… the breaking point. The moment you couldn't keep up with the lie that you were okay, because you're not.

His hands tremble as he holds your cheeks, leaning in to kiss you, gentler than he ever has, like he thinks he can soothe this out of you if he’s soft enough.

He draws back a little, the air between you tight and heavy, as you whisper.

“You’re not over her, are you?”

“What?” He asks, not angry or defensive, just hurt. “Allie? I am. I promise you, I am.”

“I don’t think you are,” you whisper. “Or…” Your voice cracks a little and you look away from him, embarrassed the second more tears start slipping loose. “Maybe you are, I don’t know.” You laugh, but it sounds miserable. “I just—”

“Talk to me,” he says quickly, following your face when you turn away, trying to catch your eyes again. One of his hands slides down your arm, rubbing nervously while he watches you unravel. “Please.”

You stare down at the floor for a second before finally whispering, “I saw the comment… On her post,” you continue quietly. “It sounds so stupid out loud. Oh my god,” you sigh heavily, burying your face in your hand.

“It doesn’t—”

“And, people…” You swallow hard, trying to get the words out confidently but they sound so small. “I know they were talking about us downstairs.” Your throat tightens harder.

His brows pinch in confusion, stepping a little closer. “What people?”

You shrug defeatedly, shaking your head. “It doesn’t matter. It’s so stupid,” you whisper.

“It’s not,” he stops you from brushing it off as his hand slides down your arm, fingers threading through yours. “Seriously, who?”

“People expect you to be with her.” Your eyes finally lift back to his. “They do, Dean.” You wipe a few tears away, watching your hand tremble out of the corner of your eye. “I mean, she’s Allie. She’s beautiful and everybody loves her—”

Dean’s face softens. “Hey,” he says quietly.

“I just feel like—” Your throat tightens before you swallow. “I don’t know. Like maybe I’m just the girl in the middle of all that.”

He looks down at you, his lips pulled tight, the pink flush in his cheeks deepening, blue eyes shimmering now with tears of his own.

“Allie is a good person,” he says honestly. “She is.” He squeezes your hand in his. “She’s funny and she’s kind… I cared about her for a long time.”

Your stomach sinks hearing those words leave his lips. His forehead presses against yours, breathing deeply with you.

“But she’s not you.” His voice comes out low and certain this time. “She’s not the girl I’ve been thinking about nonstop for months. She’s not the first thing I think about when I wake up or the last person I talk to when I go to bed at night.”

He steps a little closer, wrapping his arms around your waist, pulling you into him. Dean blinks and a tear rolls down his cheek. You reach up, cupping your hand against his face, brushing it away and he leans into it, looking down at you.

He grabs your hand, kissing your palm, then your wrist, guiding you to wrap your arms around his neck.

“She’s not the girl I dragged upstairs tonight because I couldn’t stop looking at her downstairs,” he continues, his voice gentle and broken. “And she’s definitely not the girl making me panic because she thinks I want somebody else.”

“Okay,” you whisper, nodding your head.

“It ended. We both knew it was ending before it actually did. I moved on,” he says softly. “And then I met you. Not the other way around. I swear.”

You nod up at him, feeling guilty for even bringing it up in the first place, maybe because he’s making you feel the opposite of what any guilty person would make you feel. There’s no defensiveness. No twisting it back on you. Just honesty.

“I just…” Your voice breaks, fingers twisting weakly in the front of his shirt again. “I don’t want to be the placeholder. The girl that’s here until you get your girl back.”

“Holy shit,” the words trip out fast. “How can you think that?” You can hear the hurt in his voice now as he buries himself in your neck. His breath comes out shaky as a few warm tears fall on your shoulder, seeping through your shirt. “You’re perfect,” he mumbles against your skin. “You’re mine.”

Your fingers slide in his hair, holding him closer and he exhales.

“I hate seeing you cry,” he whispers.

“I hate seeing you cry too. I’m sorry,” you answer, your voice just above a whisper.

“Please believe me, alright?” Dean asks as he pulls back and matches your gaze.

“I believe you. I do.”

“I’m sorry, baby. I should’ve caught this sooner.”

“You’re okay,” you whisper.

He inhales sharply through his nose, an anxious laugh slipping through his lips with your own. You rub the little rivers of wet off the apples of his cheeks, embarrassment crawling warm up your neck now after seeing his reaction.

“If it helps,” he says softly, “everybody downstairs already knows I’m crazy about you. I’m serious.”

“I’m crazy about you too.”

“I am obsessed with you.”

“Stop,” you laugh weakly, rolling your eyes while he bends suddenly, lifting you again.

“I mean it,” he mumbles as he nuzzles into your neck before dragging back. “You gotta promise me something, though.”

You look back at him and nod.

“You gotta promise me you’re not gonna sit in your head thinking shit like that by yourself. Because I swear to god, baby, I’m gonna prove to you that I got you. You have nothing to worry about.”

“I promise—”

“I can’t lose you,” he pushes out before you can even finish.

“You won’t,” you whisper softly.

“Me and you,” he says quietly.

“Me and you.”

dividers @uzmacchiato

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[sc3ptre]

Bad idea right?

Pairing: Dean Di Laurentis x ex-girlfriend!reader

⟡ Main Index | ⟡ Archive for Earth-66

INSPIRED BY Olivia Rodrigo’s “Bad idea right?”

a/n: guys, I listened to Mika and Stephen's Quinn episodes while editing this (didn't pay for it so I might end up in jail) and I swear the artist/gallery worker reader is a complete coincidence. I heard it and I just went…oh 😭 Also, that was my very first time listening to anything like that and oh my god is that what it feels like to read smut when you don't write it??

Summary: You know that he’s your ex, but can’t two people just reconnect? “I only see him as a friend,” was the biggest lie you’d ever said as you tripped and fell into his bed!

Classification: Smut +18 | Exes rekindling, impulsive/poor decision-making, yearning (mostly from Dean), cunnilingus, fingering, unprotected p-in-v in prone bone position, creampie, mild cum play, dirty talk and breeding-kink adjacent language

Word count: 4,5k

Divider by me ;)

You didn’t do “regret.”

Regret implied failure somewhere along the carefully constructed architecture of your life, it implied you had made a wrong turn and now sat mourning an alternate version of events where you had somehow known better and you hated that mentality. Things happened, people changed, choices got made and you dealt with them. End of story.

Dean Di Laurentis was not one of your regrets.

He wasn’t just some ex-boyfriend reduced to funny anecdotes over cocktails and late-night gossip with friends. Dean had been your first love in every embarrassingly real sense of the word, the one that settled deep inside your bones and permanently rearranged them afterward and you had been his right back. Every awkward discovery, every fumbling touch, every late night conversation about sex, fear and the future had happened side by side, learning each other carefully until it became impossible to tell where one of you ended and the other began.

People always assumed you’d dated longer than you actually had whenever his name slipped into conversation, maybe because of the weight attached to it. The relationship itself had lasted barely over a year but it had consumed enough emotional space to feel infinite.

That single year had carved through your life with enough intensity to feel longer than most marriages.

Before that, there had been years of orbiting each other helplessly and cautiously, dancing around feelings both of you recognized long before either admitted until eventually neither of you remembered who had caved first.

Even now, you would both choose the word “sacred” because you had been each other’s “one and only”.

Even years later, the relationship remained untouched territory between you both, so sacred that your names still occasionally stuck in each other’s throats like some forbidden incantation. Friends joked about exes casually while you and Dean handled each other like loaded weapons.

You had been the one to end it before he left for Briar and it wasn’t because you stopped loving him. That would've made things easier.

Dean had his future lined up with terrifying precision back then, hockey, school, structure and goals stacked neatly one after another while you still felt haunted by pieces of your past you couldn’t quite outrun yet. You loved him enough to know he deserved freedom, deserved college without having to constantly worry about the girl still trying to keep herself afloat hundreds of miles away carrying baggage heavy enough for two people.

Dean had disagreed immediately, actually, “disagreed” was putting it lightly. He had outright said ‘no’ like a breakup required mutual consent.

For six straight weeks afterward, he ignored the fact you’d ended things entirely. He kept showing up after your classes, kept texting you good morning and kept trying to take you to dinner as if stubborn consistency alone could undo heartbreak if he refused to acknowledge it properly. Eventually, you had to stop answering altogether because every time you saw him, you almost folded.

The breakup itself stayed strangely gentle despite that. There had been no screaming, betrayal or dramatic ending, only two people loving each other badly timed.

Years later, you still existed in each other’s peripheral vision through social media and mutual friends. You knew about his hockey career because his face appeared online often enough for avoidance to become impossible. Sometimes you allowed yourself a few extra seconds reading comments underneath interviews or game clips before forcing yourself to scroll away without interacting while Dean did the same.

He knew about your travelling, your art and the gallery work, as well as the occasional blurry appearances of people beside you in pictures. He never believed any of the men lasted very long because somewhere deep down he couldn’t picture anyone understanding you correctly.

When nights got too quiet, he reread old messages he absolutely should’ve deleted years ago but tonight had been particularly bad.

The Briar Hawks had lost earlier that week and apparently half the team decided the healthiest way to cope with that was snapping at each other until morale hit rock bottom. Practices had turned tense, locker room conversations shorter and sharper, everyone carrying irritation under their skin like bruises they kept pressing on purpose. Dean usually handled losses well, but after days of teammates barking at each other and coaches running everyone into the ground, something inside him started feeling worn thin in a way hockey normally never managed, so he escaped. 

By the time he got back to his family’s New York penthouse, he’d convinced himself silence would fix whatever had been clawing at him lately. Instead, the place just felt empty in expensive ways. Too much glass, too much space and too many rooms carrying memories of you around like ghosts that paid rent there.

Especially once he found that old video in his phone. He recognized the exact window immediately because he stood in front of it now, the city spread before him in dark glittering lights while your younger voice filled the room through his phone speakers.

The video shook slightly as you filmed the skyline from his bedroom years ago, your laughter airy and careless while midnight painted the windows black.

“That’s so beautiful,” you’d murmured softly. “I don’t think I’ll ever get enough of it.”

“Of me?” younger Dean joked instantly, voice muffled into the mattress somewhere next to you. He could practically remember himself face-down and exhausted after sex. “I hope not.”

Your laughter burst out louder then, making the camera jerk slightly.

“And I hope this is one of those things where you’re filming the view but actually calling me beautiful…That’d be romantic.”

“I bet you’d love that,” you cackled.

“Not more than I do you.”

Dean closed his eyes briefly. He remembered exactly how that video ended, the laughter dissolving slowly into kissing, into tangled sheets, whispered conversations and love making that lasted until dawn turned the skyline pale blue and gold.

He had never revisited those videos before tonight but something about hearing your younger laugh again cracked open a weak spot he’d spent years trying to reinforce.

Meanwhile, you sat tucked inside a crowded New York bar with old friends, laughing hard enough your stomach hurt while someone retold a story you’d already heard three separate times over the years. Your trip was short, barely a few days for work but it justified reconnecting with people you missed whenever life slowed down long enough to let nostalgia sneak in.

Dean knew exactly where you were because of one Instagram story, one tagged location…and one bad idea.

Your phone buzzed against the sticky wooden table just as you lifted your drink toward your mouth.

The second you saw his name, everything inside you stalled. 

Your laughter cut off so abruptly one of your friends frowned instantly. “Y/n? You okay?”

“What?” You blinked hard, lifting your brows too quickly as you straightened. “Yeah. Yes. I just– excuse me one second.”

You grabbed your phone before you could think better of it and slipped outside into the cool night air of the city, the muffled bass from the bar fading behind you as you pressed answer and raised the phone to your ear.

Ten full seconds of silence followed. There was no greeting or breathing, so naturally you started thinking that maybe he called accidentally or lost his nerve halfway through because surely…this was a bad idea, right?

“How’s New York?” he asked suddenly, voice finally cutting through the silence.

You smiled despite yourself. You had heard his voice plenty over the years through interviews, videos teammates posted and clips floating around online after games but none of those had been meant for you. This was. 

You could hear the exhaustion underneath it now that it wasn’t filtered through screens and public smiles.

“I have a feeling you already know,” you replied calmly, leaning your shoulder against the brick wall outside the bar.

Silence stretched again as you weighed your next words carefully, debating whether to let him hide behind casual conversation or acknowledge that you knew him too well for that. In the end, the defeated undertone in his voice made the decision for you. The Hawks had lost, sure, but Dean didn’t call only because of hockey.

“That bad, huh?” you asked softly.

You heard him exhale quietly on the other end. “It might get worse if I don’t do this.”

Your brows furrowed slightly. “Do what?”

“Fail at being a proper ex.” The soft laugh escaping him pulled one from you too before you could stop it.

“We’re awful at it,” you admitted.

Dean laughed properly then, low and warm through the speaker. “It’s pathetic,” he said. “On my part, at least…Seems like you’re doing alright.”

You looked down at the pavement, smiling faintly to yourself. “I still picked up on the first ring.”

“It rang three times on my end,” he argued. He tried sounding teasing about it but you caught the truth underneath. For a second there, he’d genuinely thought maybe you finally wouldn’t answer anymore.

You laughed softly. “Once on mine. And I’m pretty sure I was the one who called last time…or the one before that.”

Dean leaned his head back against the penthouse window behind him, smiling helplessly to himself. God, you still sounded exactly the same…same voice and cadence, same way of speaking that made him feel seventeen and stupidly in love all over again.

“I’ll always pick up,” you reminded him quietly, turning your head to glance through the bar windows at your friends inside. “You know that.”

“And I’ll always call,” he admitted. “Hoping you’ll come.”

The honesty in it hit you straight in the chest. You heard him clear his throat awkwardly afterward, probably rubbing at the back of his neck the way he always did when he felt too exposed.

“I’m at The Heyward…if you–”

Your thoughts disappeared entirely. One second you had common sense and self-preservation and the next your brain had turned into static. Seeing him tonight became the only coherent thing left glowing obnoxiously bright in the middle of it all.

“I can…” you interrupted softly before you could stop yourself. You almost heard your own better judgment trying to physically drag the words back down your throat.

Fuck it, it’s fine.

“I can be there in maybe…thirty minutes.”

The relief on the other end was immediate even if Dean tried hiding it. He let out a breath you were pretty sure he’d been holding since you answered.

“I can text you the address.”

You chuckled quietly, your hand already resting on the handle of the bar door. “I’ve never had trouble finding my way back.”

Both of you fell silent for half a second after. There it was…the truth neither of you had ever really escaped. You thought you were over it and done, you thought you were through. Thought maybe distance, years and other people would've eventually worn the feelings down into something manageable but there was no denying perfection once you’d already had it.

“No,” Dean murmured under his breath. “That you haven’t.”

You were grateful the night had already started winding down by the time he called.

Back inside, you announced vaguely that you were exhausted, that work had drained you and you needed sleep before your meetings tomorrow. Conveniently, your departure encouraged a few other people to call it a night too, which kept anyone from paying too much attention to your sudden need to leave.

You paid your tab, hugged your friends goodbye and stepped into a car fully aware you were actively driving toward the destruction of every sensible decision you’d made over the past few years…and worse? You didn’t even feel guilty about it.

The route to Dean’s place came back to you embarrassingly easily, every turn felt familiar enough to make your chest tighten. Somewhere during the drive, you realized there had been dozens of opportunities to stop this before it happened, yet you ignored every single one.

By the time you walked into the building lobby, your mind had gone almost completely blank again.

The elevator ride to the top floor felt endless, your pulse hammering harder with every passing second which was enough time to turn around, to remember all the reasons this was a terrible idea but when the doors slid open… there he was.

Standing barefoot in the doorway already waiting for you, completely unaware of the plans he was wrecking and probably even less aware of how deeply fucked up this whole thing was.

Dean smiled the second he saw you and you were sure you’d seen much hotter men…you just really couldn’t remember when!

He carried you into the bedroom, bodies fused together as you kissed with a desperation that bordered on starvation. It was as if the air in the room had vanished, leaving only the scent of him and the heat of your skin as the only things keeping you alive. The room was slick and modern, all clean lines and muted tones but the atmosphere between you was chaotic and primal. Your tongues clashed and danced, a familiar rhythm that felt like coming home after a lifetime in exile.

Clothes were stripped away in a frantic blur of grasping hands and impatient tugs, discarded carelessly on the polished floors. The moment your skin was bare, he didn't waste a second. He pressed you back onto the bed, mouth immediately finding your breasts. He sucked your nipples into his mouth, swirling his tongue around the peaking tips with a hunger that made your toes curl. You arched your back, breath hitching in jagged gasps as he alternated between biting and sucking, marking you as his own again.

He moved then, sliding down the length of your body and knelt at the foot of the bed, his presence commanding and focused. He reached down, large hands gripping your thighs, massaging the soft flesh with a firm pressure that forced your legs wide open, exposing you completely to his gaze.

As he leaned in, his eyes locked onto yours with a deep, piercing stare that communicated everything the silence couldn't. There was an intense, wordless understanding in his expression, a recognition of every curve and every hidden need of your body. He knew exactly where to touch, how much pressure to apply and exactly how to break you.

When his tongue first made contact with your clit, a violent shiver racked your entire frame. He licked you with long, slow strokes, savoring the taste of your arousal. He began to suck the small, sensitive nub into his mouth, creating a vacuum that sent electric shocks straight to your core. You let out a loud moan, fingers diving into his hair, gripping the strands tightly and pushing his face harder against your pussy.

He responded by sliding two fingers deep inside you. The intrusion was sudden and perfect, filling you up while his tongue continued its relentless assault on your clit. He began to pump his fingers in a rhythmic, curling motion, hitting your G-spot with a precision that made your hips jerk uncontrollably to meet him halfway.

The world outside the bedroom ceased to exist. There was no past or future, only the friction of his fingers and the wet, sliding warmth of his tongue. You watched him through hooded eyes, seeing the way he focused on your pleasure, the way his jaw tightened as he worked to bring you to the edge.

Your moans became a constant, melodic soundtrack to the act, filling the modern silence of the room. You couldn't hear your own thoughts anymore, the mental noise had been drowned out by the sheer intensity of the physical sensation. Your mind stopped processing language, stopped questioning and fearing. Even your internal monologue dissolved into a single, echoing "ah" that vibrated through your soul.

He increased the pace, fingers fluttering inside you while his tongue flicked faster and harder against your clit. He was driving you toward a cliff and you were leaning into the fall. You gripped his hair tighter, pulling him in, legs shaking as the tension built into an unbearable coil in your lower belly.

The orgasm hit you hard. Your internal muscles clamped down hard on his fingers, pulsing in rhythmic waves of ecstasy. You screamed into the quiet room, your back arching off the mattress as your vision blurred. Every nerve ending fired at once, a blinding explosion of white light and heat that left you breathless and trembling. You collapsed back into the sheets, your chest heaving, staring down at him with wide, glazed eyes as the aftershocks continued to ripple through your body.

He didn't let you linger in the afterglow for long. He began to crawl back up the bed, lips trailing a path of fire across your inner thighs, your stomach and your breasts, kissing every inch of skin as if he were reclaiming territory. When his lips finally crashed against yours, the kiss was different, no longer just desperate but possessive and deep. You wrapped your arms around his neck, your tongue tangling with his, while your hand slid down between your bodies to find him.

