Summary: Your ex invites you to his wedding. Showing up alone would only prove him right all those years ago, but he deserves a kick in the brass cojones. Leon's nothing if not an enabler.
WC: 6k
CW: fake dating, established friendship as coworkers, nicknames, no use of y/n, no mention of ages, fluff, bad fish puns, mild angst/comfort, first kiss (real), happy ending
The mission is finally over. You know this because your desk is a fucking mess.
Printouts and clippings and folders lay thick enough to suffocate, and you’re still receiving tidbits and snippets that need to be sorted and distributed. You’ve lost your breakfast bar under the same newspaper, twice, in two different locations as you shuffle and juggle and group and discard.
The discard needs to be happening faster. Your waste bin is the cleanest thing in your cubicle.
Your finger traces under a line of text on page #3 of relevant dossier #7, transcribing it into your report one-handed, eyes intent on your computer screen. You’ve got earbuds in with box-fan white noise cranked to drown out the office phones and low-grade chatter from surrounding cubes. You’re already running your brain in ten different directions, working on your report while compiling documentation to share with the field agents for their reports, and they keep pinging your IM, hounding you for updates. You wish you could set your status to something more abrasive than “🔴 Do Not Disturb”.
On the one hand, you understand how the quick turnaround on mission reports means a direct tap into memory while it’s still fresh, but on the other – you’re all fucking exhausted, some of you are injured, and this feels a little bit like friendly fire. Especially when you’re the intelligence agent and your field operatives are all tugging on your metaphorical shirt hem, whining for your attention.
Something brushes your ear and you slap at it, whipping your head around. Of course you’d have a fly buzzing around your cubicle, now, too.
It’s not a fly. Leon Kennedy just took out one of your earbuds.
You clutch at your chest, the shock of finding an entire person standing behind you making your skin feel like it teleported 1cm to the left without you.
“You weren’t hearing me,” he says by way of an apology. You snatch the earbud back.
“That’s the POINT.”
“You said that info was on a thumb drive?”
“I said it will be,” you say, frazzled. “I’ve got like twenty balls in the air right now, Leon. Don’t break my concentration.”
“Can I help with anything?”
“Respect the status,” you snap, referring to the Do Not Disturb designation that he had bypassed by showing up in person.
Your tone echoes back in your ears and you shut your eyes, sighing and rubbing at a spot on your forehead. You can feel a monumental headache building, but that’s no reason to be nasty. Leon’s under the same tight deadlines.
“Sorry.”
“I get it,” he says, picking up the empty wrapper from your breakfast bar and transferring it to your trash can. There’s a deep scratch on his arm, gummy and raw, held shut with butterfly closures.
“I’ll have it ready by EOD,” you say, pronouncing the acronym like it’s a word. Ee-odd. It’s an olive branch poking up through the hellfire: an inside joke between the two of you. The corner of his mouth stretches into that half-smile.
“Roger, Earworm.”
The bastard thinks it’s a funny nickname: always the voice in my ear. And it is funny, because it was never mean-spirited. Some of the other field operatives get borderline malicious with their interpersonal nicknames.
You toss a balled-up paper at him; he twists and it bounces off his hip.
“So fuck off, Toothskin.”
When you’d first thrown that one back at him you’d won one of his genuine laughs, the kind you only got when you really surprised him. Always making it by the skin of your teeth.
A trainee had said once that your nicknames sounded mean, that they made you sound like unhygienic trolls or rotted goblins. They’d suggested something like Angel and Lucky instead, because it was sentimentally the same thing and positivity would strengthen your team dynamic.
Three guesses if they’d ever completed the program.
You’d never told Leon about that lunch room conversation. You didn’t need to watch him die laughing.
In your cubicle, his smile stretches a little wider, then he glances at his watch. Cursing under his breath, he leaves at an urgent clip. You’re already facing your computer again with your stolen earbud crammed back in.
The silent ticking of the clock remains deafening.
You love the sounds of coming home after a long day, but tonight it all sounds especially serene.
The thump of your shoes, kicked off carelessly in the foyer.
The shf of stiff fabric shed from your tired body, the blissful whisper of well-worn, downy-soft pajamas slipping over your skin.
The delicate clink of a wineglass; the full-throated cascade of a generous pour.
You take a heavy sip and lean against your kitchen island, closing your eyes and releasing a long breath. God. Trapped at your desk all day and then six hundred interceptions when you were finally allowed to leave? You felt like a fucking running back making a mad dash for the endzone. The night air had never tasted so sweet, once you'd finally made it through the doors.
Your oven makes a series of quiet clicks, coming back up to temperature. Even if dinner’s just thawed leftovers, again, you’d set yourself up for something fresh, too, because you fucking deserve it. You’re already starting to smell it. You take another sip of wine and smile.
And then you remember. It strikes you like a horrible bolt of lightning.
At the same time, your phone starts ringing on the countertop.
Incoming Call
Toothskin
“Fuck!”
You want to throw your wineglass. How the fuck did you forget?
> Answer
“Fuck, Leon, I’m so sorry, I completely fucked it–“
“Hey, whoa,” he says, but you’re still talking.
"It’s in my fucking bag, I was on my way to drop it off and I got–“
He says your name; you barely hear it.
“Fuck! I can’t believe I just fucking walked out– I’ll come drop it off, okay? I can– I’ll just … shit, the fucking oven–"
"HEY," he says, raising his voice. "I’m already in the car. What’s your location?"
When Leon knocks at your door, you swing it open and then hurry back into the house like a reverse doorbell-ditch. He blinks, hand still raised in a frozen knock.
“Just come in!” You shout over the beeping of the kitchen timer.
Leon steps inside and closes the door softly behind himself, looking around.
You hadn’t turned on any lights in the front hall; the kitchen sits as a literal light at the end of the tunnel. Leon clocks your tumbled shoes under your hanging coats, the splay of your keys on the side table where you’d tossed them. Ready to be fucking done with the day.
Despite the dark, the front hall is cozy. Your coats hold whispers of your perfume. There’s a hint of clean laundry and an undercurrent of something more complex, almost earthy; the house smells lived in. By you.
It also, overwhelmingly, smells like fresh bread.
You’re setting the steaming, crackling loaf on a cooling rack and slapping the oven gloves off of your hands when Leon wanders into the light of your kitchen.
"I didn’t know you baked,” he says, eyes on the dark golden crust, split open where you’d scored the dough.
"Not really mission-critical information," you say, and pull open your work bag that you’ve hauled onto the kitchen island. Digging around, you find the thumb drive, but it’s tumbled into the bottom next to another thumb drive that looks identical.
Neither are labeled.
"Of fucking course," you mutter, pulling out your laptop with jerky, frustrated motions. It clacks against the countertop; you stab the power button to boot it up. “What’s ten more hours, right?”
Leon doesn’t respond. He’s assessing: you, first and foremost, strung out and self-disparaging; the kitchen, dishes in the sink, scattered messes all over; the fridge door, covered in novelty magnets and a dry-erase calendar; the corkboard on the wall.
His attention snags.
Among photos and receipts and postcards (two are from him, brought back from some vibrantly unpleasant mission locations, as a joke), incongruously, there’s a large champagne-gold envelope with a broken wax seal, clearly torn open with some violence.
It’s stabbed into the corkboard with a paring knife.
You toss one of the thumb drives back into your bag and shove the correct one towards Leon across the kitchen island.
"Bingo," you say, then catch what he’s looking at. He gestures to it.
“Jury duty?”
You know he clocks your dark expression before you 180 into something that matches his jesting tone.
“Yeah the circuit court jumped on the discounted stationary when Party City closed.”
“You hate weddings that much?”
“It’s my fucking ex,” you say venomously, picking up your wine glass. “I almost have half a mind to show up just to congratulate him on the brass cojones. Maybe give him a swift kick in them.”
“Sounds like you should.”
“He’d get too much satisfaction from my missing plus-one,” you mutter. “Like aw, your job couldn’t make it tonight? Dickknuckle,” you add under your breath.
Leon’s watching you, a faint crease between his brows.
“What?”
“Don’t take this the wrong way,” he starts, and your brow creases. “Do you want a plus-one?”
You chuff a laugh, but he doesn’t smile, so you drop yours.
“What, like you know a guy?”
“No. Like I am a guy.”
Your eyebrows lift.
“You want to attend my ex’s wedding.”
“If it means mission success in the swift-kick department, sure,” he says. You narrow your eyes.
“You don’t even know the guy.”
He glances at the stabbed envelope on the corkboard. The blade is lodged; you'd used some force.
“I trust your judgement.”
You cross your arms, searching for a teasing twinkle in his eye, a telltale twitch of his mouth, but he’s just gazing back at you levelly.
“You’re serious,” you realize.
“Always am.”
“Please,” you scoff, but you uncross your arms and reach for your bread knife, throwing him a sidelong glance. Considering. “I’ll think about it.”
He picks up the thumb drive, tosses it in the air and catches it.
“Do that,” he says. “I’ll let myself out.”
“Wait,” you call after him, and he backs up to lean through the kitchen doorway. Wordlessly, you hold out a thick, steaming slice of the fresh bread. “For the trouble.”
He takes it.
He’s halfway to the front door when you hear him groan loud, almost obscene.
“Fuck that’s good.”
The front door closes.
His voice echoes in your ears for a while. Your cheeks are only pink from the heat of the kitchen; you turn and shut the oven off.
Earworm The mission, should you choose to accept it:
A photo loads into the text thread and Leon taps it open.
It’s the wedding invite. There’s a narrow slit bisecting the date, the same width as a paring knife blade.
He skims the details.
Mid-July. Out of state. Outdoors, in a nature preserve. Strictly formal, but no black or white dress.
He eyes the font, the thick textured paper with raw, ripped edges, the embossed leaf detailing.
It’s a vegan menu, isn’t it, he texts back.
Earworm Pescetarian
He snorts. Another text drops in from you.
Earworm You can plant the invite. Grows forget-me-nots
Of course it does.
Earworm Thought about wearing white but they might have me shot
There’s strength in numbers.
Earworm Enabler
Is this not Operation Rock The Boat?
Earworm Can’t rock it if we’re kicked out. Game plan is malicious compliance
… you’re putting me in a dress, aren’t you.
Earworm Hmm. Tempting.
There’s a fucking chandelier in the fitting room.
Under the sparkling, crystalline light, surrounded by three floor-to-ceiling mirrors, you take in your chosen battle dress from every angle.
“Yeah, that’ll do it,” you say out loud.
“You’re done already?” Leon’s voice is muffled, closed in another cubicle across the wide, thin carpet.
“It’s a slip dress,” you call back. “Not many fastenings to tangle with.”
It’s an avocado green slip dress, silky and alluring, with thin shoulder straps and a scoopy cowl neck. It’s definitely your shade. It highlights your freckles and your eyes; it shows off your arms, your collarbones, your neck. What it doesn’t reveal, it hints at, like a prize behind a curtain.
You turn again to admire the back. It’s a lot of cake to be bringing to someone else’s wedding, but he invited it.
You step out into the main space. There are more chandeliers overhead and a mirrored sort of apse at the end of the carpeted runway.
You can hear clothing rustling behind the door of the fitting room directly across from you.
“Sure you can manage all those buttons?”
The door opens and Leon’s there, looking down to fix the lay of his lapels.
“Not quite my kryptonite, but thank–“
He looks up and forgets what he's saying. Forgets where he's going, too. He stands frozen outside his fitting room, just staring at you.
That’s okay; you’re staring at him, too.
The last time you’d seen him in a suit, you were behind a desk watching a grainy, quarter-screen, black-and-white camera feed. That had had very little impact.
This? This has impact. It’s punched your stomach into a somersault.
This suit is camel-brown, the dress shirt a pastel green. The cut of the suit accentuates his broad shoulders, his tight waist; the pants make his legs look longer. The shirt brings out the green in his grey eyes, makes his skin – his lips – look a little pinker.
You were already well aware of how handsome he is, in a rugged, untouchable, dangerous Special Agent sort of way. But he’s standing here in the suit that you picked to compliment your dress and you can’t remember anyone looking more fucking attractive ever in your entire life.
And the way he always carries himself with that self-assuredness, like nothing could ever bowl him over?
He’s staring at you, and he’s looking a little bowled over.
The moment is gone just as quickly as it arrived. He pushes his hand through his hair and the unflappable Leon is back.
“Don’t you clean up nice.”
You shut your mouth with a click.
“Speak for yourself,” you say, heading for the mirrors at the end of the runway. He follows you, standing just behind your shoulder.
The two of you are a fucking one-two knockout. You look so good together, you can’t face it for more than a few blinding seconds before your chest starts feeling tight.
You sit down heavily on one of the velvet chairs between fitting room doors and manage not to put your head in your hands. Leon looks down at himself, smoothing a hand over the buttons of his suit.
“You don’t like it.”
"No, it’s fucking perfect," you bite out.
"What’s wrong?"
"This whole thing is ridiculous. I’m being ridiculous." You're short on breath. You can feel panic rising, tight bands around your lungs. You do put your head in your hands, clutching at your hair to stop the tremble in your fingers.
"Hey," he says, crouching down in front of you. "Where’s this coming from?"
"Why am I dragging you into this? I don’t care about him or what he thinks! I don’t care!"
"I volunteered," Leon reminds you.
"Why?"
He does the facial equivalent of a shrug.
"No bioweapons? Open bar? You tell me.”
You unclench your fists from your hair and sit back to look at him, your head against the wall. He meets your gaze, calm and even.
He’s so fucking beautiful. You can’t let on about the gymnastics routine your stomach’s doing.
“If his brother's there, don't rule out bioweapons,” you say.
“Mm. BO?”
You shake your head. “GI.”
“Noted. Book of matches for a quick escape.”
You close your eyes, huffing a little laugh through your nose.
“We’re not locked into anything,” he tells you quietly. “You’re calling the shots.”
“Mm,” you acknowledge, and take a deep breath. “Just another mission.”
“With free dinner.”
Something lands on your knee and you open your eyes; it’s Leon’s hand, palm-up. A question. An offering.
You give him a pained look.
“It’s pescetarian.”
“Could be a red herring.”
Your gaze goes wooden. He raises his eyebrows, innocent.
“Ugh, I hate you,” you say, but clap your hand into his waiting palm. He hauls you to your feet. And he’s not done.
"A bait-and-switch?"
"Stop," you groan, shoving him towards his fitting room.
"A shell game.”
"Ignoring you!" The door to your fitting room shuts and you start wriggling out of the dress.
You almost rip it when Leon yells FISH from across the way and you fall into helpless laughter.
Toothskin Have you checked the registry?
I’m liking the 200-year-old sourdough starter
Toothskin Old yeast… what milestone anniversary is that?
200th. Keep up
And then the day arrives.
Leon puts the Porsche in park and you both sit back, observing the battlefield.
The nature preserve vista stretches vast beyond the front bumper, all dappled sunlight and swaying greens with scatters of bright, energetic color. The sky is a vibrant blue and dotted with cotton-puff clouds, the birds are singing, and there’s enough of a breeze to prevent stagnant air without upsetting meticulous hairstyles. It’s a perfect day in a gorgeous setting.
You’re clutching the invite, unawares, and the heat and moisture from your hands has warped the textured paper. Leon glances down and gently tugs it from your grasp.
“Talk to me.”
“I’m just… trying to remember the last time I saw him.”
“On the Save the Date.”
“Heard him, then. I’m trying to remember what he said to me.”
“Do you think he remembers?”
“No.”
“Blank slate, then,” Leon says, glancing in the rearview. Guests are meandering towards the gap in the low, rustic wooden fence, trickling into the sanctuary. “What are your boundaries?”
“What?”
“As your date. We covered our story; what’s your stance on PDA?”
“Oh.” You wave it off. “I don’t expect you to do anything.”
He scoffs, incredulous. “We’re at a wedding, as a couple, and you look like that,” he says, indicating your whole look with a pointed raise of his eyebrows. “You want people to think you’re dating a eunuch?”
You stare at him like you’re going to fire something back, but there’s nothing in the chamber. He’s disarmed you. Maybe fried your circuitry a little.
“Here,” he prompts, and holds his hand out over the gear shift. “Do you like holding hands with a partner?”
You can’t be this flustered. He’s just gathering intel for the undercover operation. This is tactical.
You take his hand, feigning nothing but mild agreement while your traitorous pulse picks up.
“Sure, it’s fine.”
He adjusts, lacing your fingers together, watching your face.
“Still fine?”
“Still fine.” His palm is warm and rough, callouses at the base of every finger from intensive strength training. His thumb lightly strokes your hand.
“If I touch your back?”
You tamp down a shiver, keeping your voice neutral.
“Fine, from the waist up.”
“Your hair?”
“Why my hair?”
He gently frees his hand, brushes his fingers over your ear like he’s fixing a windblown lock.
“Okay, yeah, that’s fine.”
He traces his thumb from your temple down to your jaw, delineating the side of your face.
“Is this okay to kiss?”
Despite the car still running and the AC blowing, your skin is hot and buzzing and you’re feeling that tight panic start to threaten your lungs again. It’s too close and intimate in here. You swat his hand away.
“Look, I know you’re good at reading a room, okay? So I’ll trust you. Just don’t fucking grope me in front of the bride’s grandma and I think we’ll be fine.”
“Killjoy.”
You sharpen on him. He just blinks at you owlishly, unthreatened.
You poke him in the side, where you know he’s sensitive. He clamps his arm down and jerks away.
“Alright, roger! No show for grandma!”
It pokes you back, right in the funny bone. You collapse into laughter, forehead pressed into his shoulder, and the bands around your chest loosen.
When you recover, he’s still smiling quietly, smug. You give him a shove, then double check your makeup in the visor mirror.
“Alright, let’s go, before all the worst seats are taken.”
The ceremony is gorgeous.
The altar stands under the strong, reaching branches of an ancient oak, in a serene forest clearing bordered by flickering tea lights in pristine mason jars. The bride looks Barbie-perfect in her flawless bright white dress, and the groom – your ex – is practically glowing himself. She’s probably got him on a juice detox, yoga regimen and seventeen-step skincare routine. But it’s working.
They look beautiful together, and hopelessly in love.
Your hands have knotted in your lap and your jaw is clenched tight.
You’re not jealous.
Well. You’re not jealous of her for who she’s marrying. You might be jealous of… everything else.
Something touches your wrist. It’s Leon, and just the warmth of his fingers on your skin dissolves your acidity.
Your hands unknot as Leon slips his fingers in with yours, his palm a warm and comfortable weight. You hook your free hand loose at his elbow, hugging his arm, and he leans in to press a kiss to your temple, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. You lean into it.
At the end of the ceremony, the freshly-minted husband and wife make a bottleneck that guests have to pass through on their way to the reception tent. You’re in line, wondering when ‘congratulations’ will stop sounding like a real word.
There are only seven people in line ahead of you. You’re breathing even, because you’re not anxious. You’re fine.
“Should I tell him he’s got a seed in his hair?” Leon’s speaking low right next to your ear, his eyes on the man in front of you in line. You refocus; it’s the type of seed that travels on the wind with a bit of fluff, like a dandelion. The guy’s hair is dark enough that it’s not hard to spot.
You turn your head to speak in Leon’s ear.
“No. Ten he’ll never notice.”
He smirks.
“Fifteen his wife won’t, either.”
Five people ahead of you.
“Bad bet, she’s hardly looked at him since they stood up. Twenty it’s a random stranger that tells him.”
“Bad bet, you’re a random stranger,” he says, his breath tickling your ear.
Three people ahead of you. You’re biting back a smile.
“Damn.”
Leon’s hand hasn’t left your waist.
“You came!”
Your ex lights up when he sees you next in line, and you’re even more surprised when he goes in for the hug. Leon feels you move towards it on rote and lets you go; the hug is light and short-lived. Your ex’s frame seems smaller than you remember, but maybe that’s because you’ve had Leon glued to your hip. He’s taller than your ex, maybe all in the swoop of his bronze hair, but he’s definitely… bigger.
“God, you look incredible,” your ex is saying, but there’s no depth or heat to it. It sounds just like it would if you were two former friends that hadn’t seen each other in almost a decade, and that hits you… strangely. You were lovers, for fuck’s sake, you were together for more than three years! Why did he invite you here if it wasn’t to gloat? To rub all this in your face? You hadn’t separated on good terms, but there isn’t a shred of animosity you’re getting from him right now. He truly just seems happy to see you.
And, annoyingly, that comes as a relief even while it stumbles you. It’s like you were holding the end of a wire at tension only to find it wasn’t attached to anything. You can’t help but feel a little childish about it, but in your defense, the wedding invite completely out of the blue? That was a crazy thoughtless move. How many other exes had been invited today, and how many had shown? How many other invites were still stabbed into a corkboard somewhere?
So maybe you’ve stretched your legs for nothing. His cojones aren’t brass, he’s just kinda dumb. And you know what? Good for him.
You return to Leon’s bubble and his hand is right back at your waist, casually possessive. You wind your arm around his back while you enthuse – and it is genuine – how stunning and happy the bride and groom look together. Your ex pulls his new wife close and kisses the side of her face, then gestures to Leon.
“And who’s your lucky gentleman?”
Leon lets you introduce him – you're calling the shots – shaking hands before settling in against you again, and you can feel his attention’s on you. You can see them seeing something on his face and you look up at him.
Your tummy backflips.
His eyes are so soft and fond, looking between yours. There’s a shade of something that looks like pride, too, and you wonder if he can feel that the fight’s left your body.
He kisses your forehead, then offers the bride and groom another congrats and beautiful ceremony and we’ll see you inside, opening your exit. You walk out together from the shade of the forest, into the July sun, and the light breeze greets you smelling sweet and hot and floral.
When you’re out of earshot, he speaks.
“What’s our sitrep?”
You sigh, defeated.
“You wanna go, don’t you.”
“Why do you say that?”
“You signed on for violence.”
“Maybe at first.” The two of you have to break to walk apart on an uneven stretch of path, so he takes your hand instead. “We leave now, what’re the optics?”
“A shellfish allergy.”
“Weak,” he heckles. He’s right. Leaving now would look suspicious.
You tug his hand, grimly indicating the reception tent when he meets your gaze.
“That’s the hot zone. Last chance to run.”
He rolls his shoulders, cracks his neck, tightens the lace of your fingers together.
“I don’t give up that easy.”
“How did you two meet?”
Of course, as soon as the seat beside Leon vacates one ass, this one drops into it. You remember her from Thanksgivings and Christmases with your ex’s family, and here she is again with that ominous glint in her eye, wine glass already in hand. You grip Leon’s thigh under the table in warning.
“Hi, Auntie.”
“Hello, dear. You’re looking so well," she says, scrunching her nose condescendingly. "So how’d you dupe this one?”
Leon straightens from his casual lean, facing her better while resting his arm over the back of your chair.
“Aren’t we charming.”
Wine Aunt sets her chin in her hand, one eyebrow cocked as she looks Leon up and down, indiscreet. He’d abandoned his suit jacket a while ago, sleeves rolled up his arms, tie stuffed into his pocket so he could unbutton his collar a little. He does look fucking delicious, but you want to scoop out her slimy eyes for ogling him like that.
“Mmm. Certainly,” she purrs at him. So she’s forfeited her tongue, now, too.
You see Leon give her a subtly disgusted up-down in return before he turns his full attention to you instead.
“Met you at work,” he says to you, and you’re obsessed with the way he’s effectively answering Wine Aunt while also cutting her out of the conversation. He glances up at your hair, brushes it back from your forehead. “It was just your voice at first, lots of phone calls. And then I got to meet you.”
Your tummy’s not just fluttering, it’s kicking you. He’s too good at sounding like this, warm and fond and genuine. It’s starting to pinch behind your ribs.
It’s just a show. You’re playing in it, too.
Wine Aunt’s bringing her glass to her lips, muttering something like isn’t that sweet, expression fully soured. You can see she’s turned away, scanning the tables for her next victim, and your quiet smile at Leon grows a sharpened edge of victory. Then she leaves without another word and you have to bite back a full grin.
“Did she really just try to come on to me?”
“She’s notorious.”
“Mm. I thought about saying we met at an AA meeting, but she wouldn't know anything about that.”
Your eyes sparkle with dark delight. “Leon Kennedy. You are here for violence.”
You both jump when the speakers give a sudden feedback screech, the DJ raising his arm in apology before checking the microphone again. He announces it’s time for the speeches, and Leon exchanges a harrowed glance with you before grabbing both your empty drinks glasses.
“Same again?”
“Stronger.”
You haven’t been to a single wedding where the speeches didn’t set your teeth on edge.
Tonight might be the worst yet. You’re glad, at least, that there’s a literal spotlight somewhere else in the tent, leaving your table in heavy shadow. Both you and Leon look like you're on trial awaiting a heavy verdict rather than listening to weepy, heartfelt sentiments and weak jokes that rarely land.
Your fingers draw aimless lines up and down your drink glass, smearing through the condensation. Your eyes are on Leon’s back; he’s hunched forward, elbows on the table.
You listen to different iterations of the same gist, hear the same buzzwords, over and over.
Proud. Deserve. Love. Peace. Safety. Long life. Happiness. Together.
They all land like darts, piercing you.
Halfway through the father of the bride’s speech, Leon gets up, unreadable. He sets his hand on your back and leans down, his voice low and even.
“I’ll be right back.”
It’s calm, casual. Normal.
The giveaway is when his whiskey goes with him, and the direction he heads.
Not for the bathroom. Not for the bar.
The exit.
The reception tent is set up next to a huge, beautifully manicured garden courtyard, all high shrubs and fragrant bushes and bursting clusters of flowers lining stone paths that stretch and curve and cross over each other, a loose labyrinth. In the middle of it all stands a large stone fountain, its cascade a gentle burble rather than a showy spray, its wide pool full of blooming lilypads and the white and orange flicker of koi fish. Above it is a massive circular pergola, a slat-wooded ring dripping with cafe lights and vining flowers like a great wild halo.
The loudspeakers in the tent become just a shapeless thrum once you’re past the first wall of shrubs, and the summer chorus of crickets and frogs work to drown it out entirely. The sun’s almost down; fireflies are flashing and flickering in the dense foliage as you navigate the paths, heading for the sound of water.
And that’s exactly where you find him.
Leon’s sitting on the edge of the stone pool, head down, whiskey glass hanging from loose fingers. For a moment you just stand quietly and watch him breathe.
“Hey.”
He looks up; straightens and clears his throat, casually sipping at his drink.
“Hey,” he echoes.
“You don’t have to do that,” you tell him, moving in closer. His eyes reflect the cafe lights like little stars as he looks up to meet your approach. There’s a subtle tightness to his expression, a shadow lurking, but if you didn’t know him like you do, you’d never recognize it. He’s too well trained.
“Do what?”
“Hide.”
He doesn’t deny it. He lowers his gaze and downs the last of his drink.
“You’re missing the speeches,” he says instead.
“Chad has the microphone."
He huffs a humorless laugh through his nose. A breeze meanders through the gardens, stirring through his hair. Not really thinking about it, you trace one finger lightly across his forehead, back over his ear, his hair falling softly back into place. He meets your eyes but your gaze is distant.
The both of you have sacrificed so much, willingly or otherwise, for your line of work. That’s why it’s not you at the sweetheart table tonight, and why it probably never will be. You’ve learned how to ignore the empty spaces, to close them off within yourselves so you can keep moving forward, because you can both see the bigger picture and your places within it.
What you do creates space for happy endings, fights to maintain that space. Tries, every day, to broaden it.
You know you’ve both long given up on the idea that the fight will ever be over. After two decades, it’s inescapable: there will always be something lurking in the shadows, growing in labs, lying in wait. The only way this will end for you is in death; as long as you’re alive, you have to keep going. That’s your lifelong commitment.
You can train yourself to endure the emptiness all you want. It’s still fucking lonely.
But if today has proven anything to you, it’s that you’re not alone. For once, you’re not by yourself behind a desk in some dark safehouse while Leon's out who-knows-where, running with Death on his heels. For the first time, he’s here, he’s right in front of you, you can touch him, comfort him the way you’ve always wished you could, hearing him breathe brokenly down the comms on particularly difficult missions.
And what missions weren’t difficult?
“Thank you for being here,” you tell him quietly, distantly. You card his hair back over his ear, still busy in your own head, just liking how it feels. His hair is soft, and his strands of silver look like threads of gold in the warm, soft lighting.
His hand, resting on his own thigh, brushes your leg through the silky fall of your skirt. You’re standing between his legs at the edge of a bubbling fountain, playing with his hair while fireflies dance in the fragrant summer air around you.
Your fingers hesitate, starting to curl like a dying vine near his temple as the awareness sets in. But before you can draw your hand away, he dips his head to brush your fingers against his hair again.
Don’t go.
His eyes close and his head sways back when you comb both of your hands into his hair, nails scratching lightly along his scalp. His hands are settled on your legs now, just leaning there, still rested on his own thighs. His shoulders are loose, tension drained, and his lips are parted.
It’s such a show of trust that it almost overwhelms you. Not only are you blocking sightlines but his head is in your hands, and despite the nooks and shadows of the courtyard all around you, he's got his eyes closed. This is more surrendered than you’ve ever seen him.
You know he’s lethal, body honed not just to handle weapons, but into a weapon itself. He can snap a spine with the heel of his palm. He can crush a skull with his foot, send a body absolutely sailing with the strength of his legs.
But he’s also been one of the kindest, gentlest people you know. He cracks stupid jokes when he knows you’re wound up, but only after checking in with you. He looks at you with such adoration. He touches you with respect and care.
Is all of it really just for the role?
His lashes are a thick, dark sweep over the tops of his cheeks. You run your thumb over his eyebrow, lightly down the bridge of his nose, and he opens his eyes. You can see the green in his irises as he studies you; the dark halo of blue that rings them.
“I like this better," he tells you.
"What?"
He touches his ear, miming an earpiece, then sets his hands on your hips, light. Easily moved or brushed away. You do neither.
Your heart thumps a little faster. This touch is not waist-up.
This isn’t the role.
You lean down, speaking directly against the shell of his ear.
“Don't get used to it, Kennedy.”
You’ve barely finished saying his name before he’s turned his head and caught your lips in a kiss.
You draw back a little, startled, your lips buzzing. His eyes are half-lidded looking up at you, unapologetic.
“No one’s watching,” you check.
“I know.” He looks down at your lips.
Your hands skim his jaw, his stubble rasping against your skin.
“This was never about aiding in my revenge, was it.”
He shakes his head. His thumbs are stroking your hipbones through the silk of your dress.
"I just wanted this," he admits.
Suspended within the summer song of crickets and frogs, under whispering leaves and beside softly burbling water, you lean down and kiss him. His hands slide up to your waist, mouth so tender on yours, kissing you back while the fireflies wink and dance around you.
You’re not alone.
On AO3
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It’s late and he’s in the kitchen. Back to you, fridge doors open before him, the cool light making the shadows of the dark room much more dramatic.
Perfect.
You creep behind him, careful, so careful, to avoid even the slightest crunch or stick of your foot to tile.
He’s still browsing, still completely unaware. You see the chance and you take it, jumping behind him and using both hands to grip his sides with a playful yell.
Not even a flinch. All he does is glance at you over a shoulder, smirking. “You breathe so loud.”
He closes the fridge, snack in hand, and leaves you in the dark, defeated.
—
He’s in the shower. You know he’ll see your shadowed outline through the curtain if he’s looking. So, you wait.
You hear the squirt of shampoo, the foaming lather as he runs it through his hair. You’re in, moving quickly, ripping the curtain back with a scream.
Arms still up, fingers in his hair, he just looks at you, brow arched, grossly unimpressed.
Your sigh is heavy, eyes rolling. “Oh come on. How?”
He hums and flicks soap at you. “Better luck next time.”
—
He’s out grabbing ingredients for dinner. You’ve got it down this time.
You hear the front door click open from the depths of the coat closet, shuffling as he kicks off his boots, the crinkle of the paper bags full of groceries as he sets them down. The smooth leather of his jacket protests as he slips it off.
You tense, ready, waiting.
The closet door creaks, then you’re the one screeching as he grabs you, lifting you easily into his arms. He digs his fingers into your ribs and you’re squirming, laughing, already breathless as he targets the spots he knows you can’t bear a single touch without crumbling.
You swat him off, begging, and he lets up. His hands unite under your ass to hold you up as you straddle him, arms around his neck.
“Thought I had you that time.”
A sly smile and he’s giving one of your firm cheeks a pinch. “I felt so bad, I almost let you have that one.”
You’re both laughing again as he carries you toward the bedroom, groceries abandoned in the entryway.
Summary: where the girls take you to a costume party and things change a little bit for you.
Warning: off campus au (kind of), puck bunnies, shy reader, dumb, toxic and lame ex, dean being a gentleman (in his own way), drunk reader, one bed trope, a little angst, teasing and fluff.
pt.2
Beau Maxwell's house is packed to the rafters: strobes of red and blue light cut through a thick haze of sweat, cheap beer, and expensive cologne. The bass from the speakers is vibrating so hard it rattles the red Solo cups stacked on the kitchen counters. You're dressed like Christina Aguilera in her 2002 Dirrty era, you're really trying something new and that reason alone is probably why the girls dragged you to Beau's costume party.
Allie was walking next to you, dressed in a flawless, glittery 2000s J-Lo tracksuit, yelling over the music. “I told you! Beau promised this would be the party of the semester, and he actually delivered!”
Beau came to her side in full Top Gun flight suit as Goose, wrapping an arm around Allie's waist. “Babe you need to have some faith in me, the Maxwell brand never misses.”
Hannah was wearing fluffy bunny ears and a white bodysuit, nudging you with her elbow. “Look at you, sweetie! Miss Malone’s waitress of the month is absolutely rocking the 'Dirrty' era. I knew we just needed to get you out of your oversized sweaters.”
You're tugging anxiously at the edge of your cropped halter top, your face is flushing with embarrassment.
“Hannah, I feel like half my body is exposed. If a customer from Malone's sees me like this, I’m going to have to fake my own death and move to Canada.”
Brianna was laughing, her halo tilted slightly as she laughs. “Oh, please honey. You look stunning! Besides, look around. Logan is literally just wearing bird wings and no shirt.”
Logan's flapping a giant pair of feathered wings behind Brianna, he's grinning. “Hey, it takes a lot of confidence to pull off the avian look, okay? G, back me up.”
Meanwhile Garrett was wearing a magician's cape, clearly matching with Hannah. He's holding a Solo cup like a prop. “Can't hear you, Birdman. I'm currently preparing to make this keg disappear.”
You try to laugh and blend into the background, taking a hefty sip of your drink to calm your nerves just a little. As your eyes wander through the crowded living room, your heart drops, because, standing by the punch bowl is a shockingly familiar face...
You choked slightly on your drink. “Oh my god. No! No, no, no.”
Hannah frowned, she followed your gaze. “What? What is it- oh.” she paused. “You have got to be kidding me, is that...?”
You just nodded, panicking. “Yes! It’s him. My ex, Stuart. Why is he here? He hates hockey and its players, he hates american football players, he hates big crowds, and his idea of a wild and crazy night is watching documentaries on tax law! We broke up, like... two months ago and I am not dealing with his boring lectures and energy tonight.”
Allie grabbed another drink from a passing tray and handed it to you. “Babe, drink this okay? You are a popstar tonight! You work hard, you look hot, and you are going to vibe. Just... Forget about him and his boring ass.” you accepted the drink and downed it in one gulp. “Damn, that was easy.”
The drinks have fully kicked in, the initial shyness has melted away into a warm, buzzing confidence. You’re standing near the edge of the makeshift dance floor, fully lost in the rhythm, your hips swaying to the heavy beat, feeling so good and free. You feel alive, your head is fuzzy because of the drinks, the stress of school and Malone’s are completely forgotten.
Through the crowd, a guy in a full, fuzzy yellow and black bumblebee suit bumps into you. “Oh, whoa! Sorry about that, Xtina. Didn't mean to buzz into your personal space.” Tucker said smiling warmly.
You giggled, waving your cup. “Tucker! Oh my god, hi! You're a bee! That's amazing!”
He grinned. “Garrett picked it out, don't ask him about it. You're having fun?”
You nodded vigorously, your vision is a little swimmy. “The best! I am just... living life!”
Tucker chuckles and moves toward the kitchen, and as you turn back to the dance floor, your eyes lock onto the center of the room in where Dean Di Laurentis is standing there. He’s wearing aviator sunglasses inside, dog tags resting over a suit against a completely bare, perfectly toned chest. He looks like Maverick if Maverick spent twenty hours a week on the ice. Naturally, there is a literal flock of puck bunnies surrounding him, hanging onto his every word.
Dean's eyes scan the room, cutting through his circle of admirers, and stop dead on you. His jaw slackens slightly as he takes in the outfit.
You started shouting way too loudly, waving both arms in the air with zero chill, because when you're drunk you feel invincible. “DEAN!! HI!!! DEAN, OVER HERE!!!”
Dean blinks at you, a slow, utterly wicked smirk spreading across his face, he doesn't hesitate. He murmurs something to the girls around him, leaving them mid-sentence, and struts directly through the crowd toward you.
He stopped a few inches away, taking off his aviators to reveal burning blue eyes. “Well, hello there, sweetheart. I didn't know Briar’s sweetest girl had a wild side... What's all this?”
You giggled, doing a little uncoordinated but enthusiastic dance step, your hips bumping into his thigh. “I'm a popstar, Dean! Do you like it? Allie and Hannah made me do it, but I think I love it!”
His voice dropped an octave, a low chuckle escaping his throat. “Like it? Honey, I'm trying very hard to remember my manners right now. You look incredible.”
Before you can think, you step closer into his space, completely unbothered by your usual shyness. Dean’s smirk softens into something warmer, he steps in, his large, warm hands finding their way to your hips. The contact sends a jolt straight down your spine, but it’s not uncomfortable or awkward like when your ex tried to do that, it feels grounding.
Dean's guiding your rhythm smoothly, pulling you a fraction closer. “Well... Let's see those moves then, popstar. Don't let me stop you.”
You dance with him, your head spinning from the alcohol and his sheer proximity. And every time your body brushes against his bare chest, your heart does a flip, he keeps his hands firmly on your waist, navigating you away from any rowdy partygoers, his eyes never leaving yours.
Hours after that the music has died down to a low murmur, the house is a wasteland of crushed cans and deflated balloons. You are leaning heavily against Dean, your chin resting on his shoulder and your legs feel like absolute jelly.
You're slurring slightly, looking around the empty couch area. “Wait... where did Hannah go? Brianna? And Allie? Did they leave me? Am I abandoned?”
Dean rubs his thumb in soothing circles against your hip. “Relax, babe. Hannah went upstairs with Garrett about an hour ago. Allie and Brianna did the same with Beau and Logan. They're all crashed out in the boys' rooms.”
You're pouting, your eyes are heavy. “Oh... So I'm lone... lonely. The lonely popstar.”
Dean smiled softly to you. “You're not lonely, you're with me. And you are officially cut off, sweetheart. Let's get you off your feet, okay?”
You try to take a step forward, but your heel catches on a stray solo cup, you stumble, but you don't hit the floor. Dean catches you effortlessly, scooping you up into his arms before you can even gasp by his action. One arm is securely behind your back, the other one is under your knees.
“Whoa... You're strong, like a hockey player.” you say while wrapping your arms around his neck.
He laughed softly as he carries you up the stairs. “Funny how that works. Just hold on, I've got you.”
Dean's room is surprisingly neat for a college guy, smelling of cedar, books and clean laundry. Dean gently deposits you onto his large mattress, you immediately flop backward, sighing contentedly against the pillows.
Dean's standing over the bed, unlooping his dog tags. “Alright, popstar. Since there's only one bed, you can have the left side of the bed, I'll take the right. Just get comfortable."
You're trying to sit up, tugging frantically at the back of your halter top. “Dean... Maverick... we have a problem. A big, sticky, terrible problem.”
He arch an eyebrow. “Yeah? What's that?” he says amused.
Your fingers are fumbling uselessly against the fabric, your vision blurring with frustration. “I'm trapped! The fabric... it's like cheap faux-leather or something, and I sweat, and now it's stuck to my skin. And my hands aren't working! They're like little clubs, I can't unclip the back. I'm going to have to live in this costume forever.”
He walks over to the edge of the bed, kneeling down so he's at the same eye level as you. “Hey, take a breath. Breathe... You're not living in the costume.”
You look at him with big, innocent, tipsy eyes, your lower lip is slightly trembling. “Can you help me? Please? I can't get it off.”
Dean freezes for a fraction of a second, his gaze drops to your lips, then to the intricate, tangled straps at the back of your neck. The playful playboy facade completely drops, replaced by a tense, hyper-focused intensity.
His voice is thick, deadly serious but incredibly gentle. “Okay, turn around. Sit up for me, please.”
You clumsily turn your back to him, sitting cross-legged on the bed. You feel his large, cool hands brush your hair over one shoulder, his knuckles graze your bare skin, sending a wave of goosebumps across your arms.
His fingers are working meticulously at the stubborn clasp. “Jesus, you weren't kidding. Whoever designed this outfit did not think about the exit strategy.”
“Don't rip it, please. It's Hannah's.” you whispered while staring at the wall.
He chuckled softly, his breath warm against the back of your neck. “I won't rip it, sweetheart. Trust me, just hold still for a second...”
He carefully detangles the sticky fabric from the clasp, his touch light and deliberate. With a soft click, the tension in the top gives way. He holds the fabric against your front gently, making sure it doesn't just drop, completely respecting your boundaries and privacy.