The moment your fingers closed around his cock, a jolt of need shot through you. It was thick, pulsing and scorching hot. You gripped him firmly, jerking him with a rhythm that spoke of a hunger you had suppressed for far too long. During the months you had spent with other men, you had tried to bury the memory of this specific weight, this specific hardness but the second you touched him, the comparisons were devastating. No one else compared to this.

He let out a low groan right into your mouth, the sound vibrating through your chest. With a sudden, powerful movement, he manhandled you, flipping you over onto your stomach. You gasped as your chest hit the mattress, your face now aligned with the floor-to-ceiling windows. You looked out at the view you loved so much, to the city lights shimmering like fallen stars but the scenery was secondary to the weight of him pressing you down.

Dean moved to your ear, licking the lobe before sucking it deeply, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin. He trailed kisses behind your ears and down the nape of your neck, his hot breath sending fresh shivers racing down your spine. You were both breathing heavily, the air in the room thick with the scent of sex and arousal.

He reached for a pillow, shoving it swiftly under your hips. The movement propped your ass up, arching your back and tilting your pelvis perfectly toward him. In one fluid, decisive motion, he aligned his head against your still pulsing, dripping wet cunt and thrusted home.

The impact was seismic. You both groaned in unison, a raw, primal sound of relief. Your head fell onto the mattress and he collapsed his forehead against your shoulder blades, both of you frozen for a moment as you breathed through the sheer intensity of the fullness. He was bare, sliding deep into your heat without any barrier and the feeling of skin-on-skin friction was overwhelming. Any thought of consequences or logic was incinerated, the only thing that mattered was the way he filled every single void inside you.

As he began to move, the friction was exquisite. He started with slow, heavy thrusts that seemed to reach your very soul, pulling back until he was almost out before slamming back in. You let out throaty whines as your fingers clawed at the sheets and your vision began to blur, making the city lights outside merge into a haze of color that mirrored the fog settling over your mind.

He reached down, hand searching for yours. Instead of letting you grip the linens, he interlocked his fingers with yours, pinning your hand against the bed. The intimacy of the gesture, combined with the rhythmic pounding of his cock in your pussy, was too much.

"Holy...angh, fuck!" you breathed shakily, squeezing his fingers as his large hand completely encompassed yours.

"I know you’ve missed this," he rasped, his voice a low, gravelly vibration against your skin.

"How...?" you managed to gasp out between broken moans, hips instinctively bucking back against him, begging for more.

"Because I have..." he groaned, pace quickening as the sound of your wet bodies slapping together filled the room. "And fuck...you're so tight. Reminds me exactly whose cock you were molded for first."

The words fueled the fire. He began to fuck you with a relentless, driving force, each thrust hitting your G-spot with bruising precision. The feeling of being claimed after so long was intoxicating, this wasn't just sex, it was an erasure of everyone else who had touched you in his absence. You felt stretched, filled and completely dominated.

As the tension began to coil again, tighter and more violent than before, he leaned down, his lips brushing your ear. "Enjoying the view?" he whispered, feeling the internal muscles of your pussy begin to squeeze and ripple around him in desperate spasms.

You let out a breathless, broken laugh that dissolved into a loud moan. "Can't...can't really focus on liking anything but you right now."

That confession broke his last shred of restraint. He abandoned the slow rhythm for a frantic, punishing pace, his fingers squeezing yours so hard it almost hurt but you welcomed the pain. 

You were spiraling, the pleasure building into a towering wall of heat.

The climax hit you both simultaneously. You screamed into the mattress as your walls clamped down on him in violent, rhythmic contractions. He let out a loud grunt, thrusting one last time as deep as he could go, filling you with his hot, thick cum. You both shook violently, locked together in a crushing embrace, the world outside the window disappearing entirely as you drowned in the sensation of finally being whole again.

For a few long, heavy seconds, neither of you moved. You remained as you were, the only sound in the room was the ragged, synchronized gasping of your breath. He stayed buried deep inside you, his weight pressing you firmly into the mattress, chest heaving against your back. You could feel him still pulsing, the aftershocks of his orgasm sending waves of heat through your core as he continued to leak his thick, hot cum deep into your womb.

Slowly, he began to move, his muscles tensing as he tried to pull out. The sensation of his thick cock sliding against your sensitized walls was almost too much to bear yet the friction was delicious, dragging against every nerve ending that was still screaming from the climax. But as he withdrew, he found he couldn't fully let go. The tight, wet grip of your pussy was clinging to him, refusing to let him leave.

He let out a low, shaky breath and instead of pulling away completely, he began to slowly fuck the remaining cum back into you. “Don’t you spill a single drop.”

He pushed in, a slow and agonizingly deep slide that filled you to the absolute brim.

"Ugh fuck…" you moaned, the sound raw, vibrating through the mattress. The feeling of being stretched wide again, combined with the slickness of his seed acting as a lubricant, made the sensation incredibly intense.

He paused for a heartbeat, letting you feel the sheer girth of him, before he slid back out almost entirely, until only the head remained teasing your entrance and then slammed back in with a heavy, wet thud.

"Mmmh…" you whined, voice breaking.

The sounds were obscene, the loud, squelching slap-squish of your wet bodies colliding echoing through the quiet room. Every thrust sounded like a splash, the excess cum and your own juices bubbling around the point of impact. It was a primal, messy sound that only served to heighten the eroticism of the moment.

You couldn't find words anymore. Instead, you began to hum, a low, vibrating sound in the back of your throat that mirrored the pleasure radiating through your lower body. Your entire frame began to quake, a fine tremor that started in your thighs and traveled up your spine.

Inside, your pussy was in chaos. The walls were spasming, clamping down on his cock in involuntary, rhythmic pulses. Each time he pushed in, your muscles gripped him with a desperate, milking intensity, squeezing him tight as if trying to draw every last drop of pleasure from his body. You were a trembling mess beneath him, completely undone, shivering through the exquisite torture of those slow, wet and deep thrusts.

In between slow kisses and another round of loving, unhurried sex beneath the steaming spray of the shower, you somehow found your way back to his bed again, skin damp, limbs heavy and loose from exhaustion and familiarity. The city lights spilled through the massive windows in streaks of gold and white, cutting across the sheets and over Dean’s bare chest as he laid facing you, one arm tucked beneath his pillow while the other traced lazy paths up and down your naked arm, fingertips catching on goosebumps every now and then. 

Your own hand moved over his face just as slowly, mapping features you already knew by heart but still wanted to relearn anyway, the sharper line of his jaw, the faint crease between his brows, the mouth that always looked seconds away from either a grin or trouble. Time had matured him in unfair ways. He looked older now, rougher around the edges, broader everywhere and yet the expression in his eyes while looking at you still carried traces of the boy who once refused to let you break up with him for six straight weeks.

“What were you thinking?” you asked softly, voice barely louder than the hum of the city beneath you both.

Dean’s eyes stayed on yours while his thumb dragged slowly over your shoulder. “That I needed to get you,” he admitted quietly. “The screen wasn’t cutting it anymore.”

Your thumb lowered to his lips, tracing the soft fullness of them while silence settled comfortably around you again. The truth was neither of you had been thinking much at all tonight. You had simply tripped into each other all over again, like muscle memory, like every version of yourselves somehow still led back here no matter how much distance or time you forced in between. Every conversation with Dean eventually became this strange gravity neither of you ever fully escaped.

His hand slid from your shoulder higher, warm palm settling around your neck as he tugged you closer across the pillows. “What’s so bad about a little lovin’?” he murmured with a crooked grin, the words brushing teasingly against your lips before he kissed you again, slow at first and then deep enough to make your chest ache.

Your heart practically sighed at the feeling while your brain cursed it immediately after. 

“I only see him as a friend” it told you, which was the biggest lie it ever said.

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! 🤍

[lacyydollette]

₊  ֹ  ˖  THE TIME WHEN LOGAN FINDS DEAN IN BED WITH HIS SISTER ᱺㅤㅤ   ୨౿ 

there were certain traumatic events john logan wanted to erase from his brain. scratch that from the existence, and all of that somehow always involved dean. his alleged best friend.

first was when he caught dean taking a bubble bath with a hot pink dildo.

second was when he found his nasty condoms clogging the shower drain.

third—third was when he barged into his room for something and found him naked and all cuddly with his own fucking sister.

he doesn’t have the time to do anything but let out a scream of disgust and slap a hand over his eyes, protecting his innocence.

meanwhile dean doesn’t have the time to react to anything else except let out a high‑pitched scream while you—you, the said sister—roll yourself in your boyfriend’s sheet and out of panic fall right onto the floor, wrapped in his sheets like a marshmallow.

boyfriend you haven’t told a soul about after dating for months, after so many nights of you sneaking into his room from the back door and him sneaking into your dorm every single time your roommate is out.

“are you guys fucking decent yet!?” just from the way your brother yells, unnecessarily loud, you know he’s mad mad.

why wouldn’t he be? his own sister has gone behind his back, dating his manwhore, womanizer best friend.

“yes!” you yell back, just like he did, while dean quickly shoves his junk into his boxers and stands up.

“are you fucking serious, man?” the moment logan opens his eyes, he’s glaring at dean, ready to use his fists on him. “out of all the girls in the world, you go for my sister?”

dean throws his hands up. “i didn’t go for your sister, man, i fell for her. there’s a difference! it just happened!”

“oh, congratulations,” logan snaps. “that makes it soooo much better.”

“i’m not a kid, stop treating me like one, i made my own choice!” you yell, joining their yelling match, and that just earns you a glare from your brother.

“not a word from you.”

“how long has this been going on?” he turns to dean sternly.

“couple months. . ?” dean answers boredly, now more distracted by your current state than the impending murder.

god, you look so hot wrapped up in his shit while you shoot daggers at your brother.

“months?” logan’s eyes go wide. “you’ve been lying to my face for months, you lying slut?!”

“i weren’t lying!” dean snaps. “i was . . selectively honest.”

“that’s literally the definition of lying!” logan practically roars. “you’ve been sneaking my sister into your shithole of a room like some—some raccoon with a sex addiction for months?!”

a mess. it’s all just a mess.

finally after a shit ton of screaming at each other when they’ve both calmed down and you and dean have both made it clear that you’re serious, logan sighs. “let’s get this over with.”

confusion swings across your face as you stare at both of them, worried. “what are you guys talking about?”

dean gets to his feet. so does logan.

“sorry. it needs to be done,” your brother mutters.

“needs to be done,” dean echoes guiltily.

when dean cracks the knuckles of his right hand, understanding dawns in your eyes. “you’re going to hit him?” you exclaim, jumping to your feet. “what the hell! no way!”

“di laurentis knows the code. he didn’t follow it. therefore. . ”

logan’s right. there is a code. other teams might have rules about not dating a teammate’s sister or ex or whoever else is off‑limits, but briars hockey team never strictly adhered to anything like that. their rule was much simpler—ask before you go there.

the code isn’t some random bullshit. it’s about respecting your teammate.

dean cracks the knuckles of his left hand.

“you’re insane. don’t you dare touch him, john!” you clutch the sheets and try to throw yourself toward dean, but he gently moves you to the side.

“just let it happen,” he says. “it’s really not a big de—”

logan doesn’t throw a punch.

he knees dean in the balls.

dean folds like a lawn chair, collapsing onto the bed, croaking as he grabs his junk.

“logan, you piece of shit, not the niece and nephew maker!”

logan just shrugs, his anger totally replaced by satisfaction of the hit, totally unapologetic. “relax, if they’re di laurentis stock, they’ll respawn.”

dean wheezes from the bed. “pretty sure they just rage‑quit, man.”

masterlist

[thebriarbunny]

A Crowd Favorite… 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓽𝓱𝓲𝓻𝓭 𝓱𝓸𝓽𝓽𝓮𝓼𝓽 𝓽𝓱𝓲𝓷𝓰

𝒟𝑒𝒶𝓃 𝒟𝒾 𝐿𝒶𝓊𝓇𝑒𝓃𝓉𝒾𝓈⁶⁶ 𝓍 𝓇𝑒𝒶𝒹𝑒𝓇

2.6K words

c/w ᝰ.ᐟ oral sex (m. receiving), shower sex, unprotected p in v (consensual condom removal), using the shower head, dirty talk, praise, possessive!dean, pet names (baby, angel, bunny <- jokingly, sweetheart + no y/n), teasing, multiple orgasms, mild choking, wrist pinning, overstim., playful power dynamics, language + he fell first + he’s been pining ever since ⋆˙⟡♡

“You’re gonna love it,” he mumbles as he turns the handle, water spilling from the showerhead, introducing one of his favorite ways to hook up like the two of you don’t spend half your time together in here already.

“Never have I ever,” you laugh, stumbling a little as you kick off your bar heels.

“Really? It’s a crowd favorite,” he mumbles as he tugs down his jeans and boxers. “Shower sex is seemingly the third hottest thing, after me, then you.” He winks at you as he holds up a number one with his calloused finger before pointing in your direction, waiting for you to crack.

“You’re so annoying,” you laugh.

“You’re number one—”

“I caught that. Thank you.”

“Hot as fuck,” he breathes out, his dick already painfully hard. He glances down at himself before looking back up at you. “I’m excited. Can you tell?”

“A shame you’re so nonchalant,” you giggle as your dress falls into a puddle at your feet.

A dramatic moan rips out of his throat. You slap your palm over his mouth and his blue eyes twinkle on yours.

He peels it off his lips, amusement flickering across his face. “You can be rough with me, bun. I can take it.”

“Bun?” You echo with a raised eyebrow as you unclasp your bra.

“Bunny,” he grins, his eyes zeroing on your tits as the lace material falls as well. “Fuck me,” he mutters under his breath, his rough fingers reaching out, looping around the band of your panties at your hips, tugging them lower. A deep groan rumbles out of him, vibrating against your lips.

He dips in kissing his way up your stomach, over your chest, up your neck, his hands resting against your back, pulling you into him.

“I was minding my business, Di Laurentis. You are the one that begged me to come here—”

“I did,” he answers honestly. “And aren’t you glad you did?” The look he gives you makes your heart flutter, dimples popping into his cheeks. “You love me.”

“I like you,” you say, fighting a grin.

“Give it another week. You’ll be at the bar next weekend fighting for my attention. I know it. I’m perfect.” His mouth curves. “Boyfriend material.”

“Boyfriend material? Says the man that’s never asked me on a date,” you whisper as your lips press against his neck. You feel his pulse race and, as cool as he’s playing it, you can tell he’s nervous.

“Lies. Didn’t know that was still an option,” he says as your mouth traces a path over his chest and stomach as you sink to your knees. “You gonna say ‘yes’ this time?”

“You’re keeping score?”

“I always keep score,” he huffs out a breath.

Your fingertips skim along the sharp lines of his hips, making the muscles in his stomach tighten. “You’re growing on me, Dean. What can I say,” you whisper.

“Oh?” His eyebrows lift as a stupid-excited laugh slips out of him. Steam curls through the room as the water grows warmer. “You know what?”

“What?” You murmur as your hand wraps around the base of his cock. His breath catches in his chest when you press a kiss on his tip.

“I…” He mumbles, watching you lay out your tongue and glide up the side of him. The thought dies behind his eyes in real time. “S’unimportant,” he murmurs as your lips wrap around him.

You take him in your mouth inch by inch, his lips parting, brows softening. The wet sounds of your mouth on him leave him reaching out and squeezing the edge of the sink for support, his other hand resting on your head.

“There is no way you’re gonna stand there and pretend you don’t know what you’ve been doing all night,” he grits out.

You pop off his cock and the breath punches out of him, spitting on his dick before you smile, stroking him lazily with your fist. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Liar,” he grins. “You spent three hours winding me up.”

“I did not.”

“You absolutely did,” he snorts. “You love that shit.”

“Maybe a bit,” you whisper, your breath ghosting across him and making goosebumps fan across his tanned skin.

“Knew it.” Dean smirks, that smug little look he had when he walked out with his arm around your shoulders at Malone’s tugging at his lips again.

“I was just having fun,” you look up at him through your lashes, far too innocently for how you’re working him in your hand.

“Trust me, I noticed. Love when you tease me—love when I get anything from you.”

You roll your eyes, warmth pooling in your cheeks, running your nails up his thighs.

“I’d sit through another three hours of it.”

“That so?” You ask.

“Mhmm,” he hums as his hold on your head gets tighter, guiding you back toward him. You wrap your lips around him and his jaw clicks, eyes rolling back in his head when you let him use you a little. The head of his cock kisses the back of your throat, spit seeping from the corners of your lips.

“So fuckin’ good at suckin’ cock, baby. Jesus Christ,” he rambles breathily, thrusting deeply a few more times before giving you back the reins.

You moan around him and his eyes screw shut, the thick muscles in his thigh shaking as his dick swells on your tongue.

“Not gonna last if you let me use you like this. I’m gonna—Fuck,” he gasps when you release him from your lips, stroking him with your tongue flat and your breasts pressed together.

“Shit, baby,” he groans, white ropes of cum landing on your tongue and chest as steam hangs heavy in the air.

Dean catches your wrists, pulling you up off your feet and into his arms. You wrap your legs around his trim waist, melting into him as he breathes laboriously, coming down from his high.

“Goddamn, baby. You’re so fuckin’ good at that,” he mumbles breathlessly. “Do you know how good you make me feel?”

You hum into the kiss, catching his bottom lip between your teeth as he steps into the shower with you.

The water is warm, remnants of his release rise off your body, swirling down the drain. He tilts in, tongue slipping in your mouth before your lips even touch.

Your gasp breaks the kiss as your back presses against the cool tile wall, so cold it sends shivers straight through you.

Dean reaches for the shower head, taking it off the base and turning it to a steady stream. He sets you down on your feet and your brows furrow in confusion because no matter how many times you've found yourself in Dean Di Laurentis's shower, he's never done this.

He kicks your foot out gently. The corner of his mouth curls as he sees you start to put the pieces together.

“Dean?” You breathe out a laugh.

“You ever done this before?” His voice drops as he grips the detachable shower head in one hand, the other pinned just over your shoulder as he looks down at you.

“I mean maybe,” you admit.

“Well,” he laughs, clearly excited by the idea. “We’re gonna have to talk about that later. No one’s ever done it for you?” His eyes flick down as the warm water sprays against your thigh, working upward.

You bite your lip and shake your head ‘no’.

“How romantic,” he whispers. “I’m your first and only. Love that for me.”

“Shut up,” you chuckle, your focus falling to the narrow space between you.

You gasp when the water hits your pussy, surging over your clit and making your knees buckle. Your arms quickly wrap around his neck for support, a moan echoing through the bathroom.

“Baby… Fuck, baby. Too much?”

You shake your head rapidly, feeling your heartbeat climb, nails clawing into his skin. “So good,” you pant. “Don’t stop.”

Dean moves his arm from the wall to your waist, drawing you closer, rocking slowly, increasing and decreasing the intensity, making you throw your head back in pleasure. Dean’s lips quickly lock onto your skin, kissing you harshly before biting down, making you cry out.

He watches your face as you drift closer and closer to your breaking point.

You feel your pleasure building fast, the pressure mounting stronger than anything you’ve felt in a while.

“You like that, huh?” He grunts.

”Mhmm,“ you whimper as your vision starts to cloud.

“I can’t wait to fuck you, baby. This is just a warm-up—”

“Dean!” You cut him off, crying out in pleasure as you wrap your arms tighter, nails digging into his shoulder blades. He lets out a devilish laugh, forcing the stream a little closer. “D-Dean,” you stutter.

“What, angel?” Your body jolts as you fight him slightly in overstimulation, continuing to ride the waves of your orgasm, pussy clenching around nothing. ”Does it feel good, baby?“

“Yes, fuck!”

“Then just take it,” he soothes, your heart pounding in your chest as you reach for air. Dean returns the water head to the base, cranking up the heat, pressing you into the wall once more as you continue to kiss, ears ringing, body tingling head to toe.

“Fuck me?” You whimper, desperation laced in your tone, but he’s already reaching above the shower, patting around the windowsill until he finds a condom.

He brings the package to his teeth and tears it open, watching as you roll it on, the thick weight of his cock squeezed in rubber.

Dean reaches down, taking a grip on your thigh, looping it in his bicep, muscles flexing as he lifts you slightly.

“Shit,” you whine as he circles your sensitive clit with the ribbed rubber on his tip, making him smirk. Dean traces the tip through your folds, teasing your entrance.

“Dean. Please.“

“Please what?” He teases you again.

“Fuck. Me.”

“Baby…” He lets out a gravelly laugh. “Beg harder.” Dean swipes his head across your clit again, making you gasp.

”Dean, can you please fuck me? Ple—” He thrusts his cock into you, rutting up, breasts pressing flush to his broad chest as he steals your breath.

Dean grabs your ass and picks you up swiftly, causing you to sink deeper on his cock and moan onto his lips.

He pins you to the wall, tilting in, drilling you into the tile quickly. His strokes are merciless, incredibly deep as you cling to his shoulders again. The hot water cascades down your body, flowing between the two of you, the sensation on your clit alone almost enough to send you over the edge. But it’s not enough. You want to feel him.

“Baby,” you murmur and he melts at the sound of your voice, pushing himself even closer. “Can we… I—” Your voice stutters with each snap of his hips.

“What is it, sweetheart?” He murmurs against your mouth.

“I wanna feel you—”

His hips lose their rhythm and his reaction speaks for itself, but he’d never leave it like that. “You serious?” He pants, and you can hear the smirk in his voice.

“Please,” you whisper, and he growls out a breath. “Is that okay?”

“Begging too? Fuck me. You even gotta ask?”

“Take it off,” you whisper, and the look on his face is so pleased it nearly makes you laugh.

“Hands against the wall,” he mumbles, chuckling under his breath when he sees your legs trembling after he pulls out.

He grabs the condom by the tip, tugging it off, letting it slip down the drain without a second thought.

Dean grabs your hips impatiently, bullying you toward the wall before pressing himself deep. Your eyes slam shut as you tip your face toward the ceiling. Your mouth falls open as his big hand comes up, curving around your shoulder, the other drifting to your waist, using his hold to fuck into you harder.

“Holy fucking shit,” he pants, every muscle at work, water flying with each rough clap of his hips against your ass, his blonde fringe, wet and messy when you look over your shoulder, his parted lips curling into a smirk.

“Dean…” You sigh, feeling yourself about to cum again, your head throbbing with your heartbeat.

“Yeah? That’s the spot, huh?”

“Yeah,” you whine, cock-drunk, thighs quivering uncontrollably, making you lose your rhythm.

“Let me, baby. Let me,” he groans.

Dean fucks into you, striking the perfect angle, making your muscles tense up. “Shit… Right there, Dean. You’re gonna make me cum.“

“Pussy was made for me. Cum on my cock.”

You let out a cry far louder than intended in a house full of hockey boys. You cover your mouth with the back of your hand.

Dean quickly grabs your wrist, pulling it away from your mouth, shaking his head ‘no’ as he tacks it and the other to the small of your back.

“Never do that again,” he pants through parted lips, punctuating each word with a rough snap of his hips.

The knot in your stomach tightens—threatening to snap. “Dean,” you gasp.

“Me too, baby. Fuck. Me too,” he moans, as his hand shifts from your shoulder to your neck, squeezing just enough to have your eyes rolling back.

Your orgasm spills over, your hand coming back to wrap around his wrist, pussy squeezing him so tight he’s hissing out a breath.

“That’s it… Good fuckin’ girl.”

His hips snap into you one last time, filling you with his warmth, his blunt nails digging into your skin as his rhythm stutters out.

You can feel everything at this moment—the spasm of your sex and the throb of his cock. Your head falls between your shoulders in exhaustion, but he uses his hold on your neck to guide you back to his lips instead.

A soft laugh escapes him against your mouth, your post-sex giggles bouncing off the walls of the shower as you soften into his arms.

“Aren’t you glad you came home with me?”

You go to say something smart, but he kisses you instead, stealing the words before they leave your mouth. He turns you back toward him, not letting you get far at all. His big arms wrap around you, holding you close as he presses a kiss to your forehead.

“What I tell you, huh?” He grins, still trying to catch his breath. “Shower sex is hot.”

“Mhmm,” you hum into yet another kiss and he can’t stop grinning.

“Tomorrow. Seven PM. You and me. What do you say?”

Your lips brush over the top of his, the tension between you thick and charged as you make him sweat it out a little more. His fingers flex against your waist.

“Okay, Di Laurentis,” you say, unable to hide your smile.

“That a yes?” He asks.

“That’s a yes,” you answer, and he sighs in relief.

“I mean did you wanna hear the speech I had in case you said ‘no’ again?”

“Was it good?” You taunt.

“Amazing—pathetic as hell,” he answers simply, his hand following the rush of water down your skin.

Your fingers drift into his hair, tugging at the root and he smiles, the stupid-pretty dimples popping yet again, making you absolutely weak.

“See? You love me.”

“I like like you at best,” you smile, matching his hushed tone.

And for the first time all night, Dean goes quiet. A smile pulls at his lips as he tilts in, cupping your cheeks in his hands.

“No shit? Like like, huh?” He teases against your mouth, chuckling when he says it back. “That’s pretty goddamn close if you ask me—”

“Don’t start,” you whisper, fighting a smile before he kisses you.

“Give it a week.”

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[pucksandpower]

yours, still

Dean Di Laurentis x childhood best friend!Reader

Summary: Dean has never held on to anything — not girls, not feelings, not the memory of a childhood best friend who disappeared across an ocean at fourteen. Then you walk back into his life on a brisk October morning, and every carefully constructed wall he never knew he had built comes down in an instant. You came to Briar to disappear. You didn’t count on being found

Warnings: 18+ content

The late October air sweeping across the Briar University quad is brisk enough to make a normal person shiver, but Dean runs hot. He always has.

Right now, he’s walking backward, a steaming cup of coffee in one hand, completely ignoring the fact that he’s navigating a crowded campus blind. But then again, Dean rarely has to watch where he’s going. People naturally move out of his way. 

“I’m just saying,” Dean says, raising his coffee cup to emphasize his point, his voice carrying that familiar, effortless charm that makes half the girls within a fifty-foot radius turn their heads. “It’s not about the quantity, gentlemen. It’s about the experience. The mutually beneficial exchange of joy.”

Logan snorts, adjusting the strap of his duffel bag over his broad shoulder. “Mutually beneficial exchange of joy? Did you read that in a poetry textbook, Di Laurentis? Or is that just the line you used on the kappa sig girl last night?”

“First of all, her name was Britney,” Dean corrects, flashing a bright, wicked grin. “And second, I didn’t use any lines. I am simply a purveyor of good times. I like women. Women like me. It’s the circle of life, Elton John style.”

“You’re a menace,” Garrett mutters, though he’s grinning. Garrett is walking beside Beau, who is casually tossing a small foam football between his hands. Tucker brings up the rear, quiet and imposing, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his denim jacket.

“I am a public servant,” Dean fires back, spinning around so he’s finally walking forward, falling into step with the rest of the hulking athletes. Together, the five of them take up the entire sidewalk. They are Briar’s royalty — hockey stars and the football golden boy — and they know it. But Dean wears the crown with a different kind of ease. He doesn’t have the brooding intensity of Garrett or the quieter, intimidating stoicism of Logan. Dean is sunshine and sin, wrapped in a designer jacket that probably costs more than a semester’s tuition.

And he has nothing to be stressed about. His parents are two of the most high-powered attorneys on the East Coast. His mother’s family basically owns half the luxury hotels in the country. He grew up in Greenwich, Connecticut, in a house that looked like a castle, raised by parents who were shockingly down-to-earth and irritatingly in love with each other. He knows what love looks like. He just has absolutely no interest in it right now. Why tie himself down when the world is full of beautiful, willing women?

“You’re going to catch something one of these days, man,” Beau chuckles, spiraling the foam ball into the air and catching it effortlessly. “And I don’t mean feelings.”

“I am pristine,” Dean says, pressing a hand to his chest in mock offense. “I am a beacon of health and vitality.”

“You’re a slut,” Logan corrects cheerfully. 

“I am comfortably sex-positive,” Dean counters, winking at a passing group of cheerleaders who immediately dissolve into giggles. He doesn’t break his stride. He rarely spends a night alone, and he likes it that way. 

“Hey, watch it,” Tucker says suddenly, putting a massive hand on Dean’s shoulder to stop him from plowing into a cluster of students gathered near the science building. 

Dean halts, taking a sip of his coffee. He glances over the heads of the crowd, his eyes scanning the courtyard purely out of habit. Looking for a pretty face, a nice smile, someone to spend the evening with. 

That’s when he sees you.

Dean stops breathing. Actually, physically forgets how to inhale. 

Across the courtyard, standing beneath the shade of a massive oak tree, is a woman. And not just any woman. She stands out against the sea of Briar University hoodies and sweatpants like a diamond sitting in a pile of gravel. She’s wearing a tailored camel trench coat, tied neatly at the waist, over a dark, elegant turtleneck. Her posture is immaculate — straight-backed, poised, the kind of posture drilled into someone through years of etiquette classes and formal dinners. 

But it’s not the clothes that make Dean’s heart violently hurl itself against his ribs. It’s the face. 

He blinks hard. He shakes his head, rubbing his free hand over his eyes. No, he tells himself. You’re hallucinating, Di Laurentis. Too much studying. Too much caffeine. Because it can’t be you. You are an ocean away.

You are the daughter of his mother’s best friend. The girl who grew up in the estate next door in Greenwich. The girl who used to build terribly constructed forts with him in the woods, who used to scrape her knees trying to keep up with him, who he used to share all his secrets with before the world got complicated. You were joined at the hip, practically a permanent fixture in the Di Laurentis household, until right before high school. 

That was when your father was appointed as the Ambassador to the United Kingdom. And just like that, you were whisked away to London. 

The distance had been a sudden, sharp ache that Dean had never fully known how to process. Over the years, the letters and FaceTime calls had dwindled as you both grew up and built separate lives. Last he heard from his mother, you were studying at Oxford. You were thriving. You were also, allegedly, dating some British aristocrat. A Lord, or an Earl, or a Viscount. Something pretentious. Not that Dean was jealous. He absolutely wasn’t jealous. He was a Briar hockey star; why would he care about some tea-drinking Earl in tweed?

But the woman standing under the tree looks exactly like the girl he used to know, overlaid with a breathtaking, mature beauty that makes his throat go dry.

“Whoa,” Beau murmurs, having followed Dean’s line of sight. “Who is that? She looks like she belongs on the cover of Vogue, not outside the geology building.”

“Transfer student?” Garrett guesses, narrowing his eyes. 

“I call dibs,” Logan says immediately.

“Shut up,” Dean snaps. The harshness of his own voice surprises him, and it definitely surprises the guys, who all turn to look at him in bewilderment. 

Dean ignores them, his eyes locked on the figure under the tree. The woman is talking to two girls from Dean’s sports psychology class. She looks slightly shy, her hands clasped elegantly in front of her. 

Then, one of the girls says something, and the woman laughs.

It’s a soft, musical sound, ringing clear across the crisp autumn air. 

Dean drops his coffee. 

The paper cup hits the concrete, splashing warm, brown liquid over his pristine white sneakers, but he doesn’t even notice. He would know that laugh anywhere. He has heard it a thousand times in his childhood — when he fell off the monkey bars, when he told a terrible joke, when they stayed up past midnight watching movies they weren’t supposed to see.

“Y/N?” Dean breathes. 

He doesn’t realize he’s moving until he’s already shoving past a group of freshmen. 

“Whoa, Dean! Where are you going?” Tucker calls out.

Dean ignores them. He closes the distance across the courtyard in long, frantic strides. His heart is pounding a frantic, erratic rhythm against his sternum. As he gets closer, he raises his voice, the desperation bleeding through.

“Y/N!” 

You pause. The polite smile falters on your lips as you hear your name. You turn, your eyes scanning the chaotic campus crowd in confusion. You look bewildered, slightly out of your depth, a delicate flower suddenly dropped into the chaotic wilderness of an American college campus. 

Then, your eyes land on him. 

Dean stops a few feet away, his chest heaving as if he just skated three periods back-to-back. 

You stare at him. Your wide, expressive eyes blink once. Twice. Your lips part in shock. You take in the messy blonde hair, the broad shoulders that have filled out significantly since you were fourteen, the familiar, handsome face that has haunted your memories for years.

“Dean?” Your voice is a soft gasp, carrying a subtle, elegant British lilt that completely wrecks him.

“Holy shit,” Dean breathes out. “It’s really you.”

Before you can even formulate another word, Dean crosses the remaining distance. He doesn’t think. He just acts. He throws his arms around you, pulling you flush against his chest. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling the scent of you. You smell like expensive vanilla and Earl Grey tea, sophisticated and warm and so intensely you that it makes his head spin.

For a second, you freeze, completely shocked by the sudden, overwhelming embrace. But then, instinct takes over. You melt against him, your arms wrapping around his waist, holding onto him with a fierce, quiet desperation. 

The entire courtyard seems to stop. 

“Is that … Dean Di Laurentis?” A girl whispers loudly nearby. “Is he hugging someone?”

“Like … romantically?” Another asks in disbelief. “I thought he didn’t do public affection.”

“I thought he only hugged girls when they were horizontal.”

Dean hears the whispers, but he couldn’t care less. He squeezes you tighter, lifting you off your feet just a fraction of an inch, relishing the feeling of you in his arms. It’s a completely foreign sensation for him — touching a woman not with the intent to seduce, but out of overwhelming adoration and relief. 

When he finally, reluctantly pulls back, he keeps his hands on your shoulders, his thumbs gently grazing the soft fabric of your coat. He looks down at you, really looking at you, taking in the elegant curve of your jaw, the soft flush on your cheeks, the way your eyes sparkle with unshed tears.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, his voice thick with an emotion he can’t quite name. “You’re … God, you’re beautiful. You’re all grown up.”

You blush, a deep, pretty pink spreading across your cheeks. You duck your head shyly, a demure gesture that completely contradicts the bold, brash girls Dean usually surrounds himself with. “You haven’t done too badly yourself, Dean. Though I see you’re still as dramatic as ever.”

Dean laughs, a bright, genuine sound. “What the hell are you doing here? Mom told me you were at Oxford. Getting cozy with royalty or whatever.” He tries to keep the bitterness out of his voice, but a tiny sliver slips through.

Your smile falters slightly, a shadow passing over your eyes. You glance around, suddenly aware of the massive crowd of students staring at you, and more specifically, the four giant athletes slowly approaching from behind Dean, their jaws practically on the floor. 

“It’s … complicated,” you say softly, your hands nervously twisting the belt of your trench coat. “I transferred. I’m going to Briar now.”

“You’re going to Briar?” Dean repeats, his brain struggling to compute this information. You, the diplomat’s daughter, the Oxford scholar, at a party school in Massachusetts? “Since when?”

“Since about a week ago,” you admit, your voice barely above a whisper. “Dean, I …”

“Hold on, hold on,” Logan’s voice interrupts, loud and booming. Dean groans inwardly, dropping his hands from your shoulders as his friends finally catch up. 

Logan, Garrett, Tucker, and Beau form a massive, intimidating wall of muscle behind Dean. They are all staring at you as if you just dropped out of the sky in a flying saucer. 

“Dean,” Garrett says slowly, his eyes darting between you and his best friend. “Are you going to introduce us to your … friend?”

Dean feels a sudden, fierce wave of protectiveness wash over him. He steps slightly in front of you, shielding you from their intense gazes. 

“Guys, this is Y/N,” Dean says, his voice taking on a serious tone that the guys rarely hear. “Y/N, these are my idiot friends. Garrett, Logan, Tucker, and Beau.”

You offer them a small, polite smile, dipping your head in a graceful nod. “It is very lovely to meet you all. Dean has mentioned … well, he actually hasn’t mentioned you, but his mother has.”

Beau chuckles, immediately charmed. “Well, aren’t you a breath of fresh air. How do you know our boy here?”

“We grew up together,” you explain softly, your eyes darting back to Dean. “In Greenwich. We were best friends.”

“Best friends,” Logan repeats, his eyebrows shooting up to his hairline. He looks at Dean, a slow, annoying smirk spreading across his face. “Funny. Dean never mentioned he had a gorgeous, British-sounding best friend.”

“She’s not British, she just lived there,” Dean snaps, glaring at Logan. “And I didn’t mention her because you degenerates don’t deserve to know about her.”

Tucker chuckles, tipping his imaginary hat to you. “Ma’am. It’s a pleasure.”

“Please, just Y/N is fine,” you say, your cheeks still flushed. 

Dean turns his attention back to you, completely ignoring his friends. He reaches out, gently catching your hand. Your fingers are freezing. 

“You’re shaking,” he notes, his brow furrowing. “And you didn’t answer my question. Why are you here, Y/N? And don’t give me some bullshit about wanting to experience American college life. Oxford was your dream.”

You look down at your intertwined hands, your thumb unconsciously tracing the knuckles of his hand. It’s an intimate, familiar gesture that sends a jolt of electricity straight to Dean’s groin, but he aggressively shoves that reaction down. This is you. He cannot corrupt you. 

“My father,” you start, your voice trembling slightly. You swallow hard, looking up into Dean’s eyes, seeing the genuine concern radiating from him. “He … he was getting threats. At the embassy. Serious ones.”

The air around the group instantly shifts. The playful banter evaporates. Garrett’s posture straightens, Tucker crosses his arms, and Dean’s entire body goes rigid. 

“Threats?” Dean asks, his voice dropping an octave, losing all of its usual playful cadence. “What kind of threats?”

“Political ones,” you say vaguely, not wanting to spill state secrets in the middle of a busy quad. “Things got very tense very quickly. Security advised that my family be relocated. My parents are back in D.C. under heavy detail, but they didn’t want my education completely derailed. Briar has an excellent political science program, and they accepted my transfer credits immediately. Plus, it’s far away from Washington, but still in the States. They thought I would blend in here.”

You gesture helplessly to your immaculate outfit, contrasting sharply with the neon leggings and hoodies around you. “Though I suppose I’m failing a bit at the blending in part.”

Dean doesn’t laugh. His jaw is ticking, a muscle feathering in his cheek as he processes what you’re saying. You were in danger. You were threatened. The thought makes a sudden, terrifying rage spike in his chest. 