Dean steps back, and he grabbed one of his giant, soft Briar Hockey t-shirts with his number "66" and surname on the back from his dresser.
“There, the clasp is undone. I’m turning around now. Put this on, slip the costume out from underneath it, and slide under the covers, yeah?” he turns his back to you, facing the door.
You clutched the soft, oversized shirt to your chest, your heart's pounding for a completely different reason now. “Dean?”
He looks at you from over his shoulder, a soft smirk returning to his lips. “Yeah, popstar?”
You smile softly, your eyelids are drooping. “Thank you.”
He smiled. “Anytime, sweetheart. Now get changed before I lose my mind.”
The rustle of fabric fills the quiet room as you quickly slip into Dean’s massive Briar Hockey t-shirt. It swallows you whole, the hem falling all the way down to your mid-thigh, smelling intensely of his signature cologne: sandalwood and success. You slide under the crisp, cool sheets, pulling the duvet right up to your chin.
You spoke again softly, your voice muffled by the blanket. “Okay... I’m decent. You can turn around.”
Dean turns around, a slow, appreciative smile tugging at the corner of his lips as he sees you practically drowning in his clothes under the duvet. Without a word, he reaches down and effortlessly unbuttons the suit, kicking them off along with his aviators and dog tags. He's left in just a pair of dark gray Calvin Klein boxers. He climbs into the other side of the mattress, the bed dips significantly under his weight.
He's prop-ping his head up with one hand, looking over at you in the dark. “Are you comfortable, popstar?”
You nodded shyly, burying half your face in the pillow. “Yeah, the shirt is really soft.”
He lowers himself onto his pillow, his voice dropping into a sleepy, raspy rumble. “Keep it if you want. Go to sleep, sweetheart. I'll see you in the morning.”
***
The bright morning sunlight streams through the window blinds, cutting across the room as stripes. As consciousness slowly returns to you, the fog of the alcohol has cleared, leaving behind a mild headache and a very sudden, overwhelming awareness of your surroundings.
You can barely move, there is a heavy, solid weight draped securely over your waist, pinning you to the mattress.
You blink your eyes open and realize you are tucked firmly against a wall of absolute muscle, Dean is acting as the perfect big spoon, his chest is pressed flush against your back, his breathing deep and even against your shoulder. Because he’s only in boxers, you can feel the direct, radiating heat of his bare skin right through the thin fabric of your t-shirt. His strong arm is wrapped completely around your middle, pulling you back so there is zero space between you.
Your heart starts hammering against your ribs, you try to gently shift forward to create some breathing room, but the moment you move, the grip around your waist tightens.
Dean groan softly, his voice incredibly deep and raspy from sleep, burying his face deeper into the crook of your neck. “Stop moving... 'S too early.”
You're completely freezing by his voice, your face flushing a bright, fiery crimson. “Dean... Dean, wake up.”
His thumb lazily brushing against your hip through the shirt, entirely unfazed. “Mmm, no. Bed is warm, you're warm. Stay still.”
You squeak slightly, overwhelmed by the sheer intimacy of the position. “Dean, please. You're... you're holding me really tight. And you don't have a shirt on.”
That seems to wake him up a little, you feel him chuckle against your skin, the vibration sending a shiver down your spine. Slowly, he lifts his head from your neck, though he doesn't untangle his legs from yours.
You blinked sleepily, a lazy, incredibly charming morning smirk spreading across his face. “Good morning to you too, sunshine. And for the record, I didn't have a shirt on last night either. You didn't seem to mind it when you were dancing with me.”
You hide your face in your hands. “I was tipsy! I didn't know what I was doing. And I... I usually don't do this. Wake up like this, with anyone.”
Dean’s smirk softens slightly at your clear embarrassment. He carefully rolls onto his back, finally releasing his grip on your waist, though he stays close enough that your shoulders are still touching. He props himself up on an elbow, looking down at your flustered, messy-haired state with an expression that is surprisingly tender.
"Hey, look at me." you slowly lower your hands, your big, innocent eyes meeting his burning blue ones. He reached out to gently tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear. “You don't have to panic, okay? Nothing happened. Well, besides you screaming my name in front of the entire hockey team and demanding I help you out of a sexy, sticky popstar outfit.”
You groan, pulling the duvet over the lower half of your face. “Please tell me you're making that up.”
He laughed out loud, the sound rich and clear in the quiet room. “I wish I was, but honestly? It was the highlight of my night, by a mile. Your ex-boyfriend looked like he was going to cry when I carried you up those stairs... It was funny.”
You peek out from over the blanket, your eyebrows knitting together.
“You saw him?” you asked.
His jaw tightened just a fraction, his playboy swagger returning full force. “Yeah, I saw him. Total buzzkill. You're way too vibrant for a guy who looks like he calculates taxes for fun, sweetheart. You deserve someone who actually knows how to have a good time.”
He leans in just a little closer, his gaze dropping to your lips for a fleeting second before locking back onto your eyes.
“Now, how about we go downstairs, get some coffee into that system of yours, and after that you can tell me all about why Briar’s sweetest waitress has been hiding from me all semester?”
***
You are practically hiding behind Dean as you walk down the stairs. You’re clutching the hem of his oversized Briar Hockey t-shirt, which still smells heavily of him, and your bare feet pad softly against the wooden steps. Your hair is a messy, sleep-tousled cloud, and your cheeks are still burning from the bedroom conversation.
Dean, on the other hand, is the picture of effortless confidence. He’s thrown on a pair of grey sweatpants, but he’s still shirtless, his broad shoulders and tattooed chest completely on display. He glances back at you over his shoulder, a devastating smirk on his face.
He's whispering, leaning back toward you. “Relax, sweetheart. You look adorable and if anyone opens their mouth to tease you, I’ll just tell them I’m cutting off their supply of my premium hair products.”
You tugged his arm, frantically whispering back. “Dean, they're going to think we... you know! And I work with Allie and Hannah! I'll never hear the end of it at Malone's!”
Dean winked. “Let them think whatever they want, it keeps life interesting.”
As you round the corner into the massive, sunlit kitchen, the sheer volume of the room hits you. The smell of sizzling bacon, fresh coffee, and maple syrup is overwhelming. The kitchen is a war zone of morning-after chaos: Tucker is standing at the stove, looking like the only responsible adult in the house, he’s wearing a ridiculous pink apron over a plain t-shirt, methodically flipping a mountain of golden-brown pancakes on a massive griddle.
The rest of the crew is gathered around the long kitchen island. Garrett is slumped in a barstool, still wearing his magician's top hat sideways, looking completely hungover, Hannah is next to him, sipping coffee, her bunny ears now resting around Garrett’s neck. Logan is face-down on the counter, his giant bird wings draped over the back of his stool like a deflated prop, while Brianna gently rubs his back like a soft caress. Beau and Allie are literally sharing a stool, Beau still in his flight suit trousers, looking entirely too energetic at 9am.
The moment Dean’s heavy footsteps echo on the tile, all heads turn.
A dead silence falls over the kitchen and then, the realization hits them.
Garrett lifted his head and a massive evil grin is spreading across his face. “Well, well, well... Look what the cat dragged in. Or rather, look who Di Laurentis managed to avoid scaring away.”
Allie's eyes widening as she spots you, specifically targeting the giant hockey jersey swallowing your frame. “Oh my god. Is that... number 66? The sacred jersey?”
Hannah choked on her coffee, standing up immediately. “Wait, you're wearing his shirt! Xtina, you survived the night!”
You instantly shrink behind Dean’s broad back, your face turning a shade of red that rivals a tomato. You try to look down at your bare toes, wishing the kitchen floor would just open up and swallow you whole.
You were mumbling behind Dean. “It’s just a shirt... my costume was sticky...”
Logan muffled his voice into the counter. “Sure, sure. A sticky situation, classic Di Laurentis play.”
Brianna smacked Logan’s arm. “Shut up, Logan, your wings are dipping into the butter. Let her breathe, she’s sweet.”
Beau pointed a spatula at Dean. “I gotta hand it to you, Maverick. You left the party early, missed the epic beer pong finals, and we all thought you just went to sleep like an old man.”
Dean stepped forward smoothly, wrapping a casual, protective arm around your shoulders and pulling you into his side. “Alright, alright, clear your ears out, you hyenas. First of all, I was being a perfect gentleman. Our favorite Malone's waitress here had a little too much to drink, and I wasn't about to let her drive or deal with her buzzkill of an ex-boyfriend.”
The mention of your ex makes Hannah and Allie instantly switch gears.
Hannah snapped her fingers. “Oh, that’s right! That boring guy was hovering around the punch bowl like a dark cloud, did he bother you sweetie?”
You peeked out from behind Dean, feeling a little braver. “No... Dean carried me upstairs before he could even come over.”
Suddenly, Tucker banged his spatula against the rim of a pan, his voice cut through the noise.
“Alright, y'all need to shut your traps and leave the poor girl alone. Can't you see that y/n's about to faint from embarrassment? Go sit down at the table before I starve the lot of you.”
Tucker turns around, holding a massive platter loaded with a tower of pancakes, a mountain of crispy bacon, and a bowl of perfectly scrambled eggs. He walks over to you, his expression warm and completely understanding.
Tucker handed you a massive ceramic mug filled with steaming black coffee. “Here you go, sweetheart. Drink this. Don't mind these idiots; they've got the collective brain cells of a single hockey puck this morning.”
You take the mug gratefully, the warmth instantly soothing your hands. “Thank you, Tucker. You're a lifesaver!”
Dean guide you over to the two empty stools at the far end of the island, safely away from Garrett’s reaching hands. “Sit here, babe. Tucker, slide those pancakes over before Garrett tries to perform a magic trick and make them disappear into his mouth.”
You slide onto the stool, pulling the oversized shirt tightly around your knees. Dean sits right next to you, his thigh brushing against yours. The proximity is dizzying, but as everyone digs into the food, the tension in the room shifts from teasing to comfortable, chaotic breakfast banter.
Garrett shoved a whole piece of bacon into his mouth. “Seriously though, Tucker, these are amazing. Marry me.”
“You can't afford my dowry, Graham.”
Dean reaches over, loading a plate with two massive pancakes, several strips of bacon, and a neat pile of eggs. He places it directly in front of you, along with a fork.
“Eat up, popstar. You need the fuel... Then, if you're feeling up for it, I can drive you back to your dorm to get a change of clothes or you can just stay here and keep wearing my stuff... Personally, I think it’s a massive upgrade.” his voice dropped into that low, sweet murmur he meant only for you.
You look up from your coffee, meeting his intense blue eyes. The playboy charm is there, but beneath it, you can tell he’s genuinely watching to see if you’re okay. You take a bite of a pancake, a small, shy smile finally breaking across your face.
“I think I’d like that coffee first.” you smile softly.
He grinned, leaning his elbow on the counter, entirely captivated. “Deal.”
***
Dean’s sleek, expensive car pulls up right to the curb outside your freshman dorm. The campus is relatively quiet, with only a few hungover students blinking at the daylight, wrapped in sweatpants.
You open the passenger door, immediately wincing as your feet slide around inside Dean's massive Briar Hockey slides. You have to walk with a ridiculous, wide-stanced shuffle just to keep them from flying off your feet. You’re clutching your crumpled "Dirrty" costume and silver heels to your chest like a shield, still swallowed alive by his number 66 jersey.
Dean round the front of the car, effortlessly grabbing the bundle of clothes and shoes from your arms. “Give me those before you trip and face-plant into the concrete, popstar. You’re like a hazard to yourself right now.”
You flushed, shuffling alongside him as he guides you toward the heavy glass doors of the dorm. “I told you I look ridiculous, people are staring! The girl at the front desk is looking at me like I just robbed a sporting goods store.”
He flashed a dazzling, blinding smile at the sleepy desk attendant as he holds the door open for you. “Let them look, they’re just jealous you’ve got the best chauffeur on campus. What floor, sweetheart?”
“Third floor. And please, keep your voice down. My RA is incredibly strict about morning-after guests.”
Dean just winked, stepping into the elevator with you and pressing the button. “Relax, I’m an expert at stealth operations. Your secret is safe with me.”
You fumble with your room key, your clumsy, tired fingers dropping it once before Dean gently takes it from you and unlocks the door.
The room is dark, the blinds pulled tightly shut. Your roommate is clearly gone for the weekend, leaving the space completely quiet. The room is a perfect reflection of you: a little messy, with stacks of heavy English literature textbooks on the desk, a string of unlit fairy lights draped over the headboard, and a pile of soft, oversized blankets neatly folded at the foot of your unmade bed.
Dean steps inside, tossing your silver heels and costume onto your desk chair. He looks around the cozy space, his eyes lingering on a stack of highlighters and sticky notes.
He have a soft, amused smile tugging at his lips. “So this is where the magic happens. Lots of heavy reading, huh? You really are a little nerd under that popstar exterior.”
You dropped instantly onto the edge of your mattress, kicking off his giant slides with a sigh of absolute relief. “I have a mid-term on Tuesday, Dean. Some of us actually have to study, we can't all just coast on raw athletic talent and... and perfect hair.”
He let out a low, rich chuckle, walking over to the side of your bed. “Hey, maintaining this mane takes serious dedication. Don't minimize my hard work.”
He stops right in front of you, in the dim light of the dorm room, the playful banter suddenly softens. The reality of the situation settles in: you're sitting on your bed in his clothes, and he's standing over you, looking at you like you're the only person in the world.
You look up at him, your voice small, fighting off a massive yawn. “I’m so tired, my brain feels like mush.”
His expression softening completely, stepping closer and pulling back the heavy comforter for you. “Then get under the covers. Stop talking and just crawl in.”
You don't argue, you slide beneath the sheets, curling onto your side and pulling the blanket up to your chin. Your head sinks into your fluffy pillow, and you let out a long, contented breath.
Dean stands there for a moment, watching you settle. Then, he reaches down, picking up his thick black hoodie that he had slung over his shoulder, and gently drapes it over the top of your comforter, adding an extra layer of warmth.
After a moment you peeked out from under the blanket, watching him. “Are you going back to the house?”
Dean sit down on the very edge of your mattress, his weight is slightly shifting the bed. “In a minute, I want to make sure you actually pass out first. Can't have you wandering back to Malone’s in your sleep.”
He reaches out, his large, warm hand gently smoothing over the top of your messy hair. The gesture is so unexpectedly tender, so completely un-playboy like, that your breath hitches in your throat. You lean into his touch just a fraction, your innocent, sleepy eyes locked onto his.
He whispered, his thumb lightly grazing your forehead. “You're safe here, sweetheart. Go to sleep.”
You closed your eyes, and a soft smile forming on your lips. “Don't take your shirt back while I'm sleeping.”
Dean let out a quiet, raspy laugh, his hand lingering on your hair for just a few seconds longer before he slowly stands up. “It looks better on you anyway. Sleep tight, popstar. I'll text you later to make sure you're alive.”
After a while, maybe an hour, you hear his quiet, heavy footsteps move across the linoleum floor. The door clicks shut with a soft, secure sound, leaving you wrapped in his warmth, his scent, and the absolute certainty that your life is about to get a whole lot more interesting.
***
The Tuesday morning air is sharp and brisk, rustling the leaves along the cobblestone pathways of the main quad. Students are bustling past in every direction, clutching travel mugs of coffee and rushing toward their morning lectures. It's been a couple of weeks after the party and you and Dean are taking things slow, he's funny, loyal and so sweet when he wants to, he's been such a support helping you study for midterms while you're taking work breaks at Malone's.
You are walking alone, hugged tightly by your favorite, heavily oversized knit sweater that swallows your hands. In your arms, you are hauling a precarious tower of heavy English literature anthologies, a messy binder bursting with loose-leaf notes, and three different colors of highlighters tucked into your pocket. Your mind is completely occupied with thoughts of your upcoming midterm, mixed with a lingering, warm flutter in your chest from a text Dean had sent you just an hour earlier.
You take a deep breath, focusing on the pavement, completely minding your own business and then, you lift your eyes. About twenty yards ahead, walking straight down the center of the path toward you, is Stuart. He is dressed exactly the way he always is: a stiff, perfectly pressed pastel polo shirt, ironed khaki trousers, and a leather briefcase. He looks entirely out of place among the casual college crowd: rigid, clinical, and completely unbothered by anyone else.
Your stomach instantly drops into a cold, heavy pit. Your heart begins to hammer against your ribs.
“No, no, no. Please, god, no. Not today, not here.” you talk to yourself, almost panicking.
You look frantically to your left, then to your right. To your left is a wide-open lawn with absolutely nowhere to hide, to your right is the Science building, but the doors are too far away. You try to abruptly pivot on your heel, pretending you forgot something in the opposite direction, but your clumsy foot catches on the edge of the cobblestone. You stumble slightly, your heavy textbooks shifting dangerously in your arms.
Stuart voice cut through the morning air, cold and sharp. “Oh. I thought that was you. Don't bother turning around, I already saw you.”
You freeze, your shoulders tensing up until they practically touch your ears. Slowly, you turn back around, clutching your books to your chest like a literal shield. Stuart closes the distance, stopping right in front of you, completely blocking the path. He looks down his nose at you, his eyes scanning your oversized clothes and messy hair with an immediate expression of deep disapproval.
He crossed his arms, leaning back slightly. “You know, it’s funny. I’ve lived on this campus for three years and I barely ever ran into you. Now, suddenly, I can't seem to escape you. First at that rowdy, classless hockey party, and now out here.”
You spoke, your voice's barely a whisper, your natural shyness locking your throat up. “Stuart... hi. I’m actually really late for my literature lecture, I just need to get through—”
He cut you off instantly, raising a hand. “You're always rushing, always disorganized. Look at you, you’re practically dropping your notes on the ground. Some things never change, do they? You’re still the same messy girl I spent two years trying to fix.”
The word fix stings like a slap to the face, you take a half-step back, your knuckles turning white as you grip your binder tighter.
Stuart let out a heavy, self-righteous sigh, shaking his head. “You know, I’ve been waiting for an apology from you for two months... Two whole months since you ruthlessly blindsided me and walked away from everything we built. And instead of showing any remorse, what do I see? I see you at a hockey house, dressed in a vulgar, completely inappropriate outfit, acting like a child.”
You're feeling tears of frustration burning behind your eyes, trying to find your voice. “It wasn't a vulgar outfit, it was a costume party... and I didn't blindside you, Stuart. We were unhappy. I was unhappy for months, and I told you that—” he cuts you again.
He's scoffing loudly, waving his hand dismissively. “Oh, please. Don't rewrite history to make yourself feel better. You were unhappy? Try to think about someone other than yourself for once in your life. I gave you absolute stability, I had our entire five-year plan mapped out, I tolerated your messy schedule, your constant shifts at Malone's, your total inability to keep your life together... and how did you repay me? You threw it all in my face because you claimed I was 'boring'.”
Stuart steps a fraction closer, his shadow completely falling over you, making you feel incredibly small and trapped on the busy walkway.
His voice dropping into a venomous, hushed tone. “You humiliated me. Do you have any idea what it felt like for me to stand at that party and watch you get carried up the stairs by some brainless, arrogant jock? Dean di Laurentis? Seriously? You left a man with a future, a man who actually cared about your intellect, to become a temporary plaything for a guy who changes girls faster than he changes his hockey stick.”
Your voice is trembling, a tear finally slipping down your cheek. “Dean was just helping me... he didn't do anything wrong! He was nice to me. He treated me better than—”
He let out a harsh, mocking laugh. “Nice to you? Wake up! You are so incredibly innocent and naive it’s pathetic. A guy like that sees a shy, sweet girl like you and thinks you’re an easy target. He doesn't respect you, he’s using you to look good, or maybe just to pass the time until a prettier puck bunny comes along. And you’re just blindly falling for it because you don't know any better.”
He looks at you with a mixture of pity and disgust that makes your stomach turn. “I was the victim in this breakup. I spent weeks staring at my spreadsheets, wondering how I failed to guide you properly. But now I see the truth. You’re just immature, you couldn't handle a real, adult relationship with expectations and maturity, so you ran away to a boy who plays games for a living. You ruined the best thing that ever happened to you, and when he’s done with you, don't you dare come crying back to me expecting me to clean up your mess again.”
You stand there, completely frozen, the heavy books in your arms feeling like lead weights. The insults press down on your chest so hard you can barely breathe. You want to scream at him, you want to tell him how miserable he made you feel, how he always made you feel small and stupid, but the old, sweet, non-confrontational version of you is completely paralyzed by the cruelty of his words.
Stuart looks at your tear-stained face, entirely satisfied with the damage he’s caused, and straightens his ironed polo shirt.
“Go on to your little class then. Try not to drop your notes on the way.” he spoke and he steps around you, his leather briefcase brushing against your arm as he struts away down the path, leaving you standing entirely alone in the middle of the crowded quad, trembling and completely shattered.
The world around you feels dizzying and loud. Your hands are shaking so violently that as you try to readjust the heavy burden in your arms, the top-heavy English literature anthologies slide sideways. Your binder flips open, and a cascade of loose-leaf notes, highlighted outlines, and three different colored highlighters spill across the cold, hard cobblestones.
You drop to your knees, your oversized knit sweater pooling around you on the ground. Blurry-eyed, you frantically start grabbing at the papers, but your vision is so swimming with tears that you can barely tell the outline sheets apart. You reach for a pink highlighter that has rolled into a crack in the pavement, your fingers fumbling clumsily. You feel completely exposed, small, and utterly broken by every single word Stuart just hurled at you.
"I spent two years trying to fix you."
"You’re so incredibly innocent and naive it’s pathetic."
"A temporary plaything."
You let out a small, ragged sob, pressing the palm of your hand against your forehead, trying desperately to stop crying in the middle of the busiest walkway on campus.
A heavy, dark leather backpack drops onto the cobblestones with a loud, solid thud right next to your scattered notes.
Before you can even look up, a pair of large, familiar hands: strong, broad, and calloused from a hockey stick, begin gathering your loose sheets with lightning-fast, effortless efficiency.
“Hey. I’ve got 'em. Don't move, sweetheart, I’ve got the papers.” Dean says, his voice's a low, smooth recognizable rumble.
You freeze, your breath catching in your throat, you lift your tear-stained face. Dean is kneeling on the pavement right in front of you, he’s fresh out of the Social Sciences building from his Political Science seminar, wearing a dark fitted jacket that accentuates his broad shoulders, his hair perfectly pushed back. He’s holding a stack of your literature notes in one hand, but the moment his burning blue eyes lock onto your face, his entire posture changes.
The easy, playboy smile he usually wears completely vanishes. His jaw tightens so hard a muscle twitches in his cheek, he takes in your red-rimmed eyes, the tear tracking down your cheek, and the way your shoulders are trembling.
His voice's dropping into a deadly serious, raspy register, tossing the papers onto his lap and reaching out for you. “Hey, what's wrong? Why are you crying?”
You're instantly looking down, trying to wipe your face with the sleeve of your oversized sweater, your shyness taking over. “Dean... hi. It's nothing, I'm just—I'm just clumsy. I dropped my midterm notes and I got stressed out, I'm fine—”
He's grasping your wrists gently but firmly, stopping you from hiding your face. “Don't lie to me, you don't cry like this over a couple of dropped papers. Who did this?”
He looks up, his sharp eyes scanning the crowded quad. In the distance, about fifty yards away, Stuart’s rigid, pastel-polo wearing frame is still visible, walking toward the upper campus. Dean’s eyes narrow into slits as he connects the dots.
His grip on your wrists softening into a gentle, reassuring hold, his voice laced with an icy fury. “Was that him? The spreadsheet guy? The ex?”
You don't say anything, but a small, fresh sob escapes your lips, and you look away. And that’s all the confirmation he needs.
Dean doesn't hesitate and, instead of going towards Stuart, he just gathers the rest of your papers in one swift motion, shoves them safely inside his leather backpack, and zips it up. Then, he stands up and reaches down, wrapping his hands under your arms and lifting you effortlessly to your feet.
Instead of letting you go, he guides you away from the center of the path, pushing you gently against the brick wall of the nearby library, completely shielding you from the view of the rest of the campus with his massive frame.
Dean placed his hands on the wall on either side of your head, leaning down so he’s inches from your face, his eyes blazing. “What did he say to you?”
You shaked your head, tears spilling over again. “It doesn't matter, Dean. He's right. I'm just... I'm messy, and I'm disorganized, and I'm too naive. He said I threw away stability for... for a temporary plaything. He said you're just using me because I'm an easy target.”
Dean lets out a harsh, dark breath, his forehead almost touching yours. The sheer gravity of his anger is palpable, but none of it is directed at you.
“Look at me... Just look right at me.”
You slowly lift your eyes to his, the blue of his eyes is incredibly intense, completely stripped of any playboy facade.
His voice's fierce, thick with genuine emotion. “Listen to me very carefully, because I am only going to say this once. That guy is a miserable, insecure little coward who couldn't handle the fact that he had a girl who is a thousand times brighter, sweeter, and more beautiful than he will ever deserve. He didn't try to 'fix' you, sweetheart, he tried to break you so you wouldn't realize you were completely out of his league.”
Your heart thumps violently against your ribs, his words cutting right through the cold venom Stuart had left behind.
Dean reached up, his warm thumb gently wiping the tears from your cheek, his touch incredibly tender. “And as for me? A temporary plaything? An easy target? I have spent the last couple of weeks doing nothing but thinking about you. I haven't looked at another girl, I haven't wanted to. I walked you to the library because I wanted to be near you. I left you my jersey because I wanted you wrapped in my stuff. You are not an easy target, you are the best thing that has happened to me all semester, and I am not letting some boring, dynamic-less idiot make you feel small for even a second.”
You stare up at him, your lips parting slightly, your breath is trembling. The sincerity in his voice is undeniable. The arrogant, untouchable Dean di Laurentis is standing in the middle of the campus quad, entirely unbothered by who sees him, comforting a messy, crying girl with everything he has.
You whispered, a small, fragile smile finally fighting its way through your tears. “You really mean that?”
The corner of his mouth finally tugging up into a soft, devastatingly handsome smirk, his thumb lingering on your cheekbone. “I don't lie about things that matter, popstar. Now, screw your literature lecture. We're cutting class.”
He drops his hands, reaching down to grab his leather backpack full of your notes, and firmly links his fingers through yours, pulling you into his side.
“We're going to my car, I'm taking you back to the house, and I'm going to make Tucker cook you whatever you want while I sit next to you and read you those stupid literature definitions until you know them by heart. Sound like a plan?”
You squeeze his hand back, the warmth of his fingers completely melting the last of Stuart’s chill. “Yeah, that sounds like a perfect plan.”
𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘 — dean di laurentis needs a fake girlfriend for his family’s charity weekend. unfortunately, the girl he asks is the one person who can’t stand him. even more unfortunately, she might be the only one who can make it believable.
𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 — 18+ mdni, fake dating, enemies-to-lovers banter, only one bed trope, forced proximity, tension, flirting, dean being dean, suggestive moments, almost kiss, no smut in this part.
𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓 — 7,019.
𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫's 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞 — part one of boyfriend material is finally here. i’m so excited for this mini-series. tell me what you thought about part 1 <3
𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 ⟶ you can find my taglist here!
𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 ⟶ you can find my masterlist here!
━━━━━━━━ 🏒 ━━━━━━━━
The first thing you realized was that Dean Di Laurentis wasn’t good at begging without making it dramatic.
The second thing you learned was that Dean absolutely hated being bad at anything.
“No,” you answered.
Dean blinked at you from across the kitchen table as your answer had personally offended him. “You didn’t even let me finish.”
“You said, ‘I need a huge favor,’ and then looked at me like you were about to ruin my entire week,” you told him, taking a sip of your coffee. “That was enough.”
Hannah pressed her lips together beside you like she was trying very hard not to laugh.
Allie didn’t bother trying.
She leaned back in her chair, already grinning into her mug. “This is my favorite conversation.”
Dean gave her a look. “No one asked you.”
“You showed up in our dorm at nine in the morning.”
“It’s almost ten.”
“On a Saturday,” Allie added. “That’s basically dawn.”
Dean ignored her and turned back to you, his hands braced on the table. His hair was messy, his hoodie was wrinkled, and he had the faintly panicked look of someone who’d made several bad decisions and was only now realizing consequences existed.
It wasn’t an unfamiliar expression on him.
“Just hear me out,” he tried.
“Absolutely not.”
“[Y/N], come on.”
“Dean, no.”
“I’m serious this time.”
“That’s when you’re usually most dangerous.”
Hannah finally gave up, laughing softly into her hand.
Dean pointed at her. “Don’t encourage this.”
“She doesn’t need encouragement,” Hannah said. “She’s doing great on her own.”
You gave him a sweet smile.
Dean’s eyes narrowed. “You’re enjoying this.”
“Deeply.”
“You don’t even know what I’m about to ask.”
“I know it involves you, your family, and the phrase ‘huge favor,’ so that tells me everything I need to know.”
Dean exhaled and dragged a hand through his hair. “Okay, fine. I may have accidentally told my parents I’m seeing someone.”
Allie went quiet, Hannah looked up, and you lowered your coffee like the conversation had suddenly earned your full attention.
Dean looked between the three of you, suddenly defensive. “It made sense at the time.”
You stared at him. “No, it didn’t.”
“You don’t have the context.”
“Was the context that you lied?”
“It’s more complicated than that.”
Allie leaned forward like she’d been waiting for this. “Oh, this is good.”
Dean let out a groan. “It’s not good.”
“It’s incredible,” she corrected. “Keep going.”
Dean shot her a glare before turning back to you. “They’ve been on my ass lately about taking things seriously.”
You hummed thoughtfully. “Wonder why.”
His gaze cut to yours. “You’re not helping.”
“I’m still listening.”
“You’re judging me with your whole face.”
“I’m capable of both.”
Hannah touched your arm like she was asking you, very nicely, to let him finish.
You leaned back with a dramatic sigh. “Fine. Go on.”
Dean looked like he was starting to regret coming here, which was satisfying.
“My family’s hosting this charity weekend,” he started. “Country club, hotel, dinner, auction, donor thing, the whole nightmare.”
“That sounds expensive and exhausting,” Allie said.
“It is.” Dean pointed at her as Allie had just proven his point. “Exactly.”
You raised an eyebrow at him. “I’m still waiting for the part where this becomes my problem.”
“I’m getting there, okay?”
“I’m getting older,” you added, watching Dean clench his jaw.
Hannah tried to hide another smile.
“My mom asked if I was bringing anyone,” Dean admitted. “And I said yes.”
You waited for him to keep going, and when Dean didn’t, you narrowed your eyes.
“Dean,” you warned, watching him look away. “Dean.”
“I panicked,” he admitted.
“You panicked,” you repeated, because somehow that explained nothing.
“She got weirdly intense.”
“She asked whether you had a date.”
“She asked it like it meant something.”
“Oh my god, Dean.”
“And then my dad made this comment about wanting to meet whoever finally got me to settle down, and I didn’t correct him fast enough, so now my parents think I have a serious girlfriend.”
The room went quiet for about two seconds before Allie burst out laughing.
Dean pointed at her again, which only made her laugh harder. “This isn’t funny.”
“It’s kind of funny,” Hannah admitted.
“It’s actually very funny,” you told him.
Dean looked at you like you’d personally wounded him. “I’m in crisis.”
“You’re dealing with consequences.”
“I need your help.”
“You need a reality check.”
“I need a girlfriend.”
“I need a girlfriend,” Dean blurted, and you nearly choked on your coffee.
Allie made a delighted little sound, and Hannah looked at him like he’d lost his mind.
Dean held up both hands before you could react. “Fake girlfriend.”
“No,” you told him, setting your mug down hard.
“You haven’t even heard the full plan yet.”
“There’s no plan in the world that ends with me pretending to date you.”
“That’s actually hurtful.”
“That feels fair.”
Dean leaned across the table and lowered his voice, as if that would make him more convincing. “It’s one weekend.”
“No.”
“It’s three days.”
“Still no.”
“Two nights, technically.”
“Not a chance.”
“I’ll owe you big.”
“You already owe me after you told Logan I liked his haircut and he thanked me for twenty minutes.”
Dean winced at that. “That was an accident.”
“You said, and I quote, ‘[Y/N] thinks you look hot.’”
“I was just trying to distract him.”
“Distract him from what, exactly?”
Dean paused before admitting, “I don’t remember.”
“That’s what I thought.”
He sighed your name, long and pleading.
You hated that your name always sounded softer when he said it like that, and you hated it even more because part of you noticed anyway. After all, that was the thing, you didn’t hate Dean the way you pretended to.
Hating Dean Di Laurentis would’ve been a lot easier if he weren’t so hard to like.
He was arrogant, irritating, shamelessly dramatic, and way too pleased with himself, the kind of guy who flirted like it was a reflex and teased you because he knew exactly how to get under your skin. He stole fries from your plate whenever you sat with Hannah and Allie at Malone’s, called you “sunshine” when you glared at him, and “sweetheart” when he was clearly trying to get something thrown at his head.
But he was also usually the first one to notice when Hannah got overwhelmed in crowded rooms, to cover Allie’s drink when someone brushed too close to it, and to walk you home when it got late, like it wasn’t a big deal.
Dean was irritating and had always been in trouble, but he also had a way of looking at people that made him notice more than he should.
You found that deeply inconvenient.
“No,” you repeated, because apparently he needed to hear it twice.
Dean’s shoulders slumped. “You don’t even want to know what’s in it for you?”
“No.”
“I’ll get you tickets to the next game.”
“I already know too many hockey players.”
“I’ll make Garrett stop calling you scary.”
“I actually like it when Garrett calls me scary.”
“I’ll get Logan to stop flirting with your friend.”
“You absolutely can’t.”
Dean considered that for a second, then nodded. “Fair.”
Allie leaned closer to you. “You should ask for money.”
Dean looked genuinely offended. “I’m not paying someone to date me.”
“You’re not,” you told him, “because I’m not dating you.”
“Fake dating,” Dean corrected.
“Somehow, still no.”
He looked at Hannah as if he were getting desperate. “Help me.”
Hannah lifted both hands. “I’m not getting involved.”
“You’re already involved,” Dean told her. “This is your apartment.”
“That’s not how involvement works.”
Dean looked back at you, and for the first time since he’d shown up, the panic slipped into something quieter.
“Please,” he murmured.
The word landed differently this time.
It wasn’t dramatic this time. It wasn’t teasing. It was just Dean, looking at you like he really needed you to say yes.
Your chest tightened before you could stop it.
Damn him for making it harder to say no.
You hated that seeing him genuinely stressed made it harder to stay annoyed. It was much easier to say no when Dean was being insufferable, not when he looked like he actually needed you.
“Why me?” You looked at him, trying not to sound like you were already considering it.
Dean blinked, thrown for half a second, like he hadn’t expected you to ask.
Then he straightened slightly, like the answer was obvious once he said it. “Because they’ll believe you.”
You frowned at him. “Why?”
“Because you don’t act like someone who would put up with me unless you wanted to.”
Allie snorted into her mug, and you shot her a look.
She held up both hands, still grinning. “Sorry. That was good.”
You looked back at Dean, trying not to think too hard about what he’d just said, but he was watching you carefully now, without the smirk or the teasing, and that made it harder not to.
“Also,” he added, a little quieter, “you’re good with people. My mom will like you, my dad will think you’re smart, and you won’t get intimidated by my family or let me say something stupid without kicking me under the table.”
“You say stupid things all the time.”
“Exactly. I need supervision.”
You looked away first, which felt annoyingly close to a loss. That was a mistake, because Allie immediately let out a soft little gasp as she’d just witnessed something historic.
“Oh my god,” Allie gasped. “You’re considering it.”
“I’m not.”
Hannah tilted her head like she was trying to be gentle about it. “You kind of are.”
“I’m not,” you insisted, which didn’t help your case. Dean’s eyes lit up with dangerous hope, and you pointed at him before he could say anything. “Don’t look excited.”
“I’m not,” Dean said, looking extremely excited.
“You are,” you told him.
“I’m cautiously optimistic.”
“You should be afraid.”
“I can multitask,” he said, looking entirely too pleased with himself.
You dragged both hands over your face.
This was ridiculous. It was ridiculous. It was exactly the sort of thing you shouldn’t agree to under any circumstances.
Dean Di Laurentis was a lot of things, but boyfriend material wasn’t one of them.
He was flirt-at-a-party material, bad-decision-after-midnight material, the kind of guy who looked good leaning against counters and bad for your common sense. Charming when he wanted something, dangerous when he smiled, and completely unqualified to be anyone’s serious boyfriend, especially yours. Fake or not.
You leaned forward, eyes narrowed. “Do you want my help, or do you want to die?”
Dean, for once, made the smart choice and closed his mouth.
You pointed at him. “No kissing unless necessary.”
“Define necessary.”
“You know exactly what necessary means.”
“I do, but I’m getting the feeling your definition is stricter than mine.”
“My definition includes your mouth staying away from mine most of the weekend.”
Dean’s eyes flicked briefly to your mouth, so briefly that you almost convinced yourself you’d imagined it.
Almost.
Then he looked back up at you, expression so maddeningly innocent it had to be fake. “The majority?”
You narrowed your eyes at him, which only made him smile.
You hated him.
You hated him.
You were starting to think that might be a problem.
“No sex,” you added, sharper this time.
Allie choked on a laugh.
Hannah breathed, “Oh my god.”
Dean blinked once, then twice, before his mouth curved. “Sweetheart,” he murmured slowly, “I hadn’t even brought that up.”
Heat rushed to your face. “That’s why I’m bringing it up first.”
“Very responsible of you.”
“I’ll stab you with this spoon.”
Dean’s grin widened. “Fake relationship rule number two. No sex.”
“Rule number one,” you corrected, “is no kissing unless necessary.”
“Right. Very tragic rule.”
“Rule number three,” you went on, ignoring him. “No feelings.”
Dean raised an eyebrow like that was exactly the wrong thing to say. “Were you worried?”
“Yes. For you.”
Dean laughed. “For me?”
“You seem emotionally fragile.”
“I’m already devastated.”
“Rule number four,” you continued. “No calling each other boyfriend or girlfriend when no one is around.”
Dean’s smile shifted slightly, just for a second, before it came back.
“Why not?” Dean wanted to know.
“Because that’s weird.”
“We’re pretending to date for an entire weekend, sharing a hotel room, and lying to my parents, but boyfriend is where you draw the line?”
“Yes.”
“Interesting.”
“It’s not interesting, Dean.”
“It’s kind of interesting.”
“Rule number five,” you went on, louder this time. “When this is over, we go back to normal.”
Dean studied you like he knew there was more beneath the surface. For once, he didn’t immediately make a joke, which somehow made it worse.
The word sat between you in a way you didn’t want to look at too closely, because normal, for you and Dean, had never been simple. It’d always been bickering in kitchens and too-long eye contact, comments that felt like dares, and smiles you pretended not to return. It’d always been his hand hovering near your back in crowded places, never staying long enough for anyone to call it something, but close enough that you noticed every time.
Dean nodded once, like he understood exactly what he was agreeing to. “Deal.”
Your stomach tightened a little. “You’re agreeing too easily.”
“I told you, I’m desperate.”
“That’s very comforting.”
“I mean it,” he promised. “Your rules. I’ll follow them.”
Allie coughed, as if she had thoughts about it.
Dean glanced at her. “What?”
“Nothing,” Allie said, in a way that meant absolutely nothing.
“That sounded like a judgmental cough.”
“I just think ‘your rules, I’ll follow them’ is going to age beautifully.”
You ignored her and held Dean’s gaze like you were trying to figure out whether you believed him.
“You owe me,” you reminded him.
“Anything,” Dean promised.
“You don’t even know what I want yet.”
“Then I’ll find out.”
The words shouldn’t have sounded like that, soft and low and too much like a promise. Your fingers tightened around your mug.
Allie, because she had no mercy, leaned back in her chair. “This weekend is going to be a disaster.”
Dean looked at you, and you looked back at him. For once, neither of you argued.
**
Less than twenty-four hours later, the disaster began.
Dean picked you up at noon, which gave him just enough time to text you seven times beforehand.
dean
wear something my mom will believe i had a shot with
you
so basically nothing?
dean
very hurtful.
you
objectively accurate.
dean
my mom’s going to love you.
you
because i’m obviously charming?
dean
because you’re mean to me. she’ll find it refreshing.
you
your family sounds smarter than you.
dean
everyone says that, actually.
By the time Dean pulled up outside your apartment, you were already on the curb with your overnight bag, pretending your stomach wasn’t twisting.
Dean pulled up to the curb and got out immediately.
You wished he looked worse. It would’ve been helpful if he’d shown up in something ridiculous, like a stained hoodie, bad shoes, or a hat that made him look like an idiot.
Instead, he showed up in dark jeans, a navy sweater pushed up at the sleeves, and sunglasses hooked into the collar like he’d been designed specifically to ruin your life at a family charity weekend.
His eyes moved over you before he seemed to remember he wasn’t supposed to be obvious about it. Too late, though. You noticed.
“You look…” Dean started, then seemed to forget the rest of the sentence.
You raised an eyebrow. “Careful.”
His mouth curved. “Expensive.”
You stared at him because somehow that was worse.
Dean smiled like he couldn’t believe he had to explain it. “That was a compliment.”
“That was a weird compliment.”
“My mother’s going to love it.”
“You really know how to make a girl feel special.”
He took your bag from your hand like it hadn’t occurred to him not to.