“Are you safe here?” Dean demands, his hand tightening around yours. 

“Yes,” you assure him quickly. “I have … well, I have discrete security. But officially, I’m just a normal student now. Or trying to be.”

Dean looks at you, really looks at you. He sees the exhaustion lurking beneath your perfectly applied makeup, the faint dark circles under your eyes, the tension in your shoulders. You have been uprooted, terrified, and dropped into a completely alien environment. 

“Where are you living?” Dean asks.

“They put me in a single dorm in the upperclassman hall,” you say softly. “I was just trying to find the registrar’s office to get my schedule sorted, but this campus is rather massive.”

Dean makes a split-second decision. 

“You’re not staying in a dorm,” Dean says definitively. 

You blink in surprise. “Pardon?”

“He said,” Logan chimes in, correctly reading Dean’s mood and seamlessly backing him up, “that the dorms are trash. And you’re not staying in one.”

“I—I have to,” you stammer, looking overwhelmed. “It’s already paid for, and-”

“I don’t care if the President himself paid for it,” Dean says, stepping closer to you. “You’re not sleeping in a building with a broken security door and a bunch of drunk frat boys running down the halls. You’re coming home with me.”

Your eyes go wide. “Dean, I couldn’t possibly-”

“I live in an off-campus house,” Dean continues, his tone leaving absolutely no room for argument. “With Garrett, Logan, and Tucker. We have a spare room. It’s supposed to be a gaming room, but we’ll clear it out. You’re staying with us.”

“Dean,” Garrett says slowly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Are you sure that’s a good idea? I mean, we’re not exactly … quiet.”

“She’s staying with us, Garrett,” Dean repeats, shooting his captain a look that dares him to argue. 

Garrett holds his hands up in surrender. “Hey, I’m not arguing. It’s your call. Just warning the lady.”

You look entirely flustered, your elegant composure cracking as you look between the massive hockey players and your childhood best friend. “Dean, really, it’s too much. I don’t want to intrude. You have your own life, your own friends-”

“Y/N,” Dean says softly. He reaches out, gently cupping your cheek. The contact makes you gasp quietly. His thumb strokes your cheekbone, his eyes softening as he looks into yours. “You are never an intrusion. You’re family. And right now, you need someone to look out for you. Let me do this.”

You stare up at him, your heart doing a complicated flutter in your chest. The boy you used to know — the skinny, hyperactive kid who used to catch frogs in the creek — is gone. In his place is a man. A broad, commanding, impossibly handsome man who is looking at you with such fierce, protective devotion that it makes your breath catch. 

“Okay,” you whisper softly. “Okay. If you’re sure.”

“I’ve never been more sure of anything,” Dean says, offering you a breathtaking, devastating smile. The kind of smile that breaks hearts on a daily basis. 

He turns to the guys. “Beau, go to the registrar and sort out her schedule. Take her ID. Garrett, Logan, Tucker — we’re going to her dorm to pack up her shit and move it to our house.”

“Wait, I didn’t agree to be manual labor,” Logan complains. 

Dean shoots him a dark look. 

“Manual labor is my favorite,” Logan corrects immediately. “Point me to the boxes.”

Dean turns back to you, slipping your hand securely into his, lacing your fingers together. “Come on, sweetheart. Let’s get you out of this quad.”

As Dean leads you away, with three massive hockey players trailing behind like your personal bodyguards, you can’t help but feel a profound sense of whiplash. Within twenty minutes, your entire terrifying, lonely American college experience has been hijacked by Dean Di Laurentis. 

You look down at your intertwined hands, feeling the heat of his palm against yours. 

Maybe coming back to America wasn’t such a bad thing after all. 

***

The walk to your dorm is a surreal experience. The Briar campus is bustling with mid-morning activity, and you are acutely aware of the stares. Specifically, the stares directed at your joined hands. 

“Dean,” you murmur, leaning closer to him so the guys trailing behind you won’t hear. “People are staring.”

“Let them stare,” Dean says easily, his thumb rhythmically stroking the back of your hand. “They’re just jealous because I’m walking with the prettiest girl on campus.”

You roll your eyes, though a hot blush creeps up your neck. “You haven’t changed. Still a terrible flirt.”

“I’m not flirting,” Dean says, sounding genuinely offended. “I’m stating facts. I have an eye for aesthetics, Y/N. You know this.”

“I know that your mother used to complain that you spent more time looking in the mirror than she did,” you tease gently. 

Dean barks out a laugh. “That was one time! And I was styling my hair for the seventh-grade dance.”

“You used an entire can of hairspray,” you remind him, a genuine smile finally breaking through your anxiety. “You smelled like a chemical hazard.”

“And yet, you still danced with me,” he counters, throwing a wink over his shoulder. 

“I took pity on you,” you reply primly. 

Behind you, Logan lets out a low whistle. “She’s got jokes, Di Laurentis. I like her. Can we keep her?”

“She’s not a stray dog, Logan,” Garrett groans. 

“She’s too classy for us,” Tucker adds in his slow, Southern drawl. “Look at her. She looks like she should be having tea with the Queen, not walking next to a guy who ate cereal out of a frisbee this morning.”

You glance back at Tucker, slightly horrified. “You ate cereal out of a frisbee?”

“All the bowls were dirty,” Logan defends him. “It was a logistical necessity.”

You turn back to Dean, your eyes wide. “What exactly have I agreed to?”

“Chaos,” Dean admits cheerfully. “Absolute, unmitigated chaos. But I promise we’ll keep the house clean for you. I’ll personally hire a maid if I have to.”

“You don’t have to do that,” you say quickly. “I can clean. I’m quite domesticated.”

Dean stops walking. He turns to look at you, his expression completely serious. “Y/N. You are not cleaning our house. I will literally physically restrain you before I let you scrub a toilet that Logan has used.”

“Hey!” Logan yells from behind.

“I’m serious,” Dean says, his eyes boring into yours. “You’re a guest. You’re my … you’re with me. You don’t lift a finger.”

His words send a strange shiver down your spine. There is a possessiveness in his tone that you’ve never heard before. It’s thrilling, and terrifying, and completely unexpected. 

You finally reach your dorm building. It’s a standard, slightly run-down brick building that smells vaguely of cheap beer and floor wax. Dean wrinkles his nose as you lead them inside and up to the third floor. 

When you unlock your door and push it open, the stark, depressing reality of the tiny room hits you again. A single twin bed with a thin mattress, a particle-board desk, and two large suitcases sitting unpacked in the center of the floor. 

Dean steps inside, looking around with blatant disgust. “Yeah, no. This is a prison cell. Grab what you need for the day, we’re taking the rest.”

“It’s not that bad,” you say softly, walking over to your suitcase. 

“It’s inhumane,” Dean corrects. He turns to his teammates. “Grab the bags. Let’s go.”

Garrett and Tucker easily heft your massive, heavy suitcases as if they weigh absolutely nothing. Logan grabs a smaller duffel bag and a few hanging garment bags. 

“Is this everything?” Dean asks. 

You look around the barren room, clutching your handbag. “Yes. I haven’t exactly had time to unpack.”

“Good,” Dean says. He steps close to you again, his presence overwhelming in the tiny space. He reaches out, gently tucking a stray lock of hair behind your ear. His fingers brush against your skin, sending a jolt of heat straight to your core. 

“You’re safe now,” he murmurs, his voice so low only you can hear it. “I’ve got you, Y/N. I promise.”

You look up into his warm, green eyes, seeing the fierce sincerity there. The fear and isolation that had been gripping your chest for the past week slowly begins to uncoil. 

“I know,” you whisper. 

For the first time since you landed in America, you actually believe it. 

Dean smiles, a soft, intimate thing that makes your breath catch. He takes your hand again, leading you out of the dismal dorm room and toward whatever crazy, chaotic new life awaits you at the off-campus house. 

As you walk out of the building, surrounded by a phalanx of massive hockey players, you realize one very undeniable fact. 

Dean Di Laurentis might be known as the campus womanizer, but to you, he is something entirely different. He is your past, your protector, and quite possibly, the most dangerous thing to your heart.

The walk to the house is a blur of falling autumn leaves and the continuous, rapid-fire banter of the Briar hockey players. You mostly listen, fascinated by the easy camaraderie between Dean and his friends. It’s vastly different from the stiff, overly polite circles you ran in at Oxford, where every conversation felt like a chess match. Here, the insults are hurled with affection, and there are absolutely no filters. 

“So, Y/N,” Garrett says, easily matching your pace despite carrying a suitcase that weighs half as much as you do. “Politics, huh? You want to be a diplomat like your dad?”

“That’s the plan,” you say, your voice steadying as you find your footing in the conversation. “International relations, specifically. Though right now, I think I’d settle for just passing my midterms without causing an international incident.”

“If you need help studying, Logan is basically a genius,” Dean chimes in, though his tone is heavily laced with sarcasm. “He once tried to put metal in the microwave to see if it would sparkle.”

“It was a scientific inquiry!” Logan defends loudly from the back. “And I was a freshman!”

“You were a sophomore,” Tucker corrects mildly. 

You let out a soft laugh, the sound bubbling up naturally. Dean’s head snaps toward you, his eyes catching yours. The playful smirk on his face softens into something warmer, something that makes the knot of anxiety in your stomach loosen even more. 

“Here we are,” Dean announces, gesturing grandly to a large, slightly weathered two-story house sitting on a quiet residential street just off campus. The lawn could use a trim, and there’s a stray hockey stick leaning against the porch railing, but it looks incredibly inviting. It looks like a home. 

Dean leads you up the steps and pushes the front door open, stepping aside to let you enter first. 

You step into the foyer, immediately assaulted by the scent of pine cleaner, old leather, and something distinctly masculine. The living room to the left is massive, dominated by a huge sectional sofa and a television that belongs in a movie theater. 

“It’s … very big,” you remark politely, stepping further inside. 

“It’s a pigsty,” Dean corrects, glaring at a pair of discarded sneakers in the hallway. He kicks them into a closet. “I’m going to murder whoever left their shoes out.”

“Those are your shoes, bro,” Logan points out, dropping your bags at the base of the stairs. 

Dean doesn’t miss a beat. “I’m a complex man. I contain multitudes. Come on, sweetheart, let me show you your room.”

He takes your hand again — a gesture that is quickly becoming a habit — and leads you up the wide wooden staircase. You trail behind him, acutely aware of how small your hand feels in his. 

At the end of the hallway, Dean pushes open a door. 

“This was the designated gaming room,” Dean explains, flipping on the light switch. “But we have another TV downstairs, so it’s basically just storage. Give us an hour to clear out the Xbox and the beanbag chairs, and we’ll bring up a bed from the basement. It’s a real mattress, I swear. Not that dorm room cardboard.”

You step into the room. It’s spacious, with a large window overlooking the backyard. Right now, it’s cluttered with video game cases, a ratty sofa, and empty pizza boxes. 

You turn to Dean, feeling overwhelmed all over again. “Dean, I can’t ask you to give up your space for me. I can just stay in the dorm. It really isn’t-”

“Stop,” Dean says softly, stepping into your personal space. He reaches out, placing his hands lightly on your waist. The heat of his palms bleeds through your trench coat, sending a violent shiver down your spine. 

“Look at me,” he commands gently. 

You look up, meeting those devastating green eyes. 

“I am not letting you stay in a dorm where anyone could walk in,” Dean says, his voice dropping to a serious, gravelly register. “I know you have security, but I don’t care. I need to know you’re safe. I need to know that when I go to sleep at night, you’re just down the hall. Let me do this for you, Y/N. Please.”

His plea is so earnest, so completely stripped of the cocky armor he usually wears, that it breaks your heart a little. You realize then that this isn’t just about protecting you; it’s about him needing the reassurance. 

“Okay,” you whisper, nodding slowly. “Okay, Dean. Thank you.”

He exhales a long breath, a stunning smile breaking across his face. “Good. Now, sit on that disgustingly stained sofa and supervise while I make these idiots do heavy lifting.”

For the next hour, you sit and watch in amusement as the hockey players dismantle the gaming room. They move furniture with shocking efficiency, bickering the entire time. Dean is a relentless taskmaster, snapping orders and threatening bodily harm if anyone scratches the walls. 

When they finally lug a heavy wooden bed frame and a pristine mattress up from the basement, Dean insists on making the bed himself. 

You lean against the doorframe, watching as the notorious campus playboy meticulously tucks in a fitted sheet with absolute precision. 

“You have excellent domestic skills, Di Laurentis,” you tease, crossing your arms over your chest. 

Dean smirks, tossing a pillow onto the bed. “My mother taught me that a man should always know how to make a bed perfectly. Among other things.”

He shoots you a wicked, heavily implied wink that makes your face burn. 

“Down, boy,” Garrett warns as he walks past, carrying the last stack of video games. “Don’t scar the poor girl.”

“I am a perfect gentleman,” Dean protests, fluffing the pillow aggressively. 

Once the room is cleared and your suitcases are placed at the foot of the bed, Dean ushers the other guys out of the room. 

“Give her some space to unpack,” Dean orders, practically shoving Logan out the door. “We’ll order pizza for lunch. Y/N, you like pepperoni?”

“I love pepperoni,” you say softly. 

“Perfect. Unpack. Breathe. Come down when you’re ready,” Dean says. He lingers in the doorway for a second, his eyes tracing over your features as if he still can’t believe you’re actually standing in his house. 

“Welcome home, Y/N.”

And as he pulls the door shut, leaving you alone in the suddenly quiet room, you press a hand to your chest, feeling the frantic, terrifyingly fast beat of your heart. 

You are thousands of miles from the life you knew, hiding from threats you barely understand, living in a house full of giant athletes. 

But as you look at the perfectly made bed, and remember the fierce, protective heat in Dean’s eyes, you realize something profound. 

For the first time in weeks, you aren’t afraid. 

By the time you finish unpacking your essentials and hanging your tailored clothes in the small closet, the scent of melted cheese and greasy pepperoni is wafting up the stairs. Your stomach gives an unladylike rumble, reminding you that you haven’t eaten since a piece of dry toast at 6:00 AM. 

You take a deep breath, smoothing down the front of your sweater. You swapped the formal trench coat and turtleneck for a pair of fitted dark jeans and a soft, oversized cashmere sweater — an attempt to match the casual vibe of the house without losing your own sense of style. 

When you walk down the stairs, the volume of the house hits you instantly. The television is blaring a sports broadcast, and three overlapping arguments are happening simultaneously in the kitchen. 

You peek around the corner. The massive kitchen island is covered in flat cardboard pizza boxes. Garrett, Logan, and Tucker are all standing around, shoving slices into their mouths at an alarming rate. 

Dean is leaning against the counter, a slice of pizza in one hand and a beer in the other. He looks perfectly in his element, relaxed and gorgeously disheveled. 

Then he spots you. 

The conversation around him continues, but Dean completely tunes it out. His eyes lock onto yours, sweeping over your casual outfit. A slow, devastating smile spreads across his face, lighting up his features in a way that makes your breath catch. 

“Hey,” he says softly, his voice cutting through the noise in the room like a knife. 

The other guys immediately stop talking and turn to look at you. 

“The Queen descends,” Logan jokes, offering you a greasy salute with his pizza crust. 

“Ignore him,” Dean says, pushing off the counter and walking over to you. He grabs a clean paper plate, loads it with two slices of pepperoni pizza, and hands it to you. “Eat. You look like a stiff breeze could knock you over.”

“Thank you,” you murmur, taking the plate. You walk over to the island, hyper-aware of Dean shadowing your steps. You take a delicate bite of the pizza, the warm, greasy goodness making you close your eyes in appreciation. “Oh, that is heavenly.”

“See?” Dean says, looking incredibly smug. “American pizza. Way better than whatever boiled garbage they serve in England.”

“They don’t boil pizza, Dean,” you point out dryly, taking another bite. 

“Whatever,” he dismisses smoothly. He leans against the counter next to you, his shoulder brushing against yours. The physical contact is completely casual for him, but it sends a jolt of electricity straight to your brain. “So, did Beau text back about your schedule?”

Tucker pulls out his phone. “Yeah, Beau texted the group chat while you were upstairs. He got her registered. Emailed the schedule to her student account. She’s got Political Theory at 8 AM tomorrow.”

You groan softly, dropping your head forward. “Eight AM. The cruelty of the American education system.”

Dean laughs, a rich, warm sound that vibrates in his chest. “Don’t worry. I’ll drive you.”

You look up at him, startled. “Dean, you don’t have to do that. I can walk. I’m sure you have your own classes.”

“I don’t have class until eleven,” Dean says simply, taking a sip of his beer. “And you’re not walking across campus alone. Not right now. Until we get a handle on … your situation, you don’t go anywhere alone. Understand?”

His tone leaves no room for argument. It’s the voice of a man who is used to getting his way, but beneath the bossiness, there is a thick layer of genuine anxiety. He is worried about you. 

“Alright,” you agree softly. “If you’re sure it’s not a bother.”

“You,” Dean says, leaning in so his face is only inches from yours, his green eyes intense, “are never a bother.”

The kitchen suddenly feels very small, and very hot. You stare into his eyes, completely forgetting how to breathe, let alone speak. The undeniable, pulsing tension between you is thick enough to cut with a knife. 

Someone clears their throat loudly. 

You jump, breaking eye contact with Dean and looking over to see Garrett leaning against the fridge, arms crossed, observing the two of you with raised eyebrows. 

“So,” Garrett drawls, a hint of amusement in his voice. “Childhood best friends, huh? You guys used to play in the sandbox together?”

“I used to push him into the mud,” you correct, finding your voice. “Regularly.”

Logan barks a laugh. “I knew I liked her.”

“She was vicious,” Dean agrees, turning back to the guys but keeping his body angled toward you. “One time, she convinced me that poison ivy was a rare type of mint. I was covered in rashes for a week.”

“You were terribly gullible,” you say innocently, taking another bite of pizza. 

“I trusted you!” Dean gasps in mock betrayal. “You were the diplomat’s daughter! You were supposed to be honorable.”

“Diplomacy,” you counter smoothly, “is just the art of letting someone else have your way. I wanted to see what would happen.”

The guys burst into laughter, and even Dean chuckles, shaking his head. He reaches out and nudges your shoulder gently. “You’re lucky you’re cute, Y/L/N.”

The casual compliment makes your heart stutter. You duck your head to hide the sudden blush painting your cheeks. 

As lunch winds down, the guys scatter to their respective routines. Garrett and Logan head to the living room to play NHL on the Xbox, and Tucker retreats upstairs to study. 

Which leaves you alone in the kitchen with Dean. 

You start gathering the empty pizza boxes, intending to throw them away, but Dean intercepts you. His hands cover yours, stopping your movements. 

“I told you,” he says softly. “You don’t clean.”

“Dean, it’s just boxes,” you protest weakly, staring down at his large, warm hands covering yours. 

“I don’t care,” he says. He takes the boxes from you and tosses them into the large trash can by the door. Then, he turns back to you, his expression turning uncharacteristically serious. 

“Y/N. Come here.”

He grabs your hand and leads you out of the kitchen, pulling you toward the back of the house and out onto a small patio. The crisp autumn air bites at your cheeks, but you barely feel it. Dean lets go of your hand and leans against the wooden railing, crossing his arms over his chest. 

“Tell me the truth,” he says, his eyes boring into yours. “How bad are the threats?”

You wrap your arms around your middle, suddenly feeling very small. The playful banter of the kitchen is gone, replaced by the stark, terrifying reality of why you are actually here. 

“They were … specific,” you whisper, looking down at the wooden planks of the patio. “Letters delivered directly to the embassy. Photos of me at Oxford. Walking to class. Sitting in cafes. Someone was following me.”

Dean curses violently under his breath, his hands gripping the railing so hard his knuckles turn white. 

“My father’s security detail intercepted them before I saw most of it,” you continue, your voice trembling slightly at the memory. “But they told him that the people making the threats knew my schedule perfectly. They wanted my father to vote a certain way on an upcoming international trade sanction, and they were using me as leverage.”

Dean pushes off the railing and steps closer to you. He doesn’t touch you, but his physical proximity is a comfort in itself. “So they pulled you out.”

“In the middle of the night,” you nod, tears pricking the corners of your eyes. “I didn’t even get to say goodbye to my professors or my friends. They packed my bags, put me on a private jet with four armed guards, and flew me to D.C. I stayed in a safe house for three days before they decided Briar was a safe enough distance to hide me.”

You look up at him, a single tear spilling over your lashes and tracking down your cheek. “I’m terrified, Dean. I’m trying to be brave, but every time I look over my shoulder, I expect to see someone watching me.”

“Hey,” Dean breathes, closing the remaining distance between you. He wraps his arms around you, pulling you firmly against his chest. You bury your face in his shoulder, letting out a shaky breath as his arms envelop you completely. 

“No one is watching you here,” Dean whispers fiercely into your hair, his hands stroking up and down your back. “I swear to God, Y/N, no one is going to touch you. You have me. You have Garrett, Logan, and Tucker. We are literally a house full of giant, violent hockey players. You are the safest person in the state of Massachusetts.”

You let out a wet, watery laugh against his sweater. “You’re not violent.”

“I can be,” Dean says, and the deadly serious tone of his voice makes you pause. “For you, I could be.”

You pull back slightly, looking up into his face. The cocky, charming playboy is entirely gone. In his eyes, you see a fierce, unyielding devotion that takes your breath away. 

“Why are you doing this, Dean?” You whisper. “You have your own life. You don’t need to babysit me.”

Dean reaches up, his thumb gently wiping away the tear track on your cheek. His touch is impossibly tender. 

“Because you’re mine,” he says simply, the words slipping out naturally, as if it’s the most obvious fact in the universe. “You always have been, Y/N. Since we were kids. I lost you once when you moved away. I’m not letting anything happen to you now that I have you back.”

Your heart slams against your ribs. The words echo in your head, thrilling and terrifying all at once. You stare at him, seeing the sudden realization of what he just said flicker in his own eyes. Dean swallows hard, his gaze dropping to your lips for a fraction of a second before darting back up to your eyes. 

The air between you is highly combustible. All it would take is one lean, one tilt of the head, and years of childhood friendship would go up in flames. 

Dean slowly leans in, his face inches from yours. You find yourself leaning closer, your eyes fluttering shut, anticipating the slide of his lips against yours. 

BANG.

The sound of the back door flying open shatters the moment like glass. 

You and Dean spring apart instantly, your faces flushed, breathing heavily. 

Logan stands in the doorway, oblivious to the heavy tension he just interrupted. “Yo, Di Laurentis! Are we doing the grocery run or what? We’re out of beer and Y/N probably needs, like, fancy British tea or something.”

Dean closes his eyes, taking a deep, ragged breath. When he opens them, he shoots Logan a look of pure, unadulterated murder. 

“I’m coming,” Dean snaps, his voice completely strained. 

Logan blinks, finally sensing the weird vibe. “Uh … did I interrupt something?”

“Yes,” Dean says bluntly. “Go start the car.”

Logan throws his hands up in surrender and retreats back inside. 

Dean turns back to you, dragging a hand through his messy blonde hair. He looks incredibly frustrated, but a small, breathless smile tugs at the corner of his lips. 

“We’re going to pick up some things for you,” Dean says softly, his eyes dropping to your lips again. “Get settled. Take a nap. I’ll be back soon.”

You nod silently, still trying to get your erratic heartbeat under control. “Okay.”

He hesitates for a second, looking as though he wants to close the distance again, but then he shakes his head and steps back. “Lock the door behind me.”

As Dean walks back inside, leaving you alone on the crisp patio, you press your fingers against your lips. They are tingling, buzzing with the phantom feeling of a kiss that never happened. 

You are hiding from a terrifying political threat, living in a house of hockey players, and you are dangerously close to falling completely, irrevocably in love with the biggest playboy on campus. 

Welcome to Briar University.

***

It has been exactly three weeks since you moved into the off-campus hockey house, and the entirety of Briar University is operating under the collective, terrifying assumption that Dean Di Laurentis has been abducted by aliens. Or cloned. Or possessed by a very chaste, very domesticated demon. 

There is simply no other logical explanation. 

“I’m telling you, it’s not him,” Logan says, his voice hushed but frantic as he peeks around the kitchen doorframe. He’s staring into the living room, where Dean is currently sitting on the couch. “Look at him. Just look.”

Garrett sighs, leaning against the counter and crossing his massive arms. “He’s reading a textbook, Logan. It’s called studying. Normal college students do it.”

“Dean doesn’t!” Logan hisses, gesturing wildly. “Dean pays attention in class just enough to coast, and he spends his free time trying to get horizontal with anything that has a pulse and a nice smile! He hasn’t brought a girl home in twenty-one days, Garrett. Twenty-one! Do you know what that means?”

“That we don’t have to bleach the living room rug anymore?” Tucker suggests mildly from his spot at the kitchen island, not looking up from his breakfast.

“It means his brain has been hijacked,” Logan insists. 

Beau, who had stopped by to steal their food, chuckles and takes a bite of an apple. “Or, and hear me out, it means his childhood best friend moved in, and he’s realized he has to actually be a functional human being to keep her safe.”

They all fall silent, turning to look back out into the living room. 

You are sitting on the opposite end of the oversized sectional. You have a thick political science textbook resting on your knees, your brow furrowed in concentration as you highlight a passage. You’re wearing a pair of soft grey sweatpants — a recent, highly encouraged addition to your wardrobe by the guys — and an oversized Briar hockey hoodie that absolutely swallows your delicate frame. The hoodie belongs to Dean. 

And Dean? Dean is sitting about a foot away from you, his own textbook open, but he isn’t reading. He’s just watching you. His arm is draped along the back of the sofa, his fingers lightly, almost unconsciously, playing with the frayed end of your hoodie string. His eyes are soft, tracing the line of your profile with a reverence that borders on religious. 

“It’s freaky,” Logan mutters. “He went from being a certified campus manwhore to … a golden retriever. A very protective, aggressively loyal golden retriever.”

“He’s whipped,” Garrett says, though there’s a fond smile pulling at his lips. “And they aren’t even dating.”

“Yet,” Beau corrects softly. “Give it time. The guy looks at her like she hung the moon and the stars.”

In the living room, you let out a soft sigh, rubbing your eyes. You’ve been studying for three hours straight. The sudden shift from the British educational system to American midterms has been jarring, and the added stress of your security situation hasn’t helped your focus. 

“Tired?” Dean asks instantly, his voice a low, soothing rumble. 

You turn to look at him, offering a small, exhausted smile. “A bit. Rousseau is incredibly dense when you’re running on four hours of sleep.”

Dean frowns, his hand dropping from the hoodie string to gently brush a stray lock of hair out of your eyes. “You need a break. We have class in an hour anyway. Come on, I’ll make you tea.”

“I can make it,” you protest gently, starting to close your heavy book. 

“Absolutely not,” Dean says, already standing up. He reaches down and effortlessly plucks the massive textbook from your lap, tossing it onto the coffee table. “You sit. I brew. That’s the deal.”

As Dean walks into the kitchen, Logan, Garrett, and Beau immediately scatter, trying to look as though they weren’t just intensely analyzing his every move. Dean ignores them completely, walking straight to the kettle. 

You watch him from the couch, your heart doing that familiar, terrifying little flip. The way he treats you is entirely at odds with the reputation that precedes him. You’ve heard the whispers on campus. You know what people say about Dean. You know the girls point and stare, whispering about his conquests. But the man who makes your bed when you forget, who insists on walking you to every single class, who glares at any frat boy who looks at you for too long? That man is careful. He treats you like you are something precious, something made of spun glass that he is terrified of breaking. 

Ten minutes later, Dean emerges from the kitchen with a travel mug. He hands it to you. 

You take a sip and close your eyes, a genuine hum of pleasure escaping your lips. “Dean … this is Earl Grey. With exactly a splash of oat milk and half a teaspoon of honey.”

“I know,” Dean says, grabbing his backpack and slinging it over one broad shoulder. 

“How do you remember that?” You ask, staring up at him in wonder. “I haven’t ordered this in front of you since I moved here. I’ve just been drinking whatever drip coffee the guys make.”

Dean pauses, looking down at you. The easy, arrogant smirk he usually wears is nowhere to be found. “I remember everything about you, Y/N. Everything. I didn’t forget your favorite tea just because you moved across an ocean.”

Your breath catches. You stare at him, feeling a hot flush rise to your cheeks. 

“Come on,” Dean murmurs, his voice softening even further. He reaches down, grabbing your heavy tote bag before you can even reach for it. “Let’s go to class. I want a good seat.”

The walk across campus is, as always, an exercise in public scrutiny. Dean walks slightly ahead of you, his large frame parting the sea of students effortlessly. Every time you pass a group of girls, you see the hopeful glances directed his way, followed immediately by total confusion when Dean doesn’t even spare them a second glance. His entire focus is tethered to you. 

When you enter the massive lecture hall for your Political Science seminar, it’s already crowded. Dean immediately zeroes in on two seats near the middle row. He drops your bag onto one chair and his own onto the other, effectively claiming the territory. 

“Hey, Dean,” a high-pitched, bubbly voice calls out. 

You both turn to see a stunning blonde in a cropped sweater leaning over the row behind you. She flashes Dean a brilliant, practiced smile. “I was hoping you’d be here. There’s an empty seat next to me if you want it. We could … share notes.”

You feel a sudden, sharp prickle of insecurity. She is exactly the kind of girl you imagine Dean with — bold, beautiful, and completely uninhibited. You instinctively shrink in on yourself, looking down at your hands. You are so fundamentally different. You are quiet, painfully shy, and the thought of public displays of affection makes you want to spontaneously combust. 

But Dean doesn’t smile back at the blonde. In fact, his expression remains completely blank, almost bored. 

“I’m sitting with Y/N,” Dean says flatly, leaving absolutely no room for interpretation. 

“Oh,” the girl falters, her smile slipping as she glances at you with thinly veiled disdain. “Right. The … new girl.”

Dean’s jaw ticks. He steps slightly in front of you, a clear, territorial block. “Yeah. My girl. Excuse us.”

The words send a dizzying rush of heat straight to your core. You sink into your seat, your face practically burning, as Dean sits down next to you. He casually drapes his arm across the back of your chair, his solid, warm presence a shield against the rest of the room. 

“You didn’t have to be rude to her,” you whisper, though secretly, you are terribly glad he was. 

“I wasn’t rude,” Dean whispers back, leaning in so close his breath ghosts over your ear. “I was honest. I don’t care about her notes. I only care about you.”

You bite your lower lip, trying desperately to suppress the smile fighting its way onto your face. Dean’s eyes track the movement of your teeth on your lip, his pupils dilating slightly, but he quickly forces his gaze away and pulls his notebook out. He is so restrained with you, so careful not to push your boundaries, and it only makes you fall for him harder.

Friday night arrives with the heavy, pulsing bass of a house party. 

The guys decided to throw a rager to kick off the start of the hockey season. Under normal circumstances, you would have locked yourself in your room with a pair of noise-canceling headphones. But Dean had looked at you with those big, green eyes and promised he would stay by your side the entire night, so here you are. 

You are standing in the corner of the crowded living room, clutching a red Solo cup filled with ginger ale. You are wearing a high-necked, long-sleeved black dress that hits mid-thigh. It’s elegant, understated, and completely out of place in the sea of neon crop tops and miniskirts surrounding you. 

“Are you okay?” 

You look up as Dean materializes through the crowd. He’s wearing a fitted black Henley that highlights every single muscle in his chest and arms, and his hair is perfectly, artfully messy. He looks like pure, unfiltered trouble. But the moment his eyes land on you, the dangerous edge softens. 

“I’m fine,” you say, though you have to shout slightly over the music. “It’s just … very loud.”

“We can go upstairs,” Dean offers immediately, stepping closer so he doesn’t have to yell. His body acts as a natural barrier, preventing a stumbling frat boy from bumping into you. “We can lock the door and watch a movie. I don’t care about the party.”

You stare at him in disbelief. “Dean, this is your house. Your team. You can’t just hide upstairs with me. Everyone expects the legendary Dean Di Laurentis to be out here, working the room.”

Dean scoffs, taking a sip from his own cup. “Let them expect whatever they want. I’ve retired.”

“Retired?” You echo, a small laugh escaping you. 

“Yep,” Dean says, leaning against the wall next to you. “Hung up my jersey. I’m a one-woman man now.”

The casual confession makes your breath hitch. He says it so easily, so confidently, but the weight of the words is staggering. 

Before you can formulate a response, a girl with bright red hair pushes her way through the crowd and practically throws herself at Dean. 

“Deeeaan,” she purrs, trailing a manicured hand down his bicep. “I haven’t seen you all night! We should go to the kitchen and do shots. Or go somewhere … quieter.”

She presses her chest against his arm, shooting a triumphant look at you. It’s the kind of blatant proposition that the old Dean would have accepted before she even finished her sentence. You’ve heard the stories. You know that more than once, he’s hooked up with girls right here in the living room while a party raged around them. 

You instinctively take a step back, the familiar, suffocating shyness gripping your throat. You can’t compete with this. You don’t want to compete with this. 

But Dean doesn’t even blink. He physically steps back, dislodging the redhead’s hand from his arm as if she’s made of acid. 

“Not interested, Lexi,” Dean says, his voice devoid of any warmth. 

“What?” Lexi pouts, looking genuinely shocked. “Come on, Dean. Don’t be boring. It’s Friday!”

“I said no,” Dean repeats, his tone dropping into a freezing, commanding register that makes the girl actually flinch. “I’m busy.”

He reaches out, grabbing your hand and pulling you firmly to his side. He intertwines your fingers, holding your hand up slightly so the girl can see it. 

“I’m with her,” Dean states unequivocally. “Have a good night.”

Lexi stares at your joined hands, then looks up at your flushed face. She huffs in annoyance, turning on her heel and stomping away into the crowd. 

You look up at Dean, your heart pounding a frantic rhythm against your ribs. “You really didn’t have to do that.”

“Yes, I did,” Dean says, looking down at you. His thumb strokes the back of your hand, a grounding, soothing motion. “I told you, Y/N. I don’t want anyone else. They don’t even register on my radar anymore. It’s just you.”

“Dean …” you breathe, feeling completely overwhelmed by the raw honesty in his eyes. 

“Hey, lovebirds!” 

The moment breaks as Tucker and Logan push their way over to your corner. Logan is grinning like a madman, holding two fresh beers. 

“Di Laurentis,” Logan says, shaking his head. “I just watched you turn down Lexi. The Lexi. Are you feeling okay? Do we need to call a doctor?”

“I’m perfectly fine,” Dean snaps, though he doesn’t drop your hand. 

“He’s domesticated,” Tucker drawls, leaning against the wall and tipping his cup toward you. “You’ve tamed the beast, Y/N. The whole hockey team is terrified of you.”

You blush furiously, looking down at your shoes. “I haven’t done anything.”

“That’s the crazy part,” Logan laughs. “You literally just exist, and he acts like a knight in shining armor. It’s disgusting. I love it. Can I get a hug?”

Logan opens his arms, stepping toward you. 

Before you can even react, Dean steps directly between you and Logan, pressing a flat hand to his teammate’s chest. 

“Do not touch her,” Dean growls, half-joking, half-deadly serious. 

Logan puts his hands up in surrender, laughing harder. “Alright, alright! Guard dog mode activated. I respect it.”

As the guys fall into an easy banter, Dean pulls you slightly closer, tucking you into his side. You lean your head against his shoulder, letting the chaos of the party wash over you. Surrounded by the towering hockey players, anchored by Dean’s warm, protective grip, you feel something you haven’t felt since you lived in London. 

You feel entirely safe.

The next evening is the first official home game of the season. 

The Briar University arena is packed to the rafters, a sea of black and red violently cheering as the Zamboni finishes clearing the ice. The energy is electric, thick with anticipation and the smell of roasted peanuts and cold air. 

You are standing outside the home locker room, clutching a plastic cup of overpriced hot chocolate. 

The door swings open, and Dean steps out. 

He is fully geared up, massive in his shoulder pads, his Briar jersey stark and imposing. He looks like a gladiator about to step into the Colosseum. But the moment his eyes find you, the ferocious intensity of his game-face melts away, replaced by that soft, devoted smile reserved entirely for you. 

He walks over, his skates clacking loudly against the rubber floor mats. 

“Hey,” he says, stopping right in front of you. 

“Hey yourself,” you reply softly, looking up at him. “You look … intimidating.”

Dean chuckles, a low, nervous sound. “Good. That’s the point. But I don’t want to intimidate you.”

“You never intimidate me, Dean,” you say truthfully. 

Dean swallows hard, his eyes dropping to your outfit. You are wearing a simple black turtleneck and jeans. He frowns slightly. 

“Hold on,” Dean says. He reaches back and grabs the hem of his game jersey, pulling it up and over his head in one fluid motion. 

You gasp, your eyes going wide as he stands there in just his black under-armor shirt, the tight material clinging to every ridge of his abs and chest. “Dean! What are you doing?”

“You’re not wearing my colors,” Dean states simply. He shakes out the massive jersey and holds it out to you. “Put it on.”

“Dean, it’s your game jersey,” you protest, your heart doing a wild, frantic dance. “You need it to play!”

“I have a spare in my locker,” he dismisses easily. “Put it on, Y/N. Please. I want … I want everyone in that arena to know whose side you’re on.”

The intense possessiveness in his voice makes your knees weak. With shaking hands, you hand him your hot chocolate and take the jersey. You pull it over your head. It is ridiculously large on you, the heavy fabric falling almost to your knees, the sleeves swallowing your hands entirely. 

But across the back, in massive block letters, it reads DI LAURENTIS 66.

You smell like him now — a mix of clean laundry detergent, ice, and that distinct, spicy cologne he wears. 

Dean stares at you, his chest heaving slightly as he takes in the sight of you swimming in his jersey. His eyes darken, a visceral, primal reaction flashing across his features before he aggressively reels it in. 

“Yeah,” Dean breathes, his voice rough. “That’s exactly how you’re supposed to look.”

He hands you back your drink and steps closer, reaching out to gently tug on the collar of the jersey. “I have to go to the bench. Beau is saving you a seat three rows behind our box. It’s next to the glass. You’ll be safe there.”