“I’m your fake boyfriend,” he reminded you. “That’s my job.”
You froze. Dean froze, too, like he’d realized it at the same time, and then you slowly turned your head toward him.
“What was rule number four again?”
Dean sighed as if this rule were personally inconvenient. “No calling each other boyfriend or girlfriend when no one is around.”
“And are we currently around anyone?”
Dean looked dramatically up and down the empty street before nodding toward a bird. “Does that count?”
“Dean,” you warned.
“Fine.” He put your bag in the trunk. “I’m the man pretending to be emotionally invested in you for social gain. Better?”
“Much better.”
“You’re impossible.”
“You literally begged me.”
“I’m regretting it already.”
“No, you’re not.”
He shut the trunk and smiled at you over the roof of the car like he knew you were right.
“No,” he told you. “I’m not.”
That shouldn’t have warmed something in you. It did anyway.
The drive to the hotel took about 2 hours. Dean spent the first 30 minutes giving you a full family briefing, as if you were about to enter witness protection.
“My mom’s going to ask how we got together.”
“We’re going to need a story.”
“We already have one.”
You looked over at him. “Since when?”
“I flirted with you until you gave up.”
You stared at him until he glanced over. “What?”
“That’s not a story.”
“It’s close enough to the truth.”
“It’s absolutely not.”
Dean grinned as he’d just found a loophole. “So you admit there’s some truth to it?”
“I admit you flirt with anything that has a pulse.”
“Not anything.”
“Sorry,” you corrected. “Anything attractive that breathes.”
Dean tilted his head as he’d just caught you. “So you admit you’re attractive?”
You closed your eyes as that might help. “I hate you.”
“That’s not very fake girlfriend of you.”
“Dean. Rule four.”
“Fake girlfriend,” he insisted.
“That still counts.”
“It doesn’t.”
He smiled at the road like he was enjoying this way too much.
You hated how easy it was to fall into this with him, into the fighting and the rhythm and the way he always seemed ready for whatever you threw at him. It made the fake part feel less fake than it should’ve, and that was dangerous. Very dangerous.
Dean’s phone buzzed where it sat in the cup holder.
He glanced down at it, then passed it to you. “Can you read that for me?”
You picked it up. The text was from his mom, which felt ominous.
Mom
Can’t wait to meet her. Your father says, “Please don’t be late.” I say try not to scare her off before dinner.
You smiled despite yourself as you handed the phone back. “She sounds nice.”
“She’s nice,” Dean admitted. “That’s the problem.”
“Since when is nice a problem?”
“When nice people are disappointed in you, it’s worse.”
Your smile softened. Dean said it casually, but his fingers tightened slightly on the wheel, just enough for you to notice.
That was the problem with fake dating someone you spent so much time pretending not to care about. You knew things, tiny things you weren’t supposed to know, like how Dean joked more when he was nervous, how he tapped his thumb against the wheel when he was thinking too hard, and how his confidence was loudest when he was trying to convince himself of it.
“You’re nervous.”
Dean’s thumb stopped tapping against the wheel.
“I’m not nervous.”
“You are.”
“I’m just focused.”
“On lying to your parents, you mean?”
“On surviving this weekend.”
You studied him for a moment, and when you spoke again, your voice was quieter. “Do they really think you’re that unserious?”
Dean’s mouth twitched, but it didn’t quite turn into a smile. “I mean, I haven’t exactly given them evidence otherwise.”
Something in your chest pulled tight. “Dean.”
He glanced over at you, and for a second, there was no teasing in his expression at all.
“I know what people think of me,” he admitted. “It’s not like they’re wrong.”
You didn’t answer immediately, because you’d thought those things too. Cocky, careless, shameless, charming enough to get away with anything. But then there were the other things, the things Dean pretended didn’t count, like how he’d shown up at Hannah’s after one text when Garrett was spiraling, how he always checked if Allie got home safe even when they were arguing, and how he noticed which teammate needed to be dragged out of a party before anyone else did.
Dean was unserious about a lot of things, but not everything.
“Maybe you’re just bad at letting people see the evidence,” you offered.
Dean looked over at you again, and when the car went too quiet, you looked out the window like that would help.
“Don’t make it weird,” you told him.
His voice was softer than you expected. “You made it weird.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“You said something nice to me.”
“That was an accident.”
“Do that again, and I might fall in love.”
Your head snapped toward him, and there it was again, Dean’s grin, annoying and beautiful and infuriating all at once.
“Rule three,” you reminded him.
“No feelings,” he agreed lightly. “Yeah, yeah.”
But his hand stayed tight on the wheel long after that.
**
The hotel was exactly what you expected from a Di Laurentis family charity weekend: expensive, tasteful, and deeply intimidating.
It sat beside a sprawling country club with polished lawns, white columns, and more valet attendants than one entrance could need. People moved through the lobby in tailored clothes and quiet confidence, like they knew which fork went with which course and had opinions about wine regions.
You stepped out of Dean’s car and immediately felt underdressed, which was unfair, considering you’d agonized over your outfit for an hour.
Dean appeared beside you, already grabbing both bags from the trunk. “You okay?”
You blinked at him. “What?”
He looked down at you, brows drawn like he’d noticed before you had. “You got quiet.”
“I’m just observing the rich people’s habitat.”
His mouth twitched. “Careful. They can smell fear.”
“Great. Then I’ll stand behind you.”
“You think I look less scared?”
“You look like you belong here.”
Dean looked toward the hotel, his expression shifting into something you couldn’t quite read.
“Yeah,” he murmured. “That’s the idea.”
Before you could ask what he meant by that, a woman’s voice called his name.
“Dean, sweetheart!”
Dean’s whole posture changed, not dramatically, but enough for you to notice. His shoulders straightened, and his smile shifted into something warmer, brighter, less guarded.
A woman with dark hair and elegant gold earrings crossed the lobby toward you, followed by a man in a blazer who looked like an older, sharper version of Dean.
His parents.
Your stomach flipped when Dean’s hand touched your lower back, light and brief, like a silent check-in. You hated how much it helped.
“Mom,” Dean greeted, leaning down to kiss her cheek when she reached him.
She hugged him tightly, and despite yourself, you smiled. Then her eyes found you, the warmth in them sharpening into curiosity.
“And you must be [Y/N],” she greeted warmly.
You smiled and extended a hand, but she ignored it and pulled you into a hug instead.
“Oh,” you laughed softly, surprised. Beside you, Dean coughed.
His mother pulled back, still smiling. “Sorry, I’m a hugger. Dean should’ve warned you.”
“He left that part out,” you told her.
Dean’s father stepped forward and offered his hand. “It’s nice to meet you finally.”
Finally.
The word made you glance at Dean, but he was looking anywhere except at you.
You shook his father’s hand and smiled. “It’s nice to meet you, too.”
His father looked between you and Dean, assessing but not unkind.
“So,” his mother began, slipping her arm through Dean’s like she wasn’t about to interrogate you in the middle of a hotel lobby. “How long has this been going on?”
Dean opened his mouth, but you answered first. “Long enough for him to annoy me into saying yes.”
Dean’s mother laughed instantly. Dean turned to stare at you, and you smiled sweetly up at him.
His father’s mouth twitched like he was trying not to smile. “That sounds like Dean.”
“It really does,” you agreed sweetly.
Dean leaned in, lowering his voice so only you could hear. “You’re enjoying this too much.”
“You literally begged me,” you whispered back.
His eyes flicked down to yours.
For half a second, the lobby disappeared.
His mother looked between you and Dean, smiling. “Well, I already like her.”
Dean’s gaze lingered on yours for a second too long.
“Yeah,” he murmured. “That happens.”
Your heart did something deeply inconvenient.
So you looked away first.
Check-in went smoothly, mostly because Dean’s mother handled it while asking you questions with the skill of a woman who had definitely hosted charity events before and knew how to extract personal information without seeming rude.
She wanted to know where you were from, what you were studying, how you knew Hannah and Allie, and, most importantly, how you and Dean had gotten close.
Dean answered the last one before you could. “She hated me at first.”
You blinked at him. “At first?”
His mother’s smile widened. “And now?”
You tilted your head like you were giving it serious thought. “Now I tolerate him.”
Dean pressed a hand to his heart as you’d wounded him. “She’s shy with affection.”
“I’m shy with public displays of murder.”
His father laughed under his breath. Dean’s mother looked delighted, and Dean looked at you like he was trying not to smile.
It was ridiculous how easy it was.
That should’ve been the first warning sign.
The second came when the receptionist handed Dean the room keys and said, “King suite, eighth floor.”
You waited, Dean waited, and his mother smiled pleasantly.
Your stomach dropped.
“King suite?” you echoed.
Dean’s head turned slowly toward his mother like he already knew she was responsible.
She blinked at him with perfect innocence. “Is something wrong?”
“No,” Dean said, too quickly.
At the same time, you asked, “One bed?”
Dean’s father raised an eyebrow. Dean’s mother looked between you and Dean, just as his hand came to rest at your waist.
Warm. Steady. Entirely too natural.
“We’re good,” Dean said smoothly. “She likes to pretend she needs her own space.”
You turned your head very slowly toward him.
Dean smiled down at you, the kind of smile that made people believe terrible lies.
“Isn’t that right, sweetheart?”
Sweetheart.
Your nails dug into your palm.
Rule four. No boyfriend or girlfriend in private. Technically, this wasn’t private.
Still.
Dean was enjoying this.
You smiled back, bright and dangerous. “Only because you kick in your sleep, babe.”
Dean’s eyes flashed. His mother made a soft, delighted sound. His father looked like he might be reconsidering everything he knew about his son.
Dean leaned down until his lips were close to your ear.
“Babe?” he murmured, like he was testing the word out.
“You started it,” you whispered back.
“You’re going to regret that,” he murmured, still close to your ear.
“Can’t wait.”
You felt his fingers flex once at your waist, like he’d forgotten himself for half a second.
Then he stepped back, smile still in place.
You were in trouble.
The room was somehow worse.
The suite was beautiful, because apparently Dean’s family didn’t do anything halfway. There was a sitting area, a massive window overlooking the golf course, a marble bathroom, and, right there in the middle of the bedroom section, one enormous king bed.
You stood in the doorway, staring at it. Dean set the bags down behind you.
Neither of you spoke.
Then you said, very clearly, “Absolutely not.”
Dean sighed, already resigned. “Here we go.”
“You knew.”
“I didn’t know.”
“You absolutely knew.”
“I thought there would be a couch.”
You stared at him. “There’s a couch.”
You both turned to look at the small decorative couch near the window.
It looked like it’d been designed exclusively for people without spines.
Dean made a face.
You pointed at the couch. “Enjoy.”
“I’m six foot two.”
“Congratulations.”
“I won’t fit.”
“Fold.”
Dean turned to you like you’d lost your mind. “You want me to sleep on that?”
“You created this problem.”
“I didn’t create the furniture.”
“You created the fake serious girlfriend.”
Dean opened his mouth. Closed it. Then nodded once, like he hated that you had a point. “Fair.”
You walked farther into the room and crossed your arms. “I’m not sharing a bed with you.”
Dean’s eyebrows rose. “Scared?”
You laughed. “Of you?”
“Yeah.”
“Dean, the only thing scary about you is your ego.”
“My ego and my charm.”
“Your delusion.”
“You like my charm.”
“I tolerate your charm.”
“You said you tolerate me. That’s different.”
“I’m expanding the category.”
He stepped closer, smiling like he knew exactly how annoying he was. “You know, for someone who hates me, you’re very committed to arguing with me.”
“For someone who needs me, you’re very committed to being unbearable.”
“Maybe that’s my love language.”
“Then I pity every woman you’ve dated.”
Dean’s smile faltered, barely enough to notice.
But you noticed.
The joke had landed wrong somehow.
You almost apologized.
Then Dean turned away, walking toward the window like he needed something else to look at. “You can have the bed.”
Your arms loosened before you could stop them. “Dean.”
“It’s fine,” he said, but it didn’t sound like it.
The sudden lack of teasing felt strange. Too strange.
You watched him pull his phone from his pocket, pretending he suddenly had something to check.
Dean was good at pretending, and you were starting to realize that was part of the problem.
“I didn’t mean it like that.”
He looked back, grin already in place like nothing had happened. “Relax. I’ve slept in worse places.”
And just like that, the moment was gone.
You didn’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed.
Dinner was scheduled for seven. Dean had called it “casual,” which apparently meant everyone would be wearing outfits that cost more than your monthly rent.
You managed to unpack in silence for approximately three minutes before Dean ruined it.
“So,” Dean said from the other side of the room, sounding way too casual, “should we practice?”
You looked up from your bag, shoe already in hand. “If the next words out of your mouth are kissing-related, I’m throwing this at you.”
Dean glanced at the heel in your hand and raised both palms like you were the unreasonable one. “Hostile work environment.”
“You created the job.”
“I meant the story.”
“What story?”
“Our story.”
The shoe lowered in your hand. “Right.”
Dean sat on the edge of the bed, which annoyed you because he looked too good there. Relaxed, comfortable, like the room belonged to him, and the weekend wasn’t already beginning to unravel around you.
“How did we get together?” he asked.
“You annoyed me until I had a lapse in judgment.”
“Funny, but my mother is going to want details.”
“Fine. We started hanging out because of Hannah and Allie.”
“True.”
“You flirted.”
“True.”
“I rejected you repeatedly.”
“Debatable.”
“Dean.”
“I’m listening.”
“And then one day, you were slightly less annoying than usual, so I agreed to dinner.”
His eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “I like that.”
“You like being called annoying?”
“I like that your version still has me winning.”
“You didn’t win. I suffered a moment of weakness.”
“I’ll take it.”
You rolled your eyes, but your mouth betrayed you anyway.
Dean saw the almost-smile.
“Careful,” he murmured.
You looked at him, instantly suspicious. “What?”
“You almost looked like you liked me for a second.”
The room shifted. Maybe it was the softness in his voice, or the bed between you, or the fact that in less than an hour, you’d have to walk downstairs and convince his entire family that whatever this was had a name.
You forced a laugh like that would fix whatever had just happened. “Don’t get excited, Di Laurentis.”
“Too late,” he said, smiling like he knew exactly what he was doing.
Your stomach flipped. You turned back to your bag before he could notice.
He probably noticed anyway.
Dinner was both easier and harder than you expected. Dean’s family was warmer than you’d feared, which should’ve helped, except their warmth only made the lie feel worse.
His mother sat beside you at the long table in the hotel restaurant, asking questions with genuine interest. Across from Dean, his father watched him with quiet amusement every time you corrected him or stole the bread basket from his side of the table.
“You two bicker a lot,” his mother said, smiling into her glass.
Dean leaned back, his arm draped over the back of your chair. “It’s part of our charm.”
“Our?” you echoed, eyebrows rising. “Interesting.”
“Fine. Your charm. My patience.”
You laughed before you could stop yourself.
Dean looked at you, and his smile softened.
His mother noticed.
You could feel it.
“So,” she said, looking entirely too pleased, “Dean tells us you’re the reason he’s been slightly less impossible lately.”
You nearly choked on your water.
Behind you, Dean’s arm stiffened. “I said no such thing.”
His father’s mouth twitched. “You said she keeps you in line.”
“That’s completely different.”
You turned to him before you could stop yourself. “You talk about me?”
Dean’s eyes met yours, and for once, he didn’t look away.
Then he said, “Only to complain.”
“Liar,” you said, but there was no heat in it.
His mouth curved. “Prove it.”
The table faded again.
That kept happening. Little moments where the performance went quiet, and something else slipped in.
You hated it.
You liked it.
You were doomed.
Later, after dessert, after his mother had hugged you again and his father had told Dean not to be late for breakfast, you both made it back to the suite in silence.
The door clicked shut behind you.
The performance dropped, sort of.
Dean let out a breath and leaned back against the door. “You were good.”
You kicked off your shoes. “I know.”
He laughed quietly. “Humble.”
“I was excellent.”
His smile softened. “You were.”
The sincerity made you pause. Dean pushed off the door, rubbing the back of his neck as he walked farther into the room.
“My mom loves you.”
“She has good taste.”
“My dad too.”
“Clearly, good taste runs in the family.”
Dean looked at you then, and something unreadable moved through his eyes.
“Yeah,” he said, still looking at you. “They do.”
Your pulse stumbled.
No.
Absolutely not.
You turned toward the bed because that felt like the safer option.
It wasn’t.
The bed was still there, large and waiting and definitely mocking you.
You pointed at the decorative couch. “Your throne.”
Dean followed your gaze and sighed. “You’re really going to make me sleep there?”
“Yes.”
“You’re cold.”
“You’ll survive.”
“I might not.”
“How tragic.”
He walked over to the couch and sat down, only for his knees to immediately look ridiculous.
You pressed your lips together, trying not to laugh.
Dean stared at you. “Don’t laugh.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“I’m being respectful.”
“You’re biting your lip.”
“Out of grief.”
He narrowed his eyes, which only made you laugh.
You couldn’t help it.
Dean tried to glare, but his mouth twitched. “You’re enjoying my suffering.”
“Deeply.”
“You know, a loving fake girlfriend would offer to share.”
You froze, and Dean froze too.
For a second, both of you seemed to remember the rule at the same time.
No boyfriend or girlfriend when no one was around.
“Sorry,” he said, quieter this time.
The apology came quickly, too quickly, as he meant it, and that made it worse.
“It’s fine,” you said.
Dean stood, suddenly restless. “I’ll sleep on the couch.”
You looked at him. Really looked. Noticed how tired he seemed now that his family wasn’t watching, how the weekend had already pulled something tight in him, how he was trying, actually trying, to respect the line you’d drawn.
The bed was huge. Huge enough to avoid touching, probably.
Maybe.
You exhaled. “Dean.”
He looked up, cautious now.
“You can sleep in the bed.”
His eyebrows rose like he wasn’t sure he’d heard you right.
“But,” you said sharply, pointing at him, “there will be rules.”
His mouth curved slowly. “More rules?”
“Yes.”
“I love rules.”
“You break rules.”
“I lovingly challenge them.”
“You stay on your side.”
“Yes.”
“No touching.”
“Yes.”
“No flirting.”
His smile widened. “In my sleep?”
“Especially in your sleep.”
“What if I dream about you?”
“Then wake up ashamed.”
Dean laughed, warm and low, and you hated how much you liked hearing it in the quiet room.
“Deal,” he said, softer than you expected.
You changed in the bathroom, mostly because you didn’t trust Dean and partly because you didn’t trust yourself.
When you came out in sleep shorts and an oversized shirt, Dean was already in bed, shirtless.
You stopped in the doorway, because apparently your body needed a second.
He looked up from his phone. “What?”
“Where’s your shirt?”
Dean looked down at himself like he’d forgotten. “Off.”
“I can see that.”
“I sleep shirtless.”
“Not tonight.”
“You’re policing sleepwear now?”
“Yes.”
Dean’s gaze moved over your face, amused and something else you didn’t want to name.
“You’re flustered.”
“I’m annoyed.”
“You’re standing in the bathroom doorway, glaring at my chest.”
“I’m glaring at all of you.”
“My chest feels singled out.”
You marched to your suitcase, grabbed a pillow, and threw it at him. He caught it easily, laughing.
“Put a shirt on.”
“Why?”
“Because.”
“Because why?”
“Because I said so.”
Dean’s smile turned dangerous. “That’s not a reason.”
Your face warmed. His eyes flicked over it, but then he reached down, grabbed a shirt from his bag, and pulled it on.
“There,” he said.
You blinked. “That was… easy.”
“I can be easy.”
“Never say that again.”
His grin returned immediately. “Too tempting?”
You reached for the lamp on your side and turned it off before he could see your expression.
“Go to sleep, Dean.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he murmured.
You climbed into bed carefully, staying as far to the edge as possible. The mattress dipped under Dean’s weight when he shifted. Even with space between you, you could feel him there—his warmth, his breathing, his presence taking up too much of the room.
For several minutes, neither of you spoke.
Then Dean’s voice came quietly from the other side of the bed. “You did save my life today, by the way.”
You stared into the dark. “I know.”
“My mom would’ve killed me if I showed up alone.”
“She still might if she ever realizes this is fake.”
Dean was quiet. Too quiet. You turned your head slightly, but you couldn’t see his face well in the darkness.
“Dean?”
“Yeah?”
You didn’t mean for your voice to soften. “Are you okay?”
He let out a quiet laugh, not amused exactly.
More surprised.
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
“You went quiet.”
“I’m fine,” he said, too quickly.
You recognized the answer because you used it too.
Fine.
The least convincing word in existence.
You rolled onto your side, turning toward him in the dark.
He lay on his back, one arm behind his head, staring up at the ceiling.
“You don’t have to pretend with me,” you told him.
The words were out before you could think better of them.
Dean turned his head toward you, and even in the dark, you felt his gaze settle on your face.
“That’s funny,” he said softly.
“Why?”
“Because pretending is kind of the whole point, isn’t it?”
Something in your chest tightened. “Not all of it.”
The silence after that was different.
Thicker.
Dean shifted onto his side too, until you were facing each other. Too close. Not touching. Close enough to see his eyes in the low light from the window.
“You’re being nice again,” he murmured.
“It keeps happening by accident.”
“That’s a dangerous habit.”
“Don’t get used to it.”
“Too late.”
Your breath caught.
There it was again, that softness. The part of Dean that didn’t feel like a joke.
For a second, neither of you moved. His eyes dropped to your mouth, and this time, there was no pretending you didn’t see it.
Your pulse jumped.
“Dean,” you whispered.
“I know,” he murmured, his voice lower now. Rougher.
He didn’t move closer, and neither did you, but somehow, the space between you felt impossibly small.
“No kissing unless necessary,” you whispered.
His gaze lifted back to yours. “Right.”
“This isn’t necessary.”
“No,” he said, but neither of you moved. He didn’t look away, and you didn’t roll back over.
Almost kissing him was somehow worse than actually kissing him. The possibility of it. The heat. The fact that you could feel how easy it would be to close the distance and ruin every rule on the first night.
Dean’s hand shifted on the mattress between you. Not touching, but close enough.
Your fingers curled into the sheet.
He noticed. His jaw flexed, and then he rolled onto his back, putting space between you with a quiet exhale.
“Goodnight, [Y/N].”
You stared at the side of his face, your heart still racing. “Goodnight, Dean.”
You eventually turned away, facing the window. But sleep didn’t come quickly. Not with Dean lying beside you. Not with the ghost of an almost-kiss sitting between your ribs. Not with the horrible realization that rule number one had already started to feel less like protection and more like a challenge.
pairing: dean di laurentis x neurodivergent!reader
summary: to help you find the words to accurately describe how you feel for Dean, you create a list. you never intended for anyone to see it, least of all him.
contains: reader has behaviors that reflect those on the spectrum! no use of y/n, pet names (baby, sweetheart), sappy romance fluff, allusions to sex, kissing, cursing, teasing, tickling (sorry :/)
author’s note: apparently i’ve got dean on the brain today! this is my sort of sequel to my oblivious fic! i hope u guys like it :))
It felt worth the mention that you had never been in love before.
Had you been, this might not have been an issue. But like most things in your life, you were a little late to the party. You had been in one relationship before Dean, but it hadn’t lasted long enough to create feelings beyond infatuation or mere like. With Dean, it was different, like everything was. You felt out of control—which you didn’t particularly care for, but it felt like a fair trade with how happy he made you—and like there was a constant pull beneath your sternum to be near him at all times.
You liked your solitude, in fact, you needed it most times. People usually drained your social battery; just a simple exchange of pleasantries feeling exhausting some days. It was almost as if Dean had hacked your system and bypassed all the firewalls you’d put in place. You never felt drained after being with him, it was actually quite the opposite, you felt energized.
You had turned into one of those girls who giggled and giddily spoke about their boyfriend. These were emotions you previously wouldn’t have reserved for even your most intense passion, let alone a man. You couldn’t understand it. It was as if some chemical had been released and it was changing your genetic makeup.
You thought perhaps the feelings would fade the longer you were together. It was new and exciting and maybe your psyche was just reacting positively to a new stimuli.
A promising theory, however it did not prove to be correct. If anything, your intense feelings grew the longer you were together. You had considered the possibility that you may love Dean, but you weren’t sure. And since he hadn’t mentioned it to you, you thought the risk was too great to venture a guess on your feelings towards him.
You knew the common solution other people might suggest would be asking a friend, but this seemed utterly mortifying to you. And how were you to know whether or not people’s experiences differ? Were the symptoms universal? And you hadn’t a clue whether popular media, such as romantic comedies, were to be believed and taken as fact. So no, you wouldn’t be seeking the advice of other’s, there were too many ‘what if’s?’
Hence, the list.
You liked lists. They were functional and proved helpful for various occasions, your current predicament included. You hadn’t intended for anyone to ever see it. It was for you and you alone. A solo experiment you were conducting.
You wanted to both record instances when you felt strong positive feelings towards Dean, and mark down what specifically he had done to warrant that response. Your hope was that after a few entries, you would be able to draw similarities between them and create a solid thesis.
So, alone in your room, you began writing your list in a previously empty notebook in your bedside table.
1.) He doesn’t treat you like a child
There had been times when your lack of social awareness or naïveté had been misconstrued as child-like. This often led to patronization from past partners. It was a common point of anxiety for you; not being in on a joke everyone else seemed to be, not picking up on sarcasm when you assumed someone was being genuine. It made it even worse when your own partner was apologizing for your actions, or explaining things to you like you were dumb.
Dean didn’t do this. Sure, there had been times when he found your ‘face value’ tendencies to be funny, but it never felt as though he was laughing at you. He had a sort of fondness in his eyes when he looked at you, like he enjoyed the way you saw the world and the people in it.
You never felt left out when Dean was around, either. He and his friends had certain bits they liked to do with each other, and at first you found it hard to pick up on, but when you were alone he would break them down for you. He wouldn’t explain why they were funny, you could understand that, but he was letting you in on the inside joke.
He had told you once that Tucker’s mom had shown them pictures of their young friend dressed up like Mr. Mistoffelees from Cats the musical when she came to help her son move in. Ever since then, the guys had teased him mercilessly about not only enjoying Cats the musical, but dressing up as one of the actors at the age of thirteen.
One afternoon, you and Dean were sitting at the kitchen island while Tucker made breakfast, the three of you discussing the Hawks’ latest game, and more specifically Tucker’s success and scored goals.
“What can I say? I’m magical.”
You looked over beside you to find Dean hiding his smile behind his mug filled with coffee.
You spoke before you thought, which was not something you found yourself doing often. “Magical and mystical.”
“Mr. Mistoffelees,” Dean sung the rest, Tucker immedaitely groaning.
“You told her?” He screeched. Dean laughed so hard he almost fell out of his chair.
2.) He doesn’t make you stay the night at his place
As much as you loved his friends, you didn’t love spending the night at the hockey house. And it really had nothing to do with the other boys at all. It was more to do with…routine.
You had little things. Things most people didn’t see unless they spent the night with you, which was a very few number of people, and you intended to keep it that way.
You hadn’t always felt ashamed of displaying these behaviors that you couldn’t control, but after your last boyfriend broke up with you over them, it became something you thought to hide. Especially from Dean.
For as long as you can remember, you had a routine before bed. You would check the front door lock three times, check all of the stove burners to ensure they’re off, and unlock and re-lock each of the windows. Once you finished your routine, you could sleep peacefully. If you didn’t… you did not sleep.
Your therapist had ensured you this was a behavior that was harming no one, and therefore saw no reason why you should have to stop. Usually, that validation would have been good enough for you, but now you couldn’t help but feel insecure.
You’d tried sleeping at Dean’s house on two different occasions, and both left you feeling unrested and unsettled.
It was around the fifth time that you declined his invitation to stay over that he questioned you about it.
“How come you never wanna stay at my place? Are you uncomfortable there?” He asked you.
“No,” you rush to say. He gives you a look like he knows your lying. “Well…yes, but not because of anything you’ve done.”
“Okay,” he trailed off like he wanted you to continue.
You took a deep breath. “I like my sheets,” you confess.
“You…like your sheets?” He repeats like he doesn’t understand.
“Yes. I got them because they’re the perfect texture and yours are itchy. And my toothpaste is here. Yours is the weird charcoal toothpaste and I don’t like the taste, it leaves my tongue feeling dry. And your TV has a broken pixel in the top left corner that I can’t help but get distracted by every time we try to watch a show, and your front door doesn’t have a chain lock like mine does, and your air purifier is too loud, and—“
“Okay, baby.” He moves to take your hands in his, smiling and laughing lightly at your nervous rambling. “Why don’t we just stay at yours?”
You blink at him. You hadn’t known that was an option. It hadn’t been in your last relationship.
“You would want to?”
“Of course.” He laughs incredulously. “I just want to spend time with you, I don’t care where it is.”
You tackled him onto his bed with a hug, pressing kisses to his face as he laughs and holds you to him like he doesn’t want to let go. You hope he doesn’t.
3.) Soft sweaters
Your list began with the more serious reasons, and at some point over the weeks turned into the smaller stuff that left you feeling warm and gooey like a freshly baked cookie.
Before Dean, you hadn’t really considered the perks of having a richer partner. Yes, obviously having money was nice, but you weren’t sure what benefit it would have specifically for you. You didn’t intend on being financially dependent on your partner; you had dreams of your own.
Then you felt cashmere and the world made sense.
“Hey, baby?” Dean called from inside his closet. You were sat criss-cross on his bed with your physics notes in your lap and your computer open in front of you.
“Yeah?” You call back without looking up.
“Do you have any idea where all my cashmere sweaters might have gone?” You look up to find him leaning against one of the doors to his closet, his face looking like he knows exactly where all his sweaters went. And you knew too.
“No,” you reply in your most innocent voice you can muster. “I have no clue.”
“Huh.” He walks towards you, a towel slung low on his hips and his skin still damp from his shower. “That’s so weird, because what you’re wearing right now kind of looks like one.”
The both of you look down at your top at the same time, your eyes trailing back up to his guiltily.
“It’s so soft,” you whisper your explanation.
“I know,” he whispers back. “That’s why I bought it.”
You sigh and then slip the material over your head. You hadn’t been wearing anything underneath, but Dean had seen you naked mulitiple times now, you didn’t think it would affect him as much as it did.
You go back to your notes, but when you notice him still standing beside the bed, the sweater you tossed to him hanging off the tips of his fingers, his eyes alight with something, you ask, “what?”
He throws the sweater over his shoulder and moves to crowd you on the bed. “It makes it even hotter that you have no idea how much you affect me.”
4.) Dimples.
Dimples are caused by slight anatomical variations in facial tissue. A separation of muscle. It made absolutely no sense to you why Dean’s had the affect on you that they did.
Maybe it was because they didn’t always come out. It was only when he smiled or laughed hard that the indents in his cheeks showed. And you did love his laugh. And his smile.
You were lying in your bed, your skin still slightly tacky from your earlier excursions, and normally that sensation would bother you, but it never did with Dean. You loved to trace over different parts of his body and watch the muscles beneath the skin work, or the goosebumps rise over his flesh and know you caused it.
When you trace over his ribs, you feel his abdomen flex and a strange, high noise leave him in a rush. You look up to him.
“What?”
“Nothing,” he answers, a bit too quickly.
So you do it again, gently tracing your fingers over his ribs, and he squirms a little more intensely.
“Are you ticklish?” You grin.
“No…”
You run your fingers over both sides of him this time and you’re rewarded by his real laugh, full and loud, with his dimples digging deep into his cheeks.
You don’t know what makes you do it, but you lean up to kiss them. First, the one closest to you, then the other. Though, they fade into just faint indents with how his smile shrank from wide to small, almost shy.
“I love…” you watch his irises expand at your words, his chest stalling for a moment like his breath stuttered. “your dimples.”
His smile isn’t as wide as before, but you watch the indents grow deeper and feel the divots with the tips of your fingers. You feel like he wants to say something else, but he doesn’t.
5.) The noise he makes when you kiss his neck
Dean made plenty of noises you loved.
You loved his laugh, obviously. You loved the noises he made while working out. But you especially loved the noises he made when you teased him.
In your previous relationship, you hadn’t really enjoyed making out. You couldn’t help but focus on the texture of their saliva or the taste in their mouth. You didn’t understand the appeal until Dean, like many things.
You loved the firm and somehow also soft feel of his lips. You loved the delicate way his tongue would brush over yours. You loved how his hands gripped the flesh of your hips and tangled in your hair.
And you loved the noise he made when your mouth would move from his mouth to his neck.
It was technically his jaw, closer to his ear, but your technical thoughts were inconsequential at the moment. You had no appetite to be contrarian when his hips were moving beneath yours uncontrollably and his mouth was open and panting.
You liked conducting experiments, and you were fairly sure that Dean felt the same. After all, it had been an experiment that resulted in your finding the spot that made him whimper. So you decided to conduct another and see how far you push it before he was begging you to stop.
You bit his skin lightly and then soothed it with your tongue, his breath shuttering in his throat and the sweetest noise surfacing. You smile against his skin.
“Baby,” he breathlessly spoke. You moved to the other side of his throat, trying to spread your attention evenly. “You keep doing that, I’m not gonna last.”
It sounded like a warning, but it wasn’t one you cared to heed. So you hummed against his skin and continued your ministrations. You didn’t even have to take your clothes off to get the response you wanted from him.
6.) The fact that he loves you too
In hindsight, you shouldn’t have left something out that you didn’t want your boyfriend to see who had unrestricted access to your apartment.
You could blame the exhaustion, but it was entirely possible that you had subconsciously left it out for him to potentially find, alleviating you of your obligation to confess your feelings.
You’d come home later than usual to find him lying on your couch with a book in his hand. It wasn’t an unusual sight, but the book made you do a double take once you recognized the leather-bound cover as your journal. Your love list journal, to be exact.
“Dean!” You squeal, diving for the book and completely missing it when he moves it out of your reach, your body falling over his onto the couch.
“I feel honored my dimples made your list, baby. I knew you had a thing for them.”
“Oh my god.” You cover your face with your hands, feeling like you could potentially throw up from embarrassment. You hear him set the book down on the coffee table and then gently place his hands over yours.
“Hey.” He moves to uncover your face, his eyes gentle as he takes in your undoubtedly red face. “You know I love you too, right? Because I do. I was just waiting because I didn’t want to move too fast and scare you.”
“Well that’s dumb,” you deadpan. He laughs abruptly. “You wouldn’t have scared me.”
“You don’t have the best track record when it comes to being aware of my feelings towards you, sweetheart. You can be a little oblivious sometimes.”
You smile sadly. “Sorry.”
“No, don’t apologize. I’m just glad you finally caught up.” You roll your eyes before he leans in to kiss you, far too quick and chaste for your liking. Then he’s speaking again. “And to think, all it took was realizing you love when I whimper.”
“Oh my god!” You hide your face in his chest again and feel it rumble beneath you as he laughs. You refuse to look up to show him, but you can’t help but laugh as well.
It was winter break at the base. Everyone was either at home with their families or staying at base with their mates. You happened to be there with Simon, Johnny, Kyle, and Price. The five of you were sitting in the common room, passing the time by sharing stories.
"Got any embarrassing childhood photos?" Soap asked, already looking far too excited by the idea. A few laughs echoed through the room as everyone tried to remember old memories.
"I do," you said with a grin, pulling out your phone.
Mistake. Big mistake.
You started scrolling through old photos, showing the guys pictures of you as a child at school, with your family, and with your friends.
Soap laughed at every single one. Gaz kept asking questions about the stories behind them. Price simply smiled as he watched. Simon, on the other hand, didn't seem interested at all. Lie. He was paying attention to every single photo. Watching your smile. Watching how your features had changed as you'd grown up. And yet somehow remained exactly the same.
Then you stopped on a picture of yourself at three years old. You were sitting in your family's living room, smiling at the camera with a stuffed animal clutched tightly against your chest. Simon stared at that one longer than the others.
"You were tiny."
The comment slipped out before he could stop himself.
"Most children are," you replied.
Soap burst out laughing. But Simon kept looking at the photo. It was strange. Looking at the little girl in the picture. Then looking at you. Same eyes. Same smile.
"Mate, you've been staring at that photo for five minutes," Soap pointed out.
"Haven't."
"You absolutely have."
Simon ignored him.
"Cute kid."
You blinked.
"That was me."
"Aye."
A pause.
"That's what I said."
The room immediately erupted into laughter. Before anyone could tease him further, Simon stood up and left. Leaving you blushing like a tomato. As he walked back toward the barracks, he found himself thinking about you. About the life you'd had before the military. Before the missions. Before the scars. Back when you were just a little girl with a crooked smile and a stuffed animal in your arms.
pairing: neighbor!simon “ghost” riley x neighbor!reader
summary: a call to your neighbor saves you from arrogant assholes at the club
masterlist!
a/n: lmk if you all want a part 2!! alsoooo, requests are open!!!!
simon had just finished getting out the shower when he heard his phone ring, hand pulling a shirt over his torso while the other answered, mild concern crossing the brute’s features when he saw your contact. it was a quarter after 1 am, not really “normal hours” for a neighbor to be calling.
“hello? y/n?” your neighbor’s gruff accent seeped through your phone, relief washing over you, “g-ghost!” you hiccuped, “you answered me,” a giggle leaves.
ghost smiled at the sound of your sweet voice, not missing the drunken slur attached, putting you on speaker phone so he could finish getting ready. if you’re callin’ him, ya surely need him for somethin’, right? “m’ course m’ did sweetheart. is everythin’ alrigh’?” he finished lacing up his big boots, skull balaclava slid over his head next, “comin’ ova’ to yer’s now-” he resumes when you interrupt him. “silly! i’m not home right now.”
a pause. “where are ya out so late at, fawn?”
something about your neighbor’s deep voice asking about your whereabouts sent chills across your body, dominating tone ringing in your ears. “i went out with some friends tonight, sir, but i don’t know where any of them went. i think they all left me,” you drunkingly whined out, ghost imagining you doing your cute little pout, lower lip jutted out. “a-and these guys are being weird to me! i keep telling them to l-leave me alone, but they won’t!” another whine.
hearing that only displeased your neighbor, a loud slam heard through the phone making you jump. “send m’ yer location now, fawn. m’ on tha’ way. do ya wan’ m’ to stay on tha’ phone with ya?”
confused by what you’re hearing, “y-you’re coming? i’m not close to home-” “m’ said if ya ever needed anythin’, ya ask me,” he doesn’t let you finish, truck now driving on the main road, “send yer location,” then he hangs up.
ghost’s deadly grip on the steering wheel had his knuckles turning white, loud rumbling from his truck silencing when he parked in front of the entrance to the club you were at. wha’ kinda “friends” would jus’ leave someone from their group behind? and ya hadda’ deal with stupid fuckin’ blokes alone because of it? the muscular giant was seething, slamming his car door shut again.
“here to get m’ girl,” the bouncer nodded at ghost, stepping to the side for the him to walk through. ghost peaked the interest of people standing near the entrance immediately, flirty and intimidated stares swallowing him. he always grabbed the attention of everyone in any room he stepped in, the dancing music flooding his ear drums, a small rush of adrenaline soaring through his veins.
with an eye roll, he walked a few steps forward, using his height to his advantage trying to find you. he looked around the room, eyes scanning the dance floor, lounging tables, and restrooms, fists balling when he still couldn’t locate you.
his eyes finally wandered to the bar, your familiar strands of hair coming into view. the brute’s legs were moving before he knew it, taking long strides to quickly reach you, more anger washing over him when he saw the group of blokes surrounding you. they must’ve been who ya were talkin’ ‘bout. you clearly weren’t interested, ghost frowning at your very awkward laughing. he hated how you had to pretend to be a little interested in these assholes to feel safe.
ghost’s stomach dropped more when he saw them starting to touch you, one grazing a hand across your upper thigh, another moving your hair behind your shoulder, letting his hand linger on your dress strap.
“oh, no. no. no,” you’re trying to slide the man’s hand off your thigh, but he continued advancing upwards, fingertips grazing the hem of your short dress. “i have a boyfriend coming to pick me up!” you stood up, stepping away from the group of men. they’d been bothering you for two hours now, ever since you’d first noticed your missing “friends”. “is that right, little bitch-” the man stuttered, breaking eye contact with you, attention moving to something above your head.
“wha’ tha’ fuck were ya callin’ her?” you recognized the brit’s accent, feeling his strong arms pull you behind him, his enormous build blocking the men from your view. he kept a hand on your body behind him, your hands clasping his shirt. for a group of assholes who confidently talked your head off the entire night, they were pretty fucking quiet right now. “huh?” he raises an eyebrow behind his balaclava, “m’ couldn’ fuckin’ hear ya?” he menacingly steps closer to the group, the men cowering backwards slowly.
“we w-weren’t saying anything to your girl!” they pleaded with your neighbor. “really? ‘cause m’ thought she said she had her boyfriend comin’,” he spits out, releasing his hold on you, towering over the group now, “and ya bloody blokes were still fuckin’ touchin’ on her.”
“we’re sorry!” “didn’t mean to offend you, sir.” “she seemed like she was single!” the group started apologizing to ghost, making him angrily frown, scarily shaking his head. why tha’ fuck are these blokes apologizin’ to m’ when yer tha’ one that deserves it? ghost wasn’t having it.