“I’ll be cheering for you,” you promise softly. 

Dean leans down, and for a terrifying, exhilarating second, you think he’s going to kiss you. But instead, he presses his lips firmly to your forehead, lingering there for a long moment, inhaling your scent. 

“Watch me, sweetheart,” he whispers against your skin. “I’m going to play for you.”

When you finally take your seat next to Beau in the stands, the entire arena seems to be buzzing. Beau takes one look at the oversized jersey swallowing you whole and bursts out laughing. 

“Oh, he is so gone,” Beau cackles, shaking his head. “If he plays half as aggressively as he’s acting right now, we’re winning a national championship.”

The puck drops, and the game begins. 

It is violent, fast-paced, and incredibly stressful. You sit on the edge of your seat, your hands clutched tightly in your lap as you watch the boys crash into the boards. 

But Dean is a revelation. 

He skates with a fluid, lethal grace, dodging defenders and making plays that leave the opposing team looking foolish. He is a blur of motion, hyper-focused and ruthless. 

Midway through the first period, Briar gets a breakaway. 

Logan intercepts a pass and sends it rocketing up the ice. Dean is there, catching it flawlessly. He tears down the center, the crowd rising to their feet, screaming his name. He fakes left, drops his shoulder, and sends a devastatingly fast wrist-shot right over the goalie’s glove. 

The red light flashes. The horn blares. The arena completely erupts. 

You jump to your feet, screaming in delight, your hands flying up in the air. 

On the ice, Garrett and Logan immediately tackle Dean, shoving him against the glass in celebration. Dean laughs, shaking them off, and skates directly toward the bench. 

But he doesn’t stop at the bench. 

He skates right up to the glass where you are sitting. The crowd around you goes wild, but Dean doesn’t look at them. He looks right at you. 

He taps his stick against the plexiglass twice, right in front of your face. Then, he presses his gloved hand to his chest, right over his heart, and points directly at you. 

The gesture is so public, so undeniably romantic, that the entire section of fans surrounding you completely loses their minds. Girls are screaming, Beau is howling with laughter, and you are standing there, wearing his name on your back, feeling completely cherished.

Two hours later, the game is over. Briar has decimated the visiting team 4-1, and the post-game high is practically vibrating through the concrete walls of the arena corridors. 

You are standing in the secluded hallway just past the locker rooms, waiting. The crowds have mostly filtered out, heading to the inevitable victory parties, but you stayed exactly where Dean told you to wait. 

The heavy locker room door opens, and the boys start pouring out. They are showered, dressed in their street clothes, and loud. 

When Dean finally emerges, he looks exhausted but radiant. His hair is damp from the shower, curling slightly at his forehead, and he’s wearing a simple grey t-shirt and jeans. He has a massive sports duffel slung over his shoulder. 

He spots you leaning against the wall, still drowning in his game jersey, and a slow, exhausted smile spreads across his face. He drops his bag immediately and crosses the hallway in three long strides. 

“Hey,” he breathes out, stopping right in front of you. 

“Hi,” you say, looking up at him with wide, shining eyes. “You were incredible out there, Dean. Truly.”

“Yeah?” He asks, his eyes searching your face, seeking your approval above all else. 

“The best on the ice,” you confirm softly. 

The boys are filtering past you both, offering catcalls and teasing whistles. 

“Get a room, Di Laurentis!” Logan shouts as he walks by with Tucker. 

“Shut up, Logan!” Dean yells back without breaking eye contact with you. 

The hallway finally clears, leaving the two of you alone in the quiet, fluorescent-lit corridor. The adrenaline from the game is still humming in the air between you, mixing violently with the unspoken tension that has been building for three weeks. 

Dean steps closer, invading your personal space. He reaches out, his large hands resting gently on your waist, over the heavy fabric of the jersey. 

“I meant it,” Dean whispers, his voice dropping an octave. “When I pointed to you. That goal was for you, Y/N.”

You look up at him, at the handsome, reckless boy you grew up with who has somehow morphed into this incredible, devoted man. You realize, with a sudden, crystal-clear certainty, that you don’t want to be scared anymore. You don’t want to hide behind your shyness or your fears of ruining your friendship. 

“Dean,” you whisper. 

You reach up, your hands slipping out of the oversized sleeves. You place your palms flat against his chest, feeling the heavy, rapid beat of his heart through his t-shirt. 

Dean completely freezes. His breath catches in his throat. He doesn’t move a muscle, terrified that if he does, you will pull away. 

You rise up on your tiptoes. Dean instinctively tilts his head down, meeting you halfway. 

You press your lips to his. 

It is not a hungry, open-mouthed kiss. It is chaste. Soft. Sweet. It is a gentle press of lips, a quiet, tender thank you, a desperate confession of everything you are too afraid to say out loud. 

It lasts only three seconds. 

When you pull back, dropping down to your flat feet, you keep your eyes closed for a moment, terrified of his reaction. 

When you finally open them, you gasp. 

Dean Di Laurentis — the guy who has quite literally been with half the campus, the guy who knows every sexual maneuver in the book, the guy who thrives on marathon, sweaty, athletic encounters — looks completely devastated. 

He looks like he has died and gone to heaven. 

His green eyes are blown wide, his pupils completely dilated. His jaw is slack, his lips slightly parted, pink and damp from your brief touch. His chest is heaving as if he just skated ten periods back-to-back. 

“Y/N,” Dean breathes, the word trembling on his lips. 

He raises a shaking hand, pressing his fingers to his own mouth, as if he can’t quite believe what just happened. 

“Was that … was that okay?” You whisper, your insecurity suddenly flaring up. “I know it wasn’t … I know you’re used to-”

“Don’t,” Dean interrupts, his voice cracking slightly. He drops his duffel bag entirely and reaches for you, wrapping both arms around your waist and hauling you flush against his chest. 

“Don’t you dare compare yourself to anyone else,” Dean says fiercely, staring down at you with a reverent, blazing intensity. “That was … Y/N, that was the best thing that has ever happened to me.”

“It was just a small kiss,” you murmur, your face burning. 

“It was everything,” Dean corrects, his hands gripping your waist tightly. “You’re everything. God, I’m so in love with you.”

The words slip out of his mouth before he can stop them, tumbling into the quiet hallway like a grenade. 

You freeze, your heart slamming against your ribs so hard it hurts. “Dean …”

Dean closes his eyes, resting his forehead against yours. He lets out a shaky laugh, a sound of pure relief and surrender. 

“I know,” he whispers, his breath fanning across your lips. “I know it’s fast, and I know you’re scared, and I know I have a terrible reputation. But I’m yours, Y/N. I have always been yours. You just had to come back for me to realize it.”

He opens his eyes, looking deep into yours. 

“You don’t have to say it back,” Dean promises, his thumb stroking your cheekbone. “You don’t have to do anything you’re not ready for. I just needed you to know. I’m not playing games, sweetheart. I’m playing for keeps.”

You stare up at the man holding you, feeling the absolute truth in his words. The terrifying world outside — the threats, the politics, the uncertainty — melts away entirely. 

You rise on your tiptoes again, but this time, Dean doesn’t wait. He captures your lips, kissing you with a tender, devastating passion that seals your fate completely.

***

The collective student body of Briar University is, for lack of a better term, completely losing its mind. 

It has been nearly two months since the legendary, untouchable Dean Di Laurentis officially took himself off the market. Two months since he dragged a beautiful, shy transfer student into his orbit and never let her go. And yet, the novelty of his absolute, unrelenting devotion hasn’t worn off. If anything, it’s only become more aggressively apparent.

It’s a chilly Tuesday afternoon, and the campus coffee shop, The Daily Grind, is packed with students seeking refuge from the biting wind. 

You and Dean are standing near the pickup counter. You are wearing a cream-colored knit sweater, the sleeves pulled down over your knuckles, your posture as impeccable as ever. Dean is standing practically flush against your back, his large hands resting possessively on your hips. He’s leaning down, his chin resting near your shoulder, listening intently as you softly explain a concept from your international relations seminar.

A few yards away, sitting at a cramped corner table, Logan and Garrett are nursing their coffees and watching the spectacle.

“I give up,” Logan says, shaking his head. “I literally give up. I don’t know who that man is. He’s an imposter. A body double.”

“He’s in love,” Garrett corrects, though he looks equally bewildered. “I mean, we knew it was bad, but this is … this is advanced whipped.”

A group of sorority girls at the next table over are openly staring, whispering behind their hands. 

“Do you remember sophomore year?” One of the girls mutters loud enough for Logan to catch. “When he hooked up with those two girls on the literal pool table at a Theta party? He didn’t even care who was watching! It was like a spectator sport for him.”

“I know,” her friend replies, eyes wide. “And now look at him. He looks like he wants to build a white picket fence right here in the cafe line.”

At the counter, the barista calls out your name. “Y/N! London fog latte and a black coffee.”

You step forward to grab the drinks, but a hulking frat boy in a backward cap, rushing to grab his own macchiato, bumps hard into your shoulder. 

You stumble slightly, letting out a soft, surprised gasp. 

Instantly, the atmosphere in the coffee shop shifts. Dean’s relaxed posture vanishes. He steps in front of you, his chest broad and imposing, his jaw clenching so hard the muscle feathers dangerously. His green eyes turn to ice as he glares at the frat boy. 

“Hey,” Dean barks, his voice low but carrying across the suddenly quiet shop. “Watch where the hell you’re going.”

The frat boy pales, taking in the sheer size of the angry hockey player. “My bad, man. I didn’t see her.”

“Well, open your eyes, or I’ll wire your jaw shut so you don’t have to worry about drinking your little coffee,” Dean threatens, taking a menacing step forward. 

Before Dean can escalate a simple accident into a full-blown brawl, you move. You reach out, your delicate hands flattening against the solid wall of his chest. 

“Dean,” you murmur, your voice soft, sweet, and perfectly calm. 

Dean freezes. He looks down at you, his chest heaving under your palms. 

You offer him a small, placating smile. You slide your hands up his chest, resting them gently on his broad shoulders. Then, ignoring the dozens of eyes fixed on you, you rise up on your tiptoes. You press a soft, lingering kiss to his tense jawline, right over the ticking muscle. 

“I’m alright,” you whisper softly against his skin. You reach up, gently smoothing down the collar of his flannel shirt. “He just bumped me, Dean. Let it go. Please?”

The transformation is instantaneous. 

The murderous rage evaporates from Dean’s eyes. His shoulders drop. He lets out a shaky exhale, his hands coming up to wrap around your waist, pulling you flush against him. He leans his forehead against yours, completely ignoring the terrified frat boy who scurries away. 

“I know,” Dean breathes, his voice entirely soft, meant only for you. “I just … I hate when people aren’t careful with you, sweetheart.”

“You’re careful enough for the both of us,” you tease gently, your cheeks flushing a pretty, soft pink at the public display, even though it was entirely initiated by you. You give his chest a gentle pat. “Now, carry my tea, please. It’s dreadfully hot.”

Dean practically melts into a puddle on the floor. “Whatever you want, baby.”

He grabs the tray of drinks, completely docile, and follows you out of the shop like a well-trained puppy. 

The moment the bell above the door jingles shut behind you, the coffee shop erupts into whispers. 

“Did you see that?” Logan says, staring blankly at the door. “She literally just rebooted his operating system with a kiss on the cheek.”

“It’s a superpower,” Garrett murmurs in awe. “She’s a witch. A beautiful, polite, sort of British witch.”

Later that evening, the off-campus house is blissfully quiet. Garrett and Logan are at the library (allegedly), and Tucker is out on a date. 

You are in Dean’s bedroom. Or, rather, your shared bedroom. The spare room you initially moved into has slowly become little more than a closet for your clothes, as Dean flat-out refused to sleep in a bed that you weren’t occupying. 

The contrast between the Dean that the campus sees — the fiercely protective, completely obsessed boyfriend — and the Dean behind closed doors is staggering. 

In public, you are shy, demure, and easily flustered by too much attention. Dean respects that. He shields you, gives you space, and handles the spotlight so you don’t have to. 

But here, in the dim, amber glow of the bedside lamp, with the heavy wooden door locked and the world shut out? Here, Dean worships you. And he systematically, patiently dismantles every ounce of your shyness. 

You are sitting on the edge of his massive mattress, wearing one of your elegant silk nightgowns. It’s champagne-colored, modest by most standards, but the way Dean is looking at you makes you feel completely exposed. 

He is kneeling on the floor between your parted thighs. He hasn’t even taken off his jeans yet, though he shed his shirt hours ago. His broad, muscular chest is on full display, his skin golden in the low light. 

“You’re blushing,” Dean murmurs, his voice a low, gravelly hum that vibrates straight through to your core. 

You duck your head, your hands nervously smoothing the silk over your thighs. “You’re staring at me.”

“I’m admiring,” Dean corrects softly. He reaches up, his large, warm hands wrapping around your ankles. His thumbs slowly, deliberately stroke the delicate skin there. “I can’t help it. You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. And I love it when you flush for me, Y/N. I love knowing exactly what it does to you when I look at you.”

Your breath hitches. His words are always so direct, so unapologetically filthy and sweet all at once. He is a master of this — of seduction, of bodies, of pleasure — but he treats you as if you are the very first woman he has ever touched. There is a reverence to him that completely wrecks your defenses. 

“Dean,” you whisper, a soft plea leaving your lips. 

“Look at me, sweetheart,” he commands gently. 

You force your eyes up to meet his. His green eyes are dark, completely blown out with desire, but there is an anchor of absolute patience there. He never rushes you. He has spent the last few weeks slowly, meticulously broadening your horizons, taking you further than you ever thought you’d go, and making sure you feel entirely safe the entire time. 

He slides his hands up your calves, his rough palms sending a shockwave of heat over your skin. He stops at your knees, leaning in to press a soft, open-mouthed kiss to the inside of your right knee. 

You gasp, your fingers tangling in the thick hair at the nape of his neck. 

“So pretty,” he breathes against your skin. He shifts higher, pushing the hem of your silk nightgown up your thighs. “You get so pink, Y/N. It starts on your cheeks …” 

He kisses higher up your thigh, his tongue darting out to taste the sensitive skin. You let out a soft whimper, your back arching slightly. 

“… and then it spreads down your neck,” he continues, his hands sliding up to grip your hips securely. “Down your chest. All over your stomach. You blush everywhere for me, don’t you, baby?”

“Only for you,” you manage to gasp out, your heart pounding a frantic rhythm against your ribs. 

Dean growls, a low, primal sound of satisfaction. He rises up onto his knees, towering over you slightly. He reaches for the thin straps of your nightgown, slipping them slowly off your shoulders. 

You instinctively cross your arms over your bare chest, that ingrained, polite shyness flaring up even now. 

Dean gently catches your wrists. He doesn’t force them away, but he holds them softly, his thumbs stroking your pulse points. 

“Don’t hide from me,” he whispers, leaning in so his lips are barely a breath away from yours. “I want to see you. I want to worship every single inch of you. Let me see, sweetheart. Let me take care of you.”

His words melt your resistance entirely. You slowly uncross your arms, letting your hands fall to his broad shoulders. 

The silk nightgown pools around your waist, leaving your top half completely bare to his hungry gaze. 

Just as he predicted, a deep, beautiful flush of pink spreads rapidly down your neck, blooming across your chest and stomach. 

Dean lets out a ragged breath. He looks at you as if you are a religious artifact, something holy and miraculous. “God, you’re perfect. You’re so fucking perfect.”

He leans in, replacing his intense gaze with his mouth. He kisses the hollow of your throat, his lips hot and demanding. You tip your head back, a soft, breathy moan escaping your lips as his mouth trails lower. 

He takes his time, kissing the swell of your breasts, the valley between them, worshipping the flushed skin just as he promised. When his mouth finally closes over one sensitive peak, drawing it in and laving it with his tongue, you completely lose your mind. 

“Dean!” You cry out, your hands gripping his shoulders hard, your fingernails digging into his skin. 

“I’ve got you,” he hums against your skin, the vibration sending a fresh wave of electricity straight down to your core. “I’m right here. Just feel it, baby. Let go.”

He is relentless in his devotion. His hands are everywhere, mapping your body, learning exactly what makes you gasp, what makes you arch into his touch. For a man who used to thrive on quick, athletic hookups, Dean is agonizingly slow with you. 

He pulls away just long enough to shed his jeans and boxers, tossing them carelessly to the floor. When he returns to you, he is fully bare, completely aroused, and radiating heat. 

He gently pushes you back until you are lying flat on the mattress, your hair fanned out over his pillows. He follows you down, his massive frame hovering over yours, supporting his weight on his forearms so he doesn’t crush you. 

“Tell me this is what you want,” Dean says, his voice strained with the immense effort it’s taking to hold himself back. He needs to hear it. He needs your verbal consent, your absolute certainty. 

“It’s what I want,” you whisper, reaching up to cup his handsome, tense face. “I want you, Dean. Please.”

That is all it takes. 

Dean shifts his hips, settling himself between your thighs. He reaches down, guiding himself to your entrance. He pauses there, his eyes locked onto yours, searching for any sign of hesitation. When you only nod, your eyes wide and completely trusting, he slowly, steadily pushes inside you. 

You let out a sharp cry, your eyes fluttering shut as the feeling of him filling you completely takes over. It is overwhelming, intense, and deeply, achingly intimate. 

Dean freezes, his jaw clenched tight. “Y/N? Are you okay? Did I hurt you?”

“No,” you gasp, opening your eyes. You wrap your arms around his neck, pulling his face down to yours. “No, Dean, it feels … it feels incredible. Don’t stop.”

He lets out a shuddering breath, pressing his forehead against yours. “You’re so tight, baby. So incredibly sweet. I’m going to take it slow. I promise.”

And he does. He begins to move, pulling back slowly and pressing in deep, establishing a steady, torturously good rhythm. Every time he hits the back of your slick heat, he presses a kiss to your lips, your jaw, your neck. 

He murmurs dark, dirty praise into your ear, perfectly contrasting your elegant nature. He tells you how good you feel, how beautiful you look laid out in his bed, how much he loves the sounds you make when he hits that one specific spot. 

You are completely undone by him. Your shy, reserved exterior is shattered entirely under his careful worship. You are writhing beneath him, your legs wrapped tightly around his waist, matching his rhythm, chasing the blinding pleasure he is feeding you. 

“Dean, please,” you beg, your voice breaking as the pressure builds low in your stomach. “I can’t … it’s too much.”

“It’s not too much, sweetheart,” he grunts, his pace quickening, his hips snapping against yours with more force. “You can take it. Let it happen. Come for me, baby. Just for me.”

The possessive command is the final push you need. You shatter entirely, a high, keening cry escaping your lips as your body goes rigid. The climax rips through you in violent, beautiful waves, your internal muscles clenching tightly around him. 

Dean groans loudly, his control snapping the second he feels your release. He drives into you a few more times, fast and deep, before burying his face in the crook of your neck and finding his own release with a deep, guttural shout. 

He collapses against you, his heavy chest heaving, his heart hammering against yours. You hold him tightly, your hands stroking his damp hair, entirely sated and floating in a euphoric haze. 

Dean eventually rolls to the side, taking his weight off you, but he pulls you tightly against his chest, tucking your head under his chin. He pulls the heavy duvet over both of your bodies, enveloping you in warmth. 