“no,” horrifyingly low, your neighbor turning to you now, “c’mere, luvie’,” he motions his fingers for you. ghost tried his best to calm his voice when talking to you, concealing his anger from you.
you walked over to him, his arm wrapping around your waist when you reached him, “m’ not tha’ one ya bloody assholes should be apologizin’ to.”
sorry’s erupted from the men to you, your eyes widening at the scene unraveling. the feeling of your neighbor squeezing the side of your hip brought you out of your daze, “ya accept their apologies, sweetheart?” nodding your head, “i’m accepting it now, but don’t ever harass me or anyone else like that again. the things you all did to me tonight were extremely inappropriate.”
you wrapped your fingers around ghost’s bicep, his attention on you, “i’m ready to leave now,” a squeeze on his muscle, “please,” you desperately added. he nodded, sending one last threatening glare to the group, before leading you both out the club.
he opened his passenger side door for you, grabbing your waist to lift you inside his large truck. buckling your seatbelt next, securing it around your body, a hand moving to rest on your thigh, “m’ so sorry ya hadda’ deal with tha’ all alone. havin’ shitty friends leavin’ ya, bein’ bothered by those blokes,” he begins kneeding your thigh.
hearing your neighbor audibly voice the scenario you’d been ignoring made you break, the liquor you had encouraging the tears that started in your pretty eyes. “i c-can’t believe they left me, ghost!” you threw your arms around your neighbor’s neck, full on sobbing into his broad shoulder.
he soothingly rubbed up and down your spine, massive hands swallowing your back, “m’ know, hon’, m’ know.” your neighbor’s secure hold was providing so much comfort to you, your crying softening after a few minutes.
ghost pulled away from you when he heard you quiet, reaching to wipe any tears remaining on your puffy cheeks, “let m’ get ya home, sweets. let m’ take care of ya,” he offered, being able to smell the alcohol on your breath from the close proximity. your neighbor wanted to make sure you didn’t potentially choke on your vomit in your sleep. he didn’t know how much you had to drink, but he knew you were way past the legal limit.
you agreed, “could i stay with you and riley tonight?” thrown on the table instead, “i wanna see him too, sir!” a compromise, ghost could take care of your drunken state, and you could spend time with your neighbor and his dog, a win, win!
“m’ don’ see why not, fawn,” with a final pat to your thigh, he closes your door, walking to the driver side of his truck. you leaned over the console to open the door for him from the inside, ghost smiling under his balaclava.
you felt so lucky to have a neighbor who seemed to care so much for you, someone you could trust to help you with anything!
summary: nobody expects the frat boy and the chubby, nerdy girl to ever look in each others’ direction. but who cares what people expect?
word count: 3.5k
contains: fluff & smut. frat clark the wonderful gorgeous sassy little gentleman, reader is a weird literary nerd, lois lane being kickass propaganda. college kids being pretentious to turn each other on, my fav. some talk of drinking/being drunk, fraternity parties. clark and reader uhaul lesbian tf outta each other, first kiss/boyfriend trope. *piv, protected sex, light and bubbly and sweet because ughhhh… *no use of y/n
a/n: well yes, @intwoweeks ! i love frat clark, if you guys want more i will definitely do more with him– fics, blurbs, whatevs. hope you like ;)
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If we asked anyone to explain how you and Clark Kent went well together, they would be at a loss for words. From the outside, it just… didn’t make sense. But then again, neither of you really made sense as individuals. That is, you didn’t fit into boxes in the way college kids like to.
Clark was a brother in Alpha Gamma Rho. He was a backwards-hat, cut-off tank kind of guy. The legend of AGR keggers because he never seemed to get drunk. The very same legend who held doors for everyone, even if it made him late. You could see Clark mowing down brothers on the frat lawn in a game of tackle football, or studying with a pair of crooked, taped glasses in the library. Sometimes he was pulling senior pranks, parking cars on roofs or wrapping an office in Christmas paper. Other times he was exercising his secret duty of negotiating with campus police when a party was coming up, bringing them donuts and promising no problems, if they’ll only let it run its course. Needless to say, the farmboy wore many hats– but he had a core that was simple. Warm, thoughtful, passionate love. Intentional care. Remarkable intelligence. Those were just a few things that you loved about Clark.
And you– well, who could ever figure you out? The girl with no solid shtick. President of the literature club, occasional peer tutor through the university library, who could often be found committing drunken karaoke offenses at the off-campus bar with your friend and roommate Lois. Nobody would be shocked to see you in fishnets and lacy black everything one day, and mary janes and a denim skirt the next. You walked with your head down and iPod blasting on school sidewalks, but you managed robust debates in class. You even put on the bulldog mascot suit and rushed the field during your sophomore-year homecoming game, because your public speaking professor (assistant coach of the MetU team, coincidentally) offered anyone a pass on the final presentation if they had the guts. When your peers would walk by and see you either hiding in a novel or handing out bookmarks for your club, no one batted an eye – because you were just that girl who did anything. Knowing everyone, yet knowing no one.
It seemed every expectation of you both was subverted by another facet. Multi-dimensional in a one-note world. College isn’t always the place for fully-formed people like that, but perhaps it can be good for finding each other… can’t it?
You and Clark worked from the beginning.
He liked you when he found you standing in the corner of one of his frat parties, cradling a vodka cranberry (heavy on the vodka) with glazed eyes, staring over the sea of bodies like someone had personally offended you. He thought your dopey frown was sweet. You both remembered that night like it was yesterday.
—͙͘͡★—
“What’s the matter?” Clark had cooed, sauntering over with an empty beer bottle and a torturous little smirk on his face. His eyes were green and bright like the light across from Gatsby’s dock. You loved Gatbsy. Your drunken self thought of Gatsby religiously. Something about drinking and prohibition, and then the thought train just…
“My one friend dragged me here, and I think she’s gettin’ her face chewed over there,” you slurred, pouting, as a black-polished nail pointed across the party to another corner near the kitchen. Your good friend Lois, the only friend you had, really, had a guy in a jersey shoved up against the wall like she wore the pants in that makeout.
Clark snickered and rested his elbow on your shoulder, laughing softer when you tried to wrestle out from under it. “You’re friends with Lane? That can’t be right. Lois is wild– and she’s here all the time. I’ve never seen you before.”
You lifted your buzzing head and rolled your eyes, sipping your drink– nearly missing the straw, and chasing it with your tongue. “Yeah, well, she needed a resume booster and I needed to get out of the house.”
Clark grinned at your soft mushing words, and he jutted his chin out with a curiously furrowed brow. “How many of those have you had, shortie?”
With a disgruntled scoff, you deflected: “M’not short!”
“Right, you’re just tall among hobbits,” Clark said, and he sat against the windowsill beside you.
He took a second to look you over that night. You had on quite the mix: a dainty little silver necklace that would nod to self-discipline, but it was bracketed by a denim jacket filthy with button pins screaming of new wave and half-niches. A little square neck tank that revealed a freckle by your collarbone. Army green cargos that rose low enough to squeeze the chub of your hips and tummy. Your boots had to have a platform at the very least one inch tall, he deduced, because they were serious and you were still short. And to top it off, there was a plum rim around your lips but a soft, neutral center, which meant you had lipstick on at some point, and had drank it all off.
All of your small contradictions mixed with your very suspicious glances at him made his heart thump, and he knew then and there that he could see you sitting across from him at diners and nuzzling into his neck at theaters. He saw you kissing his cheek, he saw you crying over a test, he saw you waking up with tank top straps slipping from your rounded shoulders and yawning like a cat. He saw you with him, the little romantic…
“Y’know, you don’t look like a frat party kind of girl.”
“I do what I want,” you scrunched your nose, “Nothing means anything anyway.”
“Oh, do I detect a little nihilism, shortie?” Clark teased.
You swatted his shoulder and whined, “I am not short! And do you even know what that word means?”
“What, you think I’m an idiot?”
“Who coined nihilism?” you sneered, leaning down a bit to study his eyes, to see if they shifted.
Clark tipped his head back and craned up, giving you a knowing grin. “Nietzsche. But that one guy Jacobi was the first guy to bring it up, Nietzsche just made it big. There was that other guy who wrote about it in Fathers and Sons…”
“Turgenev,” you suddenly smiled, the drunken judgement slipping away. “You know your depressing Germans!”
“And Russians,” he hummed, smiling wider. Your eyes were big as the moon, and his heart felt like it could seize at any moment. He had to find a way to keep you. “What’s your name, smartypants?”
By the way you smiled, it was clear you preferred that nickname.
—͙͘͡★—
It was unusual, following that fateful encounter. Usually in college you get the couple who dances around each other for years, or you get the two horndogs who can’t even wait until the first date. For you and Clark, it just started… shapeless.
You were too drunk to walk home that night, and so was Lois, so instead of letting you crash with all the other drunkies on the ground floor of the AGR fraternity, Clark personally put you both up in his room. He slept in his buddy Oliver’s room next door, in case he heard any creepers try to catch you or Lois offguard… or if he heard any puking. Then, when he expected to find you embarrassed the following morning, you were simply precious. A perfect, whiny little picture of a hangover– asking him shamelessly for McDonald’s and hogging his mattress until the fog cleared. When he asked Lois if you’re usually so fond of quick friendships, she just raised an eyebrow and said, “Don’t be stupid.”
And you liked him from the start, too. Let’s get that straight.
You didn’t really want to, because the reputations of frat guys seemed to lean towards accuracy in most cases– but you couldn’t deny that they could be brutally attractive. When he stalked over with a Sharks cap on backwards, pretty little curls of chocolate peeking out at the nape of his neck, flexing those annoyingly toned arms under an AGR short-sleeve, you felt heat creep up the back of your neck. If you weren’t drunk, you might have been a bit more stuttery. But it was when he gazed up at you like a puppy whilst dropping all kinds of specialized knowledge on philosophy, the soft timbre of his tone cutting through the egregious EDM shaking the house, you felt the butterflies making your toes curl in your boots. He was sweet, non-threatening, and he smiled like a wolf. Something in your gut told you that Clark Kent was hiding a whole lot of beautiful behind that brotherhood insignia on his chest.
It took you two all but a week to fall disgustingly in love, because Clark fell first, and he was a self-starter.
He found you at the library the day after your drunken romp at his house and brought you a coffee (his brothers felt the urge to adopt you as their pet, by the way, when they found you rummaging like a racoon through the fridge and Clark sitting on the counter behind you, staring with hearts in his eyes… and Lois asleep at his side.) The day after that, he bribed Lois with five bucks to tell him you would be leaving the literature club at four. He walked you to your tutoring shift. The next, he almost breached the creepy line when he used the student directory at the tutoring center to find your dorm number… but you didn’t mind when he showed up with Chinese food and that God-given grin.
Then the week was up again, and there was another AGR party. You were formally invited that time; he snuck you up to the roof through a series of window-hoppings, and he kissed you when you were in the middle of a rant about women writing under male pseudonyms…
—͙͘͡★—
“And did you know that they didn’t even let George Eliot get buried in Westminster? All that judgement for being a female writer, and then the thing with her husband dying and finding a new lover, and the Church said no, so now she’s buried in Highgate and she’s never been moved! Such bullshit, because she literally redefined–”
Clark couldn’t take it. Your eyes did this special thing when you got angry over book stuff, this little flash– like someone was starting up a lighter, over and over again– and it made his knees weak. He lurched forward as if he had no control over the urge, and he pressed his lips to yours in a manner that didn’t match the preceding; gentle, like he might hurt you if he wasn’t careful. His big palms, a bit rough around the curves, cradled your cheeks, and he smiled when he felt the way you sucked in a little breath, like he made you lose your place in thought.
You didn’t even pull away, you only let your lips brush his as you asked, "What are you doing?”
“I think I’m in love with you,” he said, like an absolute idiot. But he wasn’t one. If any girl would take that kind of truth bomb well, it would be you. He knew that for sure.
You nearly knocked him on his back with how excitedly you kissed back, lips slotting against his eagerly and unorganized, head tilting from left to right, trying to find the right way, the right pace, the best feeling. He knew within a second of your sloppy mouth that you had probably never kissed anyone before and were dying to figure it out.
“Easy, easy!” he chuckled, passing his fingers through the strands of hair around your face. “Jeez, Einstein–”
“Shut up,” you giggled, pulling back. Your eyes were on fire in a whole new way. “You love me?”
“Probably,” he hummed. Definitely.
“I love you,” you countered.
“Yeah?”
“It’s probably too soon,” you reasoned, eyes drifting to his lips like they were a magnet.
“Yeah,” he breathed.
“Maybe we’re moving really fast,”
“Maybe.”
“What would I be?”
“My girlfriend.”
“And you’d be my boyfriend,”
“Hopefully.”
“And you want that?”
“Sure I do.”
“You don’t think I'm fat?”
“What?” Clark mumbled against your skin, because he couldn’t take it anymore. He could volley your questions with his lips on your neck. “Stupid question… I like how much you weigh, and if you lose a pound I’ll be pissed.”
“I’ve never had a– mmf– a boyfriend before,”
“That’s fine,” a kiss.
“I might get needy,”
“Mm, please do…” a nip.
Your eyes fluttered when his hands slipped into your back pockets, squeezing happily. “I have a lot of h… homework, all the time,”
“So do I.”
“I vote in every election,”
“Mhm, so do I,” a squeeze.
“I want to write books for a living, even if it means I’m poor,”
“I have a family farm back home… won’t ever have to worry…”
“I- I want to have kids… three kids and two dogs,”
“Farm’s definitely big enough… they better have your eyes, cutie.”
“Mmf–” It got hard to think when his teeth scraped behind your ear. “Are you even listening? You’re talking crazy,”
“Three kids, two dogs, active citizen of democracy, I’ll keep you fed and pretty and– mm, is this new perfume? – n’ you love me?”
“Oh, god… yes.”
“Good. Then we’re both crazy.”
—͙͘͡★—
So, it worked. Nothing you said turned him off or away. He practically knew what you were thinking before you said it. Clark didn’t have to learn to anticipate your every move, he just did. And you seemed to read his mind, although that wasn’t so innate as it was easy– it was all over his gorgeous, gorgeous face.
It was one of those things where you seemed to just fit like interlocking fingers. Every strength, every weakness, they melded into a trade of wills. Where he couldn’t, you could, and you shared life like a milkshake. One straw and a lot of kissing between sips.
Your first time was in your shared dorm room with Lois, when you remembered to lock the door but forgot to deadbolt it, and so she had the misfortune of opening it up and finding the two of your startled into fits of laughter, hiding from her grumblings about ‘boys’ and ‘privacy’:
—͙͘͡★—
You really had never felt anything like it before, and whatever bad porn you watched or had seen in artsy movies did not do it justice. Or, maybe it was just Clark.
Clark had you pressed into the mattress under two hundred and twenty pounds of soft, twisting muscle, his hands wrapped around your back and digging into your sides. You weren’t sure you’d ever be small enough to hold, but maybe you just needed a bigger guy all this time. Everything in proportion, right?
And god, he was a whiner. Clark rutted into you in what should’ve been little motions, but he was so genuinely large that any thrust made your legs shake. It was quite a struggle getting the condom on, actually, because he was so anxious to be sweet with you that his hands shook. You had to roll it on for him, and you couldn’t help but laugh at his blushing cheeks.
“Oh, god, baby,” he whimpered, nibbling at the joint of your neck and shoulder as the plush heat of your walls throbbed around him. “Oh my god, oh my god…”
You were a hot mess, burning up and completely eager. Every grind was met with a buck of your hips, your knees hitched high and your fingernails– purple this time– digging into the meat of his back. For a first timer, you had no reservations. You moaned into the dampening hair behind his ear, “Ho-oly shit, Clark…”
His hands rushed to touch every inch of your back and sides as he lifted himself up a bit and gazed down at you. His chain dangled against your lips and he watched as you took it in your mouth, passing it between tongue and teeth, batting those sinful lashes up at him. He scrunched his face up with a weak desire and tucked a hand under your knee, opening you up that last bit before driving into you with a force that managed to compromise speed and safety. Just as his hands kneaded your tummy, just as your hands twisted the sheets up, just as the two of you were begging and pleading and whining like little vocal twin flames, Lois unlocked the door and froze in the doorway.
You startled immediately and Clark flopped on top of you, his first concern to cover you from whoever it was. But a poor moment of judgement caused him to keep going, even when Lois burst into a flurry of curses.
“Jesus Christ, you guys– oh my god, somebody should’ve just told me, I wouldn’t have come home, couldn’t even put a fucking sock on the door like civilized people– oh my god, are you still going? Fuck, guys, ew! Privacy! Privacy in my own dorm room, that's all I ask! Boys in the room, there’ll never be boys in the room she said– oh, Christ, someone text me when it’s over!”
You devolved into helpless, shocked laughter as she babbled herself out and locked the door again, and Clark smiled into your chest as he made you punctuate every giggle with a moan. He couldn’t get enough of the way you sounded– it was breathy, like a whisper, until it hit harder and your pleasure reached a low register, whiny and hungry. He wanted to chase it out of you until you had no sound left. And he did– until your back arched, until the condom simply couldn’t take any more, until your eyes fluttered shut and wouldn’t open again, until your body twitched and slumped and every other word either sounded like “Clarkie” or “Love you.”
—͙͘͡★—
No matter what first came to pass, or whatever college threw at you, Clark didn’t budge. He knew it when he sought you out at that party. He knew you were the stroke of good luck he’d never find again. So, he kept you. Good choice, because he got a free tutor out of it- not that he needed it. The perks were really just making out in the library.
He met your parents after a couple months, and they gushed over him. The homegrown farmboy had the good sense to bring flowers, and your parents kept them on the sill for weeks until they wilted to nothing. You showed him your childhood room, and he nearly cried at a little list of birthday wishes you had pasted next to your vanity, to which you laughed and accused, “You sap.”
Then it was his turn; he took you home on break to the farm, and his parents nearly gave Martha’s ring over on the spot. You received five pie recipes free of charge. Jonathan Kent gave you a rigorous tour of the farm, and he even let you brush the horses– one of which sneezed on your nice blouse. Clark took you into town for a new one and you got to see all the places he grew up in, and then you nearly cried, and all he could do was kiss you and tell you just how pretty you looked with grass in your hair.
Clark bought you exactly one second-hand novel a week, and you wrote him little poems on scraps of paper and tucked them in every place possible, so that when he went through life, he’d find it unexpectedly, and remember that wherever he was, you were, too.
He went to the slam poetry night your club hosted. You were crowned kegger queen to his kegger king at a particularly rowdy party. His brothers threw you a birthday party and got you delightfully drunk, so you could enjoy a childhood birthday wish of stargazing at midnight next to a cute boy. Said cute boy had to usher his friends to bed just so he could consummate the day you were brought into the world properly (and it was better than the first, somehow.) When you woke up the next morning, hungover in his bed, you smiled to yourself. Your tank top strap slid down your arm. He pushed it up.
It didn’t matter on your shy or outgoing days, or when you felt dark or light. It didn’t matter when he had to put on the ‘brother’ face and do the stupid shit fraternities do. What mattered was that he protected your heart in a little box, and just when it felt like maybe you two wouldn't meet on some small level, you did. It was synchrony. It was easy.
And you know what? It didn’t have to make sense. You two were the odd couple. Soulmates exist like flames in the eyes of girls who float in the wind. He was yours, backwards hat and all, and there was nothing easier than that.
contains: angst with a happy ending. later seasons gang– ollie, jimmy, lois, chloe, pete, lexana mention. chloe is jealous, clark is protective and clingy, reader is sensitive. mentions of bars/alcohol. arguing, pet names, unresolved issues. *no use of y/n
a/n: this broke me to write bc i love my chloe i would never yell at her but it was actually a lot of fun to write at the same time… i hope this is to your liking, anon :) also i barely proofread this one so just be nice
—————————— ˚₊‧꒰ა❤︎໒꒱ ‧₊——————————
It was customary for Clark to have his hands on you at all times, especially in situations where there were the most eyes to see. You had made peace with it oh so (un)begrudgingly, and your friends had, too, even when it was a bit excessive. Well, most of them had.
It was no one’s fault. Clark was just an extraordinarily affectionate guy. From the moment he laid eyes on you, he was unstoppable; a hand on your back, his mouth on your temple, his nose nudging your jaw, his arms looping you in like a net. He stuck to you like you were made of honey. There wasn’t much to be complained about there, because it felt good to be loved. Even the part of you that felt embarrassed when he was over the top sort of loved the attention… to have a guy as handsome as Clark hanging off you, incapable of leaving you be, following your trail like you had bacon in your pocket? Who wouldn’t want people to see that? Who wouldn’t want to be the object of that kind of affection?
It was coming up on a year of being loved and loving. You practically had to swat Clark off of a proposal, insisting that you move in first, that it shouldn’t be rushed, but it was hard to resist the pull. He frequently joked that you had the opposite of the Medusa effect, he said, meaning that to look away from you even for a second would kill him. He settled to keep the ring he bought away for a while longer, but in exchange, you went everywhere with him and you lived life conjoined at the hip. It was a happy compromise, but not everyone saw it that way.