“God,” Dean breathes into the quiet room, sounding entirely awestruck. He presses a kiss to the top of your head. “I love you. I love you so damn much, Y/N.”

“I love you too,” you whisper sleepily, pressing a kiss to his bare collarbone. “You’re wonderful, Dean.”

“Only with you,” he promises, his arms tightening protectively around you as you drift off to sleep. 

The next morning, the campus is bustling with the standard Wednesday chaos. 

Dean is walking you to your 10 AM lecture. He’s wearing his Briar hockey letterman jacket, looking impossibly large and handsome. 

You are walking beside him, holding his hand. The contrast from last night is almost comical. 

You are back in your tailored clothes — a pleated wool skirt, tights, and a high-necked cashmere sweater. Your hair is perfectly styled, and your posture is immaculate. You look every inch the untouchable, elegant diplomat’s daughter. 

As you walk past the quad, a group of guys from one of the fraternities walk by. One of them, not noticing Dean immediately, lets out a low, appreciative whistle directed at you. 

“Damn, baby. Looking good,” the guy calls out. 

Instantly, that furious, shy blush races up your neck and paints your cheeks bright pink. You immediately duck your head, feeling incredibly embarrassed by the crass public attention, and instinctively turn your face in toward Dean’s bicep to hide. 

Dean wraps a heavy arm around your shoulders, tucking you safely into his side. He shoots the frat boy a look so terrifying, so full of lethal, possessive promise, that the guy practically trips over his own feet trying to hurry away. 

But as Dean looks down at you, hiding your bright red, blushing face against his jacket, a slow, incredibly smug smile spreads across his lips. 

Everyone on campus thinks you are a fragile, shy angel who can barely handle a compliment. 

But Dean knows the truth. 

He knows what you look like completely undone, blushing that exact same shade of pink while tangled in his bedsheets. He knows the sounds you make, the way you scratch his shoulders, the way you let him broaden your horizons in the dark. 

The dichotomy is thrilling. It makes his heart race with a fierce, possessive joy. You are this sweet, untouchable, elegant creature to the rest of the world, but behind closed doors, you belong entirely to him. 

“You okay, sweetheart?” Dean asks softly, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. 

“I’m fine,” you mumble against his jacket, still embarrassed. “People are so loud here.”

Dean chuckles, a rich, warm sound that vibrates through his chest. He pulls you a little closer, kissing your temple. 

“Don’t worry about them,” he murmurs, his green eyes sparkling with a secret only the two of you share. “They don’t know anything about you. But I do. And I think you’re perfect.”

You peek up at him, seeing the wicked, knowing gleam in his eye, and your blush somehow deepens even further. 

“You’re terrible,” you whisper, though a small smile plays on your lips. 

“I’m the best,” Dean corrects easily, pulling open the door to the lecture hall for you. “And you know it.”

You do know it. And as you walk into the classroom, your hand firmly intertwined with the biggest playboy turned most devoted boyfriend in Briar University history, you wouldn’t trade him for the world.

***

The late November air bites sharply at your cheeks as you and Dean walk out of the political science building. The Briar University campus is painted in stark shades of grey and deep, dying auburn, the sky threatening an early winter snow. 

You are bundled in a thick wool coat and a cashmere scarf, your hands buried deep in your pockets. Dean is walking beside you, seemingly impervious to the cold in just a Briar Hockey quarter-zip, though he has your heavy canvas tote bag slung effortlessly over his broad shoulder. 

“I still think the professor has it out for me,” Dean complains, bumping his shoulder gently against yours as you navigate the crowded sidewalk. “I answered the question perfectly.”

“You compared the socioeconomic impacts of the Industrial Revolution to the plot of Transformers,” you point out mildly, though a fond smile pulls at your lips. “It wasn’t exactly a perfect academic parallel.”

“It’s about the rise of machines, Y/N,” Dean argues, a wicked, charming grin spreading across his handsome face. “It’s deeply metaphorical. He just doesn’t appreciate my genius.”

“Of course,” you say, laughing softly. “That must be it. You’re a misunderstood scholar.”

Dean stops walking suddenly, turning to fully face you. He reaches out, pulling your cold hands from your coat pockets and wrapping his large, warm ones around them. He brings your knuckles to his lips, pressing a kiss to the chilled skin right there in the middle of the quad. 

“I don’t care if I’m a scholar,” he murmurs, his green eyes locking onto yours with that familiar, breath-stealing intensity. “As long as I get to sit next to you.”

A blush instantly warms your cheeks, combating the winter chill. It’s been weeks of this — weeks of Dean completely upending his life to revolve around yours, weeks of his fierce protection and tender worship — and you still haven’t gotten used to the sheer force of his devotion. 

“Come on,” Dean says softly, tugging your hands. “Let’s go get lunch. Garrett said he was craving-”

Dean’s words cut off abruptly. 

You look up, following his line of sight, and your heart skips a sudden, violent beat. 

Standing near the edge of the courtyard, completely out of place amidst the sea of stressed-out college students in sweatpants, is a man in an immaculate, bespoke navy suit. He is flanked by two very large, very discreet men in dark overcoats who exude a quiet, lethal sort of professionalism. 

“Dad?” You gasp, the word slipping out in absolute shock. 

Your father turns his head at the sound of your voice. His stern, diplomat’s face instantly softens into a warm, relieved smile. 

“Y/N,” he says, his deep, cultured voice carrying across the pavement. 

You don’t think. You just run. You drop Dean’s hands and sprint across the quad, throwing yourself into your father’s open arms. He catches you effortlessly, wrapping his arms tightly around you and pressing a kiss to the top of your head. 

“Dad, what are you doing here?” You ask, your voice muffled against his lapel. “Is everything okay? Are you safe? Is Mom okay?”

“We are perfectly fine, sweetheart,” your father assures you, pulling back just enough to look at your face, his hands resting on your shoulders. “Everything is fine. In fact, it’s more than fine.”

You blink, confused, as Dean slowly walks up behind you. He is standing a respectful distance away, his posture rigid, his jaw clenched tight. The playful, flirtatious college boy has completely vanished, replaced by a tense, hyper-vigilant protector. 

“Ambassador Y/L/N,” Dean says, his voice respectful but cautious. 

Your father looks up, his sharp eyes taking in Dean’s massive frame, the Briar hockey quarter-zip, and the canvas tote bag adorned with your handwriting that Dean is still holding. 

“Dean Di Laurentis,” your father replies, a small, knowing smile touching his lips. “It has been quite a few years. You’ve grown into a mountain of a young man. How are your parents?”

“They’re doing very well, sir. Thank you,” Dean says stiffly. 

You look between the two of them, the tension crackling in the cold air, before turning back to your father. “Dad, please. Tell me what’s going on. You’re supposed to be locked down in D.C. Why are you in Massachusetts?”

Your father sighs, a sound of profound, weary relief. He gestures to a nearby stone bench. “Let’s sit down for a moment.”

Dean remains standing, flanking the bench like a bodyguard as you and your father take a seat. 

“The threat has been neutralized, Y/N,” your father says quietly, his voice dropping into the serious, commanding tone he uses for state briefings. “Completely.”

Your breath catches. “Neutralized? How?”

“It was a joint operation,” your father explains, glancing around the quad to ensure no one is within earshot. “MI6 and the FBI have been tracking the extortion ring for months. The group using you as leverage to manipulate the trade sanctions made a mistake. They tried to move funds through an offshore account that had been flagged. The authorities raided their compound in Zurich two days ago. The key players have all been indicted, and the network has been dismantled.”

You stare at him, your brain struggling to process the magnitude of his words. For the past two months, you have lived with a persistent, low-grade terror thrumming in your veins. You had accepted that your life would never look the same, that you would always be looking over your shoulder. 

“Are you absolutely sure?” You whisper, your voice trembling. “They’re gone?”

“They are gone,” your father confirms firmly, covering your hand with his. “The Director of Intelligence personally assured me this morning. You are no longer a target, my darling. The danger has passed.”

A wave of dizzying relief washes over you. You slump forward slightly, tears of sheer release pricking the corners of your eyes. Your father wraps an arm around you, holding you close as you let out a shaky sob. 

Above you, Dean lets out a long, ragged exhale. The rigid tension bleeding from his broad shoulders is almost palpable. 

“Thank God,” Dean breathes, running a hand through his blonde hair. “Thank God.”

“Indeed,” your father says. He reaches into his suit jacket and pulls out a crisp, white envelope, handing it to you. “Which brings me to the secondary reason for my visit.”

You sniffle, wiping your eyes carefully as you take the envelope. It bears the official crest of Oxford University. 

“I spoke with the Dean of your college at Oxford yesterday,” your father continues, his tone gentle. “They understand the extenuating circumstances of your sudden departure. They have held your spot, Y/N. Your transfer credits from Briar will apply. You are entirely free to return to England and resume your studies next semester, just as you planned.”

The words hang in the freezing air, heavy and catastrophic. 

Behind you, Dean stops breathing entirely. 

The color drains rapidly from Dean’s face. His heart, which had just been soaring with relief for your safety, suddenly plummets straight into his stomach, crashing violently against the cold dread pooling there. 

Return to England. Resume her studies. Leave Briar. 

Leave him.

Dean feels physically ill. It’s only been a month and a half. He has only had you back in his life for a fraction of a semester, but in that time, you have become the absolute center of his universe. You are the air he breathes, the reason he wakes up in the morning, the only thing that makes this chaotic, loud world make sense. The thought of you packing your bags, getting on a plane, and crossing an ocean again feels like a physical blow to his chest. 

He remembers the ache of losing you when you were both fourteen. He remembers how quiet his house felt, how empty his days were without his best friend. But this? Losing you now, after he has tasted your lips, after he has held you in his bed, after he has realized that his soul is irreversibly tied to yours? 

It will break him. He knows, with absolute, terrifying certainty, that if you leave, he will not recover. 

Dean instinctively takes a half-step backward, the physical manifestation of his emotional retreat. His hand, which had been resting on the back of the stone bench near your shoulder, drops to his side. He stares at the ground, his jaw locked so tight his teeth ache, preparing himself for the inevitable. You belong at Oxford. You belong in grand libraries and ancient halls, not in a messy hockey house with a guy who barely scrapes by in political science. 

You look down at the heavy, embossed envelope in your lap. 

Oxford. It was your dream. You had worked tirelessly to get in. You had friends there, a life there, a clear, pristine path laid out for your future in diplomacy. Returning is the logical, smart, expected thing to do. 

You look up at your father, seeing the quiet expectation in his eyes. 

Then, you turn your head to look at Dean. 

He won’t meet your gaze. He is staring fiercely at the concrete, his broad shoulders hunched as if bracing for an impact. You see the subtle tremor in his clenched jaw, the absolute devastation radiating from his rigid posture. He has already convinced himself that you are leaving. He is already letting you go, because that is the kind of man he is — he would tear his own heart out before he ever held you back from something you wanted. 

A fierce, protective warmth blooms in your chest. 

You don’t want Oxford. Not anymore. The ancient halls and polite, intellectual debates suddenly seem terribly cold and lonely compared to the chaotic, vibrant, fiercely loyal life you’ve found here. You don’t want a life without Garrett stealing your snacks, without Logan’s terrible jokes, without Tucker’s quiet drawl. 

And, most importantly, you absolutely refuse to exist in a world where you don’t wake up next to Dean Di Laurentis every single morning. 

You slide the envelope back across the bench toward your father. 

“No, thank you,” you say softly, but your voice is remarkably steady. 

Dean’s head snaps up so fast you’re surprised he doesn’t pull a muscle. He stares at you, his green eyes wide, raw shock and desperate hope colliding in his expression. 

Your father arches a dark eyebrow. “No? Y/N, you loved Oxford. It is one of the premier institutions in the world for your field.”

“It is,” you agree, reaching out to gently lay your hand over the envelope. “And I am grateful they held my spot. But I don’t want to go back to England, Dad. I want to stay here. At Briar.”

“Briar is an excellent school,” your father acknowledges smoothly, ever the diplomat. “But it is a significant shift in your trajectory. Are you certain this isn’t a reaction to the trauma of the past few months? Now that the threat is gone, you don’t need to hide anymore.”

“I’m not hiding,” you say firmly. You stand up from the bench, stepping closer to Dean. You reach out, your delicate fingers sliding into his large, calloused hand. Dean gasps softly, a quiet, broken sound, and immediately crushes your hand in his, holding on as if you are a lifeline. 

You look up at Dean, offering him a smile so full of love and absolute certainty that the last lingering remnants of his panic melt away. 

You turn back to your father, your hand firmly anchored in Dean’s. “I’m not hiding, Dad. I’ve built a life here. I have friends here. I’m happy here. Really, truly happy. I want to stay.”

Your father looks at your joined hands. He looks at the way Dean is looking down at you — as if you are the sun and he has spent his entire life in the dark. The Ambassador has spent his career reading people, analyzing motives, and deciphering unsaid truths. It takes him less than five seconds to understand exactly what is happening in front of him. 

A slow, genuine smile breaks across your father’s stern face. 

“Very well,” your father says, standing up and smoothing the front of his suit jacket. “It is your life, Y/N, and your education. If Briar is where you wish to remain, I will not attempt to convince you otherwise. I trust your judgment.”

You let out a massive sigh of relief, your shoulders dropping. “Thank you, Dad.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” your father says, his eyes shifting to Dean. “My driver is waiting by the main gates. I have reservations at Ostra in Boston for lunch. You are both joining me.”

It isn’t a request. 

Dean swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “Yes, sir.”

The drive to Boston is quiet, insulated by the tinted windows and plush leather of your father’s town car. You sit in the middle of the spacious backseat, your father on your right, and Dean on your left. Dean hasn’t let go of your hand since the courtyard. His thumb traces anxious, rhythmic circles into your palm, betraying the calm, stoic mask he is trying desperately to maintain. 

Ostra is exactly the kind of restaurant your father frequents — impeccably designed, quietly opulent, and smelling of expensive wine and Mediterranean seafood. The maitre d’ immediately ushers the three of you to a private, secluded booth in the back. 

As the waiter pours sparkling water and takes their drink orders, Dean is practically vibrating with tension. 

He knows how this goes. He isn’t stupid. He is the guy with a notorious campus reputation who has suddenly shacked up with the Ambassador’s sheltered, brilliant daughter. He has been waiting for the shovel talk since the day you moved into the hockey house. He is entirely prepared to take it. He is prepared to sit here and let your father threaten him, dissect his character, and warn him of dire consequences if he ever breaks your heart. 

Dean will agree to all of it, because he’d sooner die than hurt you. 

“So, Dean,” your father starts once the waiter retreats, resting his forearms on the white tablecloth. “Political Science. A slight departure from your parents’ corporate law background.”

“Yes, sir,” Dean says, sitting incredibly straight. “I plan to go to law school after graduation, but I wanted a broader undergraduate foundation. And … hockey takes up a significant amount of my time.”

“Ah, yes. The Briar hockey program,” your father nods slowly. “Your mother mentioned you were a standout player. Any plans to pursue it professionally?”

“I have options,” Dean answers honestly, his voice steady despite his nerves. “I’ve had some interest from scouts, but my priority right now is finishing my degree. And making sure Y/N is situated.”

Your father takes a slow sip of his water, his sharp eyes pinning Dean to the plush leather of the booth. 

“Speaking of Y/N,” your father says softly, the diplomatic polish stripping away to reveal the protective father underneath. “She has been staying with you and your teammates at an off-campus residence.”

Dean stiffens. “Yes, sir. When she first arrived, the dorms lacked the necessary security parameters. My housemates and I decided it was safer for her to be with us. We have a spare room.”

It’s a half-truth. You haven’t slept in that spare room in weeks, but Dean isn’t about to volunteer that information over the bread basket. 

“I appreciate your hospitality,” your father says smoothly. He sets his glass down. “I also appreciate that you have taken it upon yourself to act as her personal shadow. My security detail informed me that you walk her to every class, you sit beside her in the library, and you haven’t attended a single social event without her on your arm.”

Dean’s jaw clenches. He doesn’t apologize. He looks your father dead in the eye. “She was threatened, sir. I wasn’t going to let her out of my sight. Not when I had the means to protect her.”

You reach under the table, resting your hand gently on Dean’s rigid thigh, a silent gesture of support. Dean’s hand immediately covers yours, gripping your fingers tightly. 

“Sir,” Dean continues, his voice dropping into a serious, unwavering register. “I know what this looks like. I know you’re probably aware of … certain aspects of my reputation before Y/N transferred here. And I know you probably brought me here to give me the warning I absolutely deserve. I am completely ready to hear it. But you need to know that I love her. I love your daughter more than anything in this world, and my only priority is her happiness and her safety. You can threaten me all you want, but I am not going anywhere.”

You stare at Dean, your heart swelling with so much love you think it might genuinely burst. You look at your father, ready to defend Dean, ready to tell your dad that Dean is the best thing that has ever happened to you. 

But your father doesn’t look angry. 

Instead, a soft, incredibly fond smile touches his lips. He leans back in the booth, looking at Dean with an expression of profound respect. 

“Dean,” your father says gently. “I did not bring you here to threaten you.”

Dean blinks, completely thrown off guard. “You didn’t?”

“No,” your father chuckles quietly. “My entire career is built on assessing character, gathering intelligence, and understanding the truth of a situation before I enter the room. I know exactly what your reputation on this campus was. And I know exactly how drastically it changed the moment my daughter set foot in Massachusetts.”

Your father folds his hands on the table, his expression turning entirely earnest. 

“You think I don’t know the boy sitting across from me?” Your father asks softly. “I have known you since you were in grade school. I have watched you grow up alongside my daughter.”

Your father pauses, his eyes softening as he looks into the past. “Do you remember the summer you were both twelve? Y/N had convinced you to take one of the small sailing dinghies out onto the Long Island Sound, despite the small craft advisory.”

Dean exhales a shaky breath, the memory hitting him instantly. “I remember.”

You look down, blushing slightly. “That was entirely my fault. I wanted to see the lighthouse up close.”

“A sudden squall rolled in,” your father recounts, his voice thick with remembered fear. “The wind picked up, and the boat capsized. The Coast Guard was dispatched, but it took them nearly an hour to locate you in the chop.”

Your father looks directly at Dean. “When they finally pulled you both out of the water, Y/N’s life vest was gone. The clasp had broken when the boom swung around. But she wasn’t under the water. You had given her your life vest, Dean. You spent an hour treading water in freezing temperatures, holding her up above the waves, completely risking your own life to ensure she didn’t drown. You were hospitalized for hypothermia, and you refused to let the doctors treat you until you saw with your own eyes that Y/N was unharmed.”

Dean looks down at the table, his cheeks flushing a dull red. “She couldn’t swim as well as I could. I wasn’t going to let her sink.”

“I know,” your father says quietly. “That is my point, Dean. When the threats against my family escalated in London, my first thought was terrifying panic. My second thought was finding a safe harbor for her. The government suggested several secure locations. But when my wife mentioned that Briar University was an option — that you were at Briar — I signed the transfer papers immediately.”

Dean’s head snaps up, absolute shock written across his features. “You … you sent her to Briar because of me?”

“I sent her to Briar because I knew that if you were there, no one on this earth would be able to touch her,” your father states with absolute, unwavering conviction. “I knew the boy who gave up his life vest in the freezing Sound had grown into a man who would do whatever it took to keep her safe. I don’t need to give you a shovel talk, Dean. You are perhaps the only man on earth I trust implicitly with my daughter’s heart, and her life.”

The silence in the opulent restaurant booth is deafening. 

Dean stares at the Ambassador, his green eyes shining with unshed emotion. The heavy, suffocating weight of guilt he has carried about his past, the fear that he wasn’t good enough for you, is completely decimated by your father’s words. 

Dean swallows hard, his jaw working as he struggles to find his voice. He looks at you, his eyes blazing with a fierce, watery devotion, before turning back to your father. 

“Thank you, sir,” Dean says, his voice thick and rough. “I won’t let you down. I swear to God, I will never let her down.”

“I know you won’t, son,” your father smiles warmly, picking up his menu. “Now, I am told the sea bass here is excellent. And I believe we have a celebration in order. My daughter is safe, she is staying in America, and she is in excellent hands.”

Under the table, you squeeze Dean’s hand, leaning over to rest your head gently against his broad shoulder. Dean presses a kiss to your hair, his entire body radiating a profound, beautiful peace. 

He didn’t just get to keep the love of his life today. 

He finally realized he was worthy of her.

***

Spring break at Briar University usually means packed beaches in Cabo, cheap tequila, and a week of terrible decisions. 

But Dean Di Laurentis doesn’t do anything by the standard playbook anymore. 

When you had offhandedly mentioned over a midnight study session that you missed the rainy, historic charm of England and the specific scones from a little bakery near your old flat, you hadn’t expected anything to come of it. You were simply feeling a bout of homesickness. 

Two days later, Dean had dropped two first-class tickets to Heathrow onto your textbook. 

Now, you are walking hand-in-hand down the ancient, cobblestone streets of Oxford, bundled in a sleek wool coat to ward off the crisp March chill. 

The trip has been nothing short of a fairy tale. Dean had rented a massive suite in London for three days, taking you to the West End, indulging in high tea, and buying you more luxury clothes than you could ever fit in your suitcase. Then, he had whisked you away to the Cotswolds, renting a secluded, romantic stone cottage with a thatched roof and a roaring fireplace. You had spent three days snowed in, wrapped in thick blankets, drinking hot cider, and letting Dean absolutely worship every inch of you in front of the hearth. 

But Oxford is different. Oxford is your past. 

“So, this is it,” Dean says, his head tipped back as he looks up at the towering, magnificent dome of the Radcliffe Camera. “The legendary stomping grounds. I have to admit, sweetheart, it’s pretty spectacular. Makes Briar look like a strip mall.”

You laugh, squeezing his large hand. “Briar has its own charm. But yes, Oxford is … it’s special. I spent hours reading in that library. I used to sit on that wall right over there and debate international policy until the sun went down.”

Dean looks down at you, his green eyes entirely soft, crinkling at the corners. He is wearing a long, tailored black overcoat over a dark turtleneck, looking so impossibly handsome and devastatingly striking that people have been turning their heads to stare at him all morning. 

“Show me,” Dean murmurs, pulling you flush against his side and pressing a warm kiss to your temple. “Show me everything. I want to see where you lived, where you drank, where you bought those scones you wouldn’t stop talking about.”

“You bought me five dozen scones yesterday, Dean. I think I’m set for life,” you tease, leaning your head against his broad shoulder. 

“I’m a provider,” he counters smoothly, flashing that wicked, brilliant grin. “It’s in my nature.”

You lead him through the winding, historic streets, pointing out your favorite pubs and the quiet little courtyards hidden behind massive iron gates. Dean listens to every word you say with absolute attention. He asks questions, he remembers the names of your old professors, and he looks at you with a devotion so fierce it makes your chest ache in the best possible way. 

“And this,” you say, stopping in front of a rustic, wood-paneled pub with hanging flower baskets, “is The Turf Tavern. It’s practically a requirement to get a pint here. Shall we?”

“Lead the way,” Dean says, reaching past you to push the heavy oak door open. 

The pub is crowded, smelling of ale, fried fish, and damp wool. You navigate through the low-ceilinged room, Dean keeping a protective hand resting securely on the small of your back. You manage to find a tiny, secluded booth near the back. 

Dean goes to the bar to order two pints and a plate of chips. You sit at the booth, pulling your scarf off and feeling a profound sense of contentment wash over you. You are back in the city you love, but you are here with the man who holds your entire heart. It is the perfect collision of your two worlds. 

“Y/N? Is that you?”

The crisp, highly polished, and painfully familiar British accent cuts through the low din of the pub. 

You freeze. Your blood turns to ice water in your veins. 

You turn your head slowly. Standing a few feet away, holding a half-empty pint glass and wearing a perfectly tailored tweed blazer, is Edward. 

Edward, the Viscount of Scunthorpe. The aristocratic, impossibly snobby ex-boyfriend you had dated during your time at Oxford. The man who had treated you more like a shiny, diplomatic accessory than a human being. 

“Edward,” you say, your voice tight. You force a polite, entirely fake smile onto your face. “Hello.”

Edward steps closer, his gaze sweeping over you with an uncomfortable familiarity. “I had heard a rumor you fled back to the States. Something about your father and a political scandal? What a dreadful business. You look well, though. A bit … domestic, perhaps, but well.”

His backhanded compliment grates on your nerves. You immediately shrink back into the booth, your ingrained, polite shyness warring with your immense annoyance. “I didn’t flee, Edward. I transferred. And I’m doing perfectly fine.”

“Of course you are, darling,” Edward smirks, taking another step forward. He reaches out, aiming to lazily tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. “Though I must say, Oxford has been terribly dull without-”

A massive, calloused hand suddenly intercepts Edward’s wrist mid-air. 

The grip is visibly bone-crushing. 

Edward gasps, his eyes blowing wide as he looks to his right. 

Dean is standing there. He holds two pints of beer effortlessly in his left hand, while his right hand is locked around Edward’s wrist like a steel vice. Dean’s expression is completely blank, but his green eyes are practically glowing with lethal, frozen rage. 

“Don’t touch her,” Dean says. His voice is dangerously low, a soft, gravelly threat that makes the hair on the back of your neck stand up. 

Edward tries to yank his arm back, but Dean doesn’t budge an inch. “I beg your pardon?” Edward sputters, his face turning an undignified shade of red. “Who the hell do you think you are?”

Dean slowly, deliberately releases Edward’s wrist, shoving the man’s arm back toward his chest with just enough force to make Edward stumble back a step. 

Dean sets the pints down on the table. He doesn’t sit. He turns, placing himself entirely between you and Edward, shielding you from the Viscount’s sightline. 

“I’m the guy who is going to break your hand if you reach for my girlfriend again,” Dean answers smoothly, his tone conversational, though the threat is violently real. “I’m Dean.”

Edward scoffs, rubbing his wrist, though he wisely takes another step back from the towering, broad-shouldered American athlete. “Your girlfriend. I see. Y/N, really? You traded me for a … what are you, a footballer? A rugby brute?”

“Ice hockey,” you say clearly, finding your voice. You slide out of the booth, stepping up to stand right beside Dean. You wrap your arms around Dean’s bicep, pressing yourself against his side. “And I didn’t trade you for anyone, Edward. We broke up because you were entirely insufferable.”

Dean looks down at you, the lethal ice in his eyes melting instantly into a look of absolute, smug adoration. He wraps a heavy arm around your waist, pulling you flush against his side. 

Edward sneers, looking Dean up and down with blatant aristocratic disdain. “Ice hockey. How terribly colonial. Tell me, Dean, do you actually know how to read, or do you just hit things with a stick for a living? I’m surprised you can even keep up with a conversation here at Oxford.”

Dean doesn’t get angry. He doesn’t raise his voice. Instead, he laughs. It’s a dark, rich, incredibly condescending laugh that completely catches Edward off guard. 

“You know, Edward,” Dean says, leaning forward slightly, using his height to completely dwarf the other man. “You talk a lot for a guy whose family wealth is currently tied up in the failing agriculture sector because your father completely botched his investments in the post-Brexit trade agreements. From a socioeconomic standpoint, you’re practically a peasant in a nice jacket.”

Edward’s jaw actually drops. The color drains from his face. 

You stare at Dean, absolutely floored. 

Dean continues, his voice dripping with terrifying charm. “I study political science and corporate law, Edward. My parents are two of the most ruthless litigators on the East Coast. So, if you want to debate international trade laws or intellectual property, we can. But right now, I’m on vacation with the woman I love, and you are boring me to death.”

Edward opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. He looks completely, utterly defeated, stripped of his aristocratic armor by a guy who he assumed was nothing but muscle. 

Dean doesn’t give him a chance to recover. 

He turns to you, completely ignoring Edward’s existence. “You ready to get out of here, sweetheart? The air in here suddenly feels incredibly cheap.”

“Yes,” you whisper, your heart doing frantic, somersaulting leaps in your chest. “Take me back to the hotel.”

Dean smirks. Right there, in the middle of the crowded pub, with your ex-boyfriend standing three feet away, Dean reaches up and cups your face. He tilts your head back and crushes his lips to yours. 

It is a claiming, devastating, incredibly filthy kiss. His tongue sweeps into your mouth, tasting you, devouring you, staking a completely undeniable claim. He kisses you until you are breathless, until your knees go weak and you have to grip his coat lapels to stay standing. 

When he finally pulls back, you are thoroughly flushed, your lips swollen and wet. 

Dean turns his head slightly, shooting Edward a look of pure, dominant victory. 

“Have a nice life, Eddie,” Dean deadpans. 

He grabs your hand, lacing your fingers together, and leads you out of the pub, leaving the Viscount standing completely humiliated in the dust. 

The walk back to the Randolph Hotel is a blur. 

You are practically vibrating with adrenaline. You had never seen Dean like that. You had seen him protective, yes, but the way he had verbally dismantled Edward without even raising his voice, the way he had claimed you so thoroughly in public — it sent a rush of intense, liquid heat straight to your core. 

The moment the heavy, oak door of your luxurious hotel suite clicks shut behind you, the calm, collected facade Dean had maintained completely shatters. 

Dean spins around, grabbing you by the hips and backing you forcefully against the heavy door. 

You let out a soft gasp as your back hits the wood. 

“Darling?” Dean snarls, his voice dropping into a dark, guttural growl that sends a violent shiver down your spine. “He called you darling?”

“Dean-” you start, but he cuts you off, his mouth crashing down onto yours. 

There is no slow, patient worship this time. This is feral. This is possessive. He kisses you with a desperate, consuming hunger, his tongue pushing past your lips to conquer your mouth. He tastes like ale and dark desire. 

You moan softly into his mouth, your arms instantly coming up to wrap around his neck. You kiss him back with matching ferocity, your fingers tangling in the thick hair at the nape of his neck. 

Dean’s large hands tear at your wool coat, practically ripping it off your shoulders and tossing it to the floor. His hands roam over the thin silk of your blouse, his palms hot and heavy. 

“Tell me whose you are,” Dean demands, pulling back just a fraction of an inch, his chest heaving against yours. His green eyes are black with lust, wild and completely untamed. “Tell me, Y/N.”

“Yours,” you gasp, your eyes fluttering shut as he trails open-mouthed, biting kisses down the column of your neck. “I’m only yours, Dean. Nobody else’s.”

“Fucking right you’re mine,” he groans against your skin. He sucks a hard, bruising mark into the sensitive spot right above your collarbone, making sure to leave a physical reminder of exactly who you belong to. 

You cry out, arching your back off the door to press your chest flush against his. 

Dean grabs the back of your thighs and lifts you effortlessly. You instinctively wrap your legs around his waist, crossing your ankles behind his back. He carries you across the luxurious suite, your back never leaving his chest, and drops you onto the center of the massive, king-sized bed. 

You bounce slightly on the plush mattress, looking up at him through heavy, hooded eyes. 

Dean strips off his overcoat and his turtleneck in one fluid, aggressive motion. He stands beside the bed, his golden, impossibly muscular chest heaving. He reaches for the buckle of his belt, his eyes fixed on you like a predator watching its prey. 

“Did he ever touch you like this?” Dean asks, his voice tight with lingering jealousy. He reaches down, grabbing your ankles and dragging you down the mattress until your hips are right at the edge of the bed. 

“No,” you whisper, shaking your head frantically. “God, no, Dean. Never. It was never like this. It’s only you.”

Dean lets out a harsh, satisfied breath. He kneels between your parted thighs. His hands make quick work of your blouse, popping the buttons and tossing it aside, followed quickly by your bra and skirt. 

In seconds, you are completely bare to him, flushed a deep, beautiful pink from your chest down to your thighs, completely exposed to his heated gaze. 

“You’re so beautiful,” Dean murmurs, the feral edge softening into pure, intense worship. “You make me absolutely crazy, sweetheart.”

He leans forward, pressing his mouth to the valley between your breasts, before trailing wet, hot kisses down your stomach. You writhe beneath him, your hands gripping the high thread-count sheets on either side of your head. 

Dean’s hands slide up the inside of your thighs, pushing them wider apart. He settles himself fully between your legs, his hot breath fanning over your sensitive core. 

“Dean, please,” you beg, your voice a high, sweet whimper. You are already aching, already so incredibly slick and ready for him. 

“I’ve got you, baby,” Dean hums. 

He lowers his head and takes you into his mouth. 

You scream his name, your back arching violently off the mattress. His tongue is relentless, swirling and flicking exactly where you need it, while his large fingers slide effortlessly inside your slick, wet heat. He mimics the rhythm of sex, pumping his fingers deep inside you while his mouth devours you, driving you completely out of your mind. 

“That’s it,” Dean praises darkly between wet, sloppy kisses against your core. “Let go for me. Show me how much you want it.”

You can’t hold back. The intense, overwhelming pleasure builds too fast, shattering through your body in a blinding wave. You climax hard against his mouth, your internal muscles clenching tight around his fingers, a sobbing moan tearing from your throat. 

Dean doesn’t give you a moment to recover. 

He rises up, his own need completely overriding his patience. He shoves his jeans and boxers down his hips, freeing his aching, heavy arousal. 

He grips your hips, his thumbs pressing into your hip bones, and aligns himself with your entrance. He looks down at you, his eyes blazing, a muscle ticking in his strong jaw. 

“Look at me,” Dean commands softly. 

You open your eyes, tears of pure pleasure pricking the corners, and meet his intense gaze. 

“I love you,” Dean says, the words a fierce, unbreakable vow. 

He drives his hips forward, burying himself completely inside you in one long, deep thrust. 

You cry out, the feeling of him stretching you, filling you so completely, sending a fresh wave of electricity straight to your brain. You wrap your legs tighter around his waist, locking him flush against you. 

Dean begins to move. He sets a punishing, desperate pace, pulling almost completely out before slamming his hips forward, driving deep into your tight, wet heat. The sound of his skin slapping against yours echoes loudly in the quiet hotel room. 

“Dean!” You cry, your fingernails digging into his broad shoulders, leaving half-moon indentations in his golden skin. 

“You feel so fucking good,” Dean groans, his teeth gritted. “So tight. You’re mine, Y/N. Tell me you’re mine.”

“I’m yours,” you sob out, completely lost in the overwhelming sensation of him. “Always yours. Oh god, please, harder.”

Dean complies instantly. He adjusts his grip, hooking his arms under your knees and pulling your legs all the way back against his chest, opening you up completely. He thrusts deeper, hitting a spot that makes you see stars. 

You are a chaotic mess of flushed skin, tangled hair, and breathless moans. Every time he hits that spot, you shatter a little more. You are entirely consumed by him, by his heat, his scent, his overwhelming, possessive love. 

“I’m close,” Dean grits out, his pace turning frantic, his thrusts losing all coordination as the pleasure takes over. “Baby, I’m right there.”

“Come for me,” you beg, your own body tightening, ready to fall over the edge again. “Dean, please.”

Dean lets out a deep, guttural roar. He drives into you three more times, as deep as he possibly can, before his body goes entirely rigid. He clenches his jaw, his eyes squeezing shut as he pours his release into you, his hips locked flush against yours. 

The feeling of him finishing deep inside you pushes you over the edge, your own body convulsing around him as you climax for a second time, calling out his name like a prayer. 

For a long time, the only sound in the luxurious hotel suite is the harsh, ragged breathing of two entirely exhausted people. 

Dean eventually collapses forward, his heavy chest resting fully against yours, his face buried in the crook of your neck. He is covered in a light sheen of sweat, his heart hammering a violent rhythm against your own. 

You wrap your arms around his broad back, holding him tightly, your fingers lazily tracing the deep ridges of his spine. You feel entirely boneless, floating in a euphoric, hazy afterglow. 

Slowly, gently, Dean rolls to the side, taking his heavy weight off you but immediately pulling you flush against his side. He reaches down and pulls the thick, white hotel duvet up over your bare bodies, cocooning you in warmth. 

He presses a soft, lingering kiss to your bare shoulder, his thumb gently stroking the curve of your waist. 

“I’m sorry I lost my temper,” Dean murmurs into the quiet room, his voice raspy. “I just … seeing him look at you like that. Thinking about him touching you. I saw red, Y/N.”

“You didn’t lose your temper,” you reply softly, turning your head to press a kiss to his chest. “You were completely calm. Terrifyingly calm, actually. I think you might have broken his spirit.”

Dean chuckles softly, the sound vibrating through you. “Good. He was a prick. And he didn’t deserve you.”

“No,” you agree, looking up into his warm, green eyes. “He didn’t. But you do.”

Dean’s breath catches. He reaches up, gently brushing a tangled lock of hair out of your face, his fingers lingering on your cheek. 

“I meant what I said,” Dean whispers, all the playful arrogance stripped away, leaving only the raw, honest truth of the man who has loved you since you were children. “I’m your future, sweetheart. I know we’re young, and I know we have our whole lives ahead of us. But I am not doing any of it without you.”

Tears prick your eyes again, but this time they are tears of absolute, profound joy. 

“I’m not going anywhere, Dean,” you promise him, sliding your hand up to cup his handsome face. “I love you. I love you more than anything.”

Dean leans down, capturing your lips in a slow, impossibly tender kiss. It is a promise, a vow, a sealing of a fate that had been written in the stars the moment you built your first terribly constructed fort in his backyard in Greenwich. 

He pulls back slightly, resting his forehead against yours, a stunning, radiant smile breaking across his face. 

“So,” Dean murmurs, a hint of his signature, charming arrogance slipping back into his tone. “Since I successfully defended your honor against a British Lord, do I get to be a knight now? Is that how it works here?”

You laugh, the sound bright and clear, echoing perfectly in the quiet room. 

“You’re already my knight in shining armor, Dean Di Laurentis,” you tease, pressing a final kiss to his jaw. “Now, shut up and hold me.”

“As you wish, sweetheart,” Dean replies smoothly, wrapping his arms around you and pulling you impossibly closer. 

As you lie there in his arms, thousands of miles from the Briar hockey house, looking out the window at the ancient spires of Oxford, you realize you have never felt more at home. 

You had crossed an ocean to escape your past, but in the end, it was your past that had caught you, held you safe, and given you the most beautiful, chaotic, perfect future you could ever ask for.