Your friends were Clark’s friends, and for the most part, they found you two sweet. Pete was always easy when it came to being happy for his buddy, and Lois could roll her eyes however much she wished, but she admired his passion for you. Oliver offered nothing but brotherly claps on the back that made you scoff, and Jimmy was humorously jealous that Clark had managed to get his smartest friend to love him while Jimmy couldn’t even get a date. Lana and Lex cooed over you frequently, having the hindsight of their own love to keep them objective. But Chloe struggled to stomach it sometimes, and it was harder to hide the longer you two stayed together.
Chloe had always been sweet, but you knew about her past feelings for Smallville’s golden boy. She had known Clark long before you– you were only as old as his life at the Daily Planet. Her claim was staked when they were middle schoolers, and the fire of her love was stoked over and over again for years. Both she and Clark led each other on in the past, and even while growing up and dating other guys, Chloe harbored a tiny bit of uncontrollable passion for her best friend. She couldn’t seem to shake it, no matter how much she pushed it down, and seeing him drool over you in the way she wished he would for her for so long was starting to eat at her. It wasn’t healthy or fair, and she knew that, but she couldn’t stop the jealousy. It was her fatal flaw.
Take tonight, for example. It was happy hour at the bar across the street from the Planet, and Oliver was buying with the bonus he wrangled out of a merger deal earlier in the day. Around a high top, you stood with Clark curled around your back like a clam, chin tucked over your shoulder, in a circle with Oliver, Lois, Jimmy, Chloe, and Pete. As you nursed a beer, you kibitzed with Pete over some story from his recent roadie adventures. You felt Clark’s fingers fiddling with the buttons on your cardigan, tracing shapes against the soft pudge of your tummy through your top. Your stomach fluttered, but you learned to listen to people even with his hands on you. He was even distracted in conversation with Lois, and you could feel the rumble of his soft, deep laugh between your shoulder blades. Two intertwined vines, just like always. But you could feel eyes on you– a familiar feeling, a nerve-wracking one. You glanced beside Pete to see Chloe sipping her beer and staring at Clark’s hands around your body, and you flushed a bit. You finished off your last swing and patted his arm.
“I’m gonna go grab another. Who wants more? Should I get a round?”
Clark hummed softly and kissed your cheek, and then seemingly got dragged in, giving you three in a row– and then one of your lips. “I’ll go for you, bunny, you want the same thing?”
You wiped your mouth with a sheepish hand and nodded. “Seriously, I can–”
“It’s fine, baby, I’ll get you a fresh one. I could use another. Guys?”
You watched him poll the table, and he didn’t step away until he kissed you one more time. Your hands stayed intertwined until he was too far to hold on, and he gave you one of those quiet winks that promised he’d hurry back before turning to look at where he was going. You shifted back to the table and smiled loopily, grabbing up a few empty bottles. “I’ll toss these. Be right back.”
The trash was only a few feet away, which would have been convenient if all was in order. But as you stepped off to throw away the empties, you heard something over the thumping of the bar music and drunken voices bouncing off the walls.
Back at the table, a familiar feminine voice complained: “This doesn’t bother you guys? Seriously? He’s all over her.”
“They’re in love, Chlo, it’s sweet. You know how much Clark adores her,” a male voice interjected. Low, smooth. Oliver.
“I mean, come on, though. Her? He acts like he’s possessed or something. She must be a witch, honestly. I don’t see how he could be so enamored with her like he is. She’s not all that.”
“Come on, Chloe, don’t be an asshole.” Snippy. Lois.
“I’m not! I’m just being honest. It beats me…”
When you stepped back to the table, it was clear on your face that they hadn’t been quiet enough. You were pale under the skin and your eyes didn’t lift to look at them. Not even when Clark came back holding a fresh round. He passed you a new beer and rubbed your hip, tugging you into his side and kissing your head. “Here, bunny girl. Just how you like. I had them put the lime in for you.”
Your stomach churned and you took the bottle, and you stared into the condensation running down the amber glass. You saw the reflection of your face in the glimmer, and in the back of your head you heard her again: She must be a witch, honestly. I don’t see how he could be so enamored with her like he is. She’s not all that.
Chloe’s eyes were wide, darting around the table with guilt. The guys immediately shut their mouths with beer, but Lois stood there with her arms crossed, giving Chloe a harsh glare. Leave it to the cousin to reprimand her.
“Baby? You okay?”
You blinked and looked up at Clark, and in a split moment of impulse, you gently pulled yourself free from his grasp. His face fell, and as he moved to drag you back, you muttered, “Just… cool it, Clark, please.”
Clark stared down at you like you had just shot him in the chest. Cool it? Don't touch? Since when? He frowned deep, the little lines of his forehead wrinkling to match, and your heart sank.
“What’s the matter?” he inquired, brushing some hair back from your face. “Do you feel sick or something?”
“I’m fine. I just… the… the PDA is a little much for me tonight,” you whispered, chewing on your nail. You looked back down at your beer, and Clark felt the air shift in the bar.
“What do you mean? You don’t like it? I thought you liked it.”
“I– it– it’s not that, Clark, I just…”
Around the table, his friends stood and gawked at him as if they knew something he didn’t. They must have, because nobody was talking, and this was notoriously a group of people who never shut the fuck up. He furrowed his brow and crossed his arms, scanning over Oliver’s avoidant eyes and Lois’ overt glances at her cousin. After a moment of silence, he cut through the music with a sharp, “What happened?”
Jimmy shook his head and shrugged. “What? Nothing. Nothing happened. Everything is great. This beer is great. Thanks, man.”
Your cheeks flushed with embarrassment. You had thought about this a million times– about the possibility of talking to Chloe, or at least bringing it to Clark’s attention how she made you feel. You didn’t want to step on toes or hurt anyone’s feelings. You knew what it was like to be passed over for another girl, and now that you were the other girl, you had a lot more sympathy than she probably knew; but you also loved Clark, and you didn’t want to offend him. It wasn’t your place to make a conflict out of a friendship that came before you. But it was these moments, these little passing comments about how it seemed wrong or unbelievable Clark could love you this much that made everything harder. You already had the voice in your head trying to convince you that it was true. You spent more time reminding yourself that he adored you for real than anyone could possibly imagine, and now you knew that other people were thinking it and saying it behind your back. Your friends.
You cleared your throat and patted his arm. “I just feel a little sick, um… I’m gonna get some fresh air, okay? I’ll be right back, Clarkie.”
Clark didn’t stop you. In fact, he stood right in his place and watched you go with a shocked, slacked jaw. He tracked your soft frame as it slipped out the front door of the bar, and when it shut behind you, his heart twinged with discomfort. You being far felt like losing a limb.
Chloe scratched her head, because everyone was staring at her now. She saw frustration and embarrassment like a wall before her. She swallowed thickly and traced a wet ring on the table.
Clark followed the visual trail and said, “Chloe?”
“Hm?”
“What happened?”
Chloe glanced up to see her best friend watching her with suspicion. It made her lungs squeeze. His big, blue eyes seemed so disappointed, and she hated that look. It was never the one she wanted. But she couldn’t help but admire him for it. She hated how much she looked up to him sometimes, because it made her quick to justify his feelings, even if they were directed at her. Any attention was good attention if it came from Clark, in her book.
“Nothing happened.”
“Somebody upset her,” Clark crossed his arms, his gaze darkening. “And one of you is going to tell me what happened.”
“Clark–”
“Tell me,” he ordered, and just about every spine around the tabletop stiffened.
Chloe flushed and mumbled, “It wasn’t anything bad, seriously, she just… I made a joke about you two and I think she heard it. It was stupid.”
Clark cocked his head, expressionless in a way that nobody liked, not one bit. “What did you say?”
“I… it… it was just, like, a joke about you. How you’re so obsessed with her. I said something about her being a witch or something, because how else would you be so into her, or whatever. Like I said, it was stupid–”
“You said that? That came out of your mouth? Are you serious, Chloe?”
“I didn’t mean for her to hear me, Clark, it was just a–”
“And you guys let her say something like that?” Clark surveyed his friends, and watched each of them shrug and look down, avoiding his judgement. “Why would you even let that happen? Why would you say that?”
“I mean, you’ve gotta admit that you are all over her. Like, all the time. It gets obnoxious after a while,” Chloe blurted, clenching her beer bottle in apprehension.
Clark paused and clenched his palms. Something hot and sick rushed over him, and the struggle to keep his calm was one of the worst he’d ever fought. Worse than kryptonite. Worse than anything. He thought of you standing outside on the sidewalk, cold and alone, mortified at having overheard something so ridiculous, something that suggested for even a second that his love for you was anything less than real. He thought of how many nights he kissed you quietly, shushed your worries about his intentions, his emotions. He thought of how beautiful you looked when you let go of the insecurity and believed him. He thought of how you loved him and all his overbearing touches, and he raised an accusatory eyebrow at the blonde across the way, who looked as though she already knew where this was going.
“She’s my girlfriend. I think I’m well within my rights to touch her when I want.”
“I’m not telling you to stop, I was just joking about how it’s a little excessive sometimes, Clark.”
“And you get to make that judgement? I’m happy, Chloe. She makes me happy. Does everybody have a problem with how I act around my own girlfriend?”
As Clark glanced around the table, he was met with a variety of expressions– shrugs, shaking heads, sorry eyes– and his jaw clenched harder.
“Nobody has a problem with it, Clark,” Lois added, trying to soften the blow, “and Chloe said it was a stupid joke. No need to get angry.”
“It’s a little late for that, Lois,” Clark scoffed, running a hand down his face. “You know what? I can’t believe you. All of you, actually, that you would let her get away with saying something so insensitive. All she has ever done is be kind to you. Come out to your bar nights, your parties, run your articles, bake for you, bring you coffees. That girl bends over backwards to be a good friend, and more than that, to be a part of our lives. She loves you guys! She looks up to us and the work we do. She loves me. She’s the most precious thing I have, and this is how you treat her? You alienate her the second I’m not around to hear it, like a bunch of cowards, is that how you act without me?”
Chloe paled. “I think you’re taking this a little far!”
“Oh, I’m taking it too far? Christ, Chloe, that’s rich coming from you! You called her a witch!”
“Yeah, well, at least I didn’t call her a bitch!”
It was common for Chloe to lose her temper, but the second the words fell from her lips, everybody seemed to stop breathing. Chloe winced at her own mistake, and Clark seethed.
You were outside in the cold, and all he wanted was you. Even more than he wanted to throw this sticky tabletop into the wall. So, he took a deep breath, and then grabbed his coat, your coat, and your purse off the stool before him.
“Are you seriously leaving?”
“You know, Chloe, it’s the weirdest thing. I feel this crazy urge to go out and kiss my girlfriend. Maybe she put a spell on me,” he deadpanned.
“Clark,” Chloe groaned.
“No, Chlo. You crossed a line.” Clark walked around the table, and then he paused to point at her. His voice was so soft that it made her shiver. “Don’t you ever do this again. Don’t joke, tease, talk about her again. If I find out you did, or that any of the rest of you allowed it or do it yourselves, you’ll be lucky if I leave you with functioning tongues.” After seeing her remorseful eyes flicker over his face, Clark added, “She is the love of my life. She deserves more respect from you, and so do I. I expect you to apologize and mean it, but not tonight. I think you’ve done enough damage for one day. Got it?”
Chloe just kept her mouth shut and nodded, feeling her chest tighten. The regret coursing through her veins was enough to make anybody feel nauseous, and it only grew more potent as Clark walked out of the bar, leaving the group to their own devices.
Lois sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose. “One of these days you’re going to have to deal with your shit, Chloe.”
“Oh, so this is all my fault now?”
Pete huffed and grabbed his jacket. “No. It’s our fault for letting you keep it up.”
Chloe’s cheeks deepened to a mortified rose as her best friends gathered their things and threw down cash to cover the tab. “You’re seriously mad at me? He’s the one who blew up on us!”
“Goodnight, Chlo,” Oliver urged, and the rest followed him as the first to leave. Chloe stood at the table, tracing the rim of her beer bottle with a shaky finger and wishing she never said a word.
Outside on the sidewalk, Clark tugged your jacket over you and cradled your face. His hands were so warm. He was always hot as a heater. You leaned into the touch, and he pressed sweet little kisses all across the plane of your forehead.
“How about I take you out somewhere, just you and me, huh? Get you a better drink? Something sweet?”
“Yeah,” you nodded, closing your eyes. “Please. Just you.”
“Just me, baby,” he promised, and he coaxed his fingers through your hair. Clark studied the cherubic curve of your cheeks and the pout in your lips, and every inch of him seemed to buzz with love. “I’m so sorry they hurt your feelings. If it helps, I yelled. And I never yell.”
You left out a soft chuckle and gazed up into his eyes, reached out to brush a stray lock from his lashes. “You yelled? My mild-mannered reporter yelled?”
Clark flashed a sharp smile and kissed your nose. “Mhm. Like a real adult.”
“I wish I had been there.”
“No you don’t. You hate confrontation.”
You giggled a bit, blushing. “I do. You know me too well.”
“I know you because I love you,” he murmured.
You bumped your nose against his, and he leaned over you like a blanket, pressing you against the side of the building. The cold night chill had nothing on him. He smooched your cheek, and then your eyes, and then your mouth, one, two, three times. Your hands curled in his button down and you smiled, all echoes of earlier escaping into the night. Nothing mattered– not words, not opinions– when Clark touched you. You loved the PDA and you loved him. Nothing felt better, safer, more right than him.
“Mm,” you hummed against his lips, “if I was a witch, I would be a good one, if I got you to want me this much.”
Clark grinned and nipped your bottom lip. “If you were a witch, you wouldn’t even need a spell. I’d love you in every lifetime, no matter who you were.”
Your body melted like mush for him, and he scooped you up into a pressing hug, lifting you off the ground. You laughed and wrapped your legs around his hips, and Clark started off down the sidewalk holding you like a monkey. You peppered his cheeks with kisses. “Thank you for standing up for me.”
“Pssh,” he teased, scrunching his nose, “please. I’d do it again in a heartbeat.”
“I love you so, so much, Clarkie,” you pledged. “I always will.”
Clark peered up at you– your shining eyes, all that hair, all that beauty contained inside one perfect person– and he squeezed your hip under his grasp. “I love you too, bunny girl. Now let me buy you a real drink.”
content: angst, grief, hurt/comfort, fake character death.
notes: thank you for the support on the little blurbs i've posted! some people wanted a post-requiem part for my childhood best friends hc so here it is! tried to proofread this as much as possible but im sure there's... things. (if you saw me post this yesterday,,, no you didn't shhh).
intro: you have spent twenty eight years mourning your childhood best friend and the man you were in love with. you meet a way too familiar stranger at his grave.
continuation of THIS set of headcanons.
♫ My Immortal - Evanescence | ♫ Roadsick - More Than a Thousand
The cemetery gate creaks as you push it open, the sound too familiar, swallowed by the quiet that lives beyond it. It hasn’t changed much since the day of the funeral. Same crooked iron gate. Same gravel path that crunches under your shoes. Same tired oak tree leaning just a little too far over the rows of graves, branches stretched low like it’s trying to listen in on every whispered goodbye. Same uneven dip near the left side, where you used to stumble as a kid when you and Leon would dare each other to run through the place at dusk.
You walk the path without thinking, your body knowing the way even when your mind drifts somewhere far away. Past the older, mossy graves. Past the newer ones, with flowers still fresh enough to smell. Past the names you never learned and the ones you wish you could forget.
The headstone in front of you still feels surreal. No body beneath the dirt, just a name and a date. Just a place for grief to sit and pretend it belongs somewhere.
Leon Scott Kennedy
1977 – 1998.
You kneel, brushing away a thin layer of leaves before setting the flowers in your hands carefully on the marble. The late afternoon November air is crisp and it’s getting cold, but you haven’t had the chance to come here the past days, so you stay and talk. It felt stupid the first times you visited, the way your words wouldn’t be able to stop from escaping your mouth, but you had never imagined there would come a day where you could not talk to your best friend about your day. But silence felt worse. It became a habit.
“Bad news is, I overslept today. Good news is, I sold out my strawberry cake again.” You say cheerfully. “You would’ve liked that one. It tastes just like the sweet strawberries from your mother’s garden.”
For a moment, you can almost see it. The two of you sitting on the back steps of his adoptive family’s home, juice staining your fingers, the sun too warm, the world simple and happy.
You sit there for a long time, you always do that when you haven’t been able to visit for a while, talking about everything. How the café has been so busy lately due to the festival. The town filled with people from all parts of the world. The old, rotten tree at the edge of the field that got cut down, the one you fell from. “Remember?” Your throat tightens. Of course he doesn’t remember. He’s dead.
Gravel crunches behind you and you freeze. The cemetery doesn’t get visitors this late and especially not in the Kennedy’s lot.
“Sorry,” a voice says. Low and careful. Familiar in a way that makes something deep in your chest ache before you even understand why. “Didn’t mean to interrupt.”
“It’s okay.” You stand slowly, wiping your hands on your coat, and finally turn to see a stranger. Light brown hair with some stray greys. The lines on his face make you think he’s around your age. Eyes… Your breath catches. No, that’s impossible.
“I’ll go,” he says quickly and turns to walk away, like he regrets saying anything at all, “didn’t realize someone was here.”
You stare at him and your heart starts pounding like it’s trying to break out of your rib cage.
“You-” your voice falters. “Do I know you?”
He freezes, shoulders tight under his leather jacket, and a heavy silence hangs between the both of you. He takes a big breath and tries to relax, exhaling slowly. He doesn’t know what to do, he thinks he should have never come back. You have gone through enough and this was selfish from him. He didn’t expect to meet you here, either. Yet he looks back, then turns around.
“…Have we met before?” you ask, your voice quieter now. You take a step closer, then another, despite unease crawling under your skin. God, those eyes.
Wind rustles the leaves above you, dragging the moment out until it feels unbearable.
“Say something,” you demand, and he exhales shakily.
“…Yeah.”
Your stomach drops so suddenly it makes you dizzy, there is a ringing in your ear and the world stops.
No.
No, no, no-
“That’s not funny,” you say, your voice trembling now. “Whatever this is, whoever you are, it’s not funny.”
Something in his expression shifts. The softness doesn’t disappear but it steadies, grounds itself. Like he realizes he’s standing on the edge of something fragile, something that could shatter if he takes the wrong step.
“I know it’s not,” he says quietly.
Your hands curl into fists at your sides. “Then what is this? Some kind of sick joke? You think you can just come here and, what, pretend?” Your voice rises as tears start to pool at the corners of your eyes. “You don’t get to stand there and look like him and-”
“You fell off that tree,” he says suddenly, cutting you mid sentence.
“…What?” You stutter.
“That summer,” he continues, voice low, steady, like he’s choosing every word with care. “At the edge of the field. The branch cracked under you. You tried to pretend it didn’t hurt.”
“That’s-” your voice shakes, your vision blurry, and you take a step back. “People know that story.”
“You cried about ruining summer,” he adds quietly. “So I came over the next day and I told you-” his voice falters, just slightly. “I told you not to cry because we’d eat tons of ice cream instead.”
“…Stop,” you whisper, but your voice doesn’t have any strength behind it. He takes a small step closer but you can’t look at him. Tears start rolling down your face when you notice his hands, full of scars.
“You used to cheat in hide and seek,” he says, softer now. “In the cornfields. You’d move spots when you thought I was getting too close.”
A broken sound escapes your throat.
“I knew every time,” he adds, a faint, sad smile across his face and you hear him sniffle. “I just never said anything because you looked so proud when I couldn’t find you.”
“Stop it,” you choke, tears spilling over before you can stop them. “Stop-”
“You hated high school,” he continues, “and you complained about the arcade machine being broken every time I scored higher than you.”
“STOP!” you scream and slap his face, unable to contain the anger. He doesn’t make a sound, doesn’t flinch. “You don’t get to… you don’t get to know that. You don’t get to say those things like they’re yours!”
But they are his, and you know it. You can’t stop the tears. You try to wipe them away with your sleeve as you pace around, but they won’t stop.
“It’s been twenty eight years, Leon.” Your voice is filled with anger and frustration.
“I know.”
“Do you?!” you bark back. “And do you know what that feels like? Do you know what it’s like to bury someone who you can’t even see for the last time? To stand in front of this… this stone and pretend it’s enough?” You face him now, snarling. “You don’t even know how hard it was for me. What it did to me. What it took from me.”
He doesn’t look away, eyes soft and glossy. His hand moves slowly, carefully, and from inside his coat he pulls out an envelope. Old and worn, edges yellowed with time, his old apartment address in your handwriting. Every feeling of yours immortalized on the pages inside of it.
“I know,” he whispers, voice unsteady now, and clears his throat, “if only… shit.”
“Fucking hell, Leon. You knew, and you let me mourn you for twenty eight years.” You try to sound angry, but the way he’s holding that letter like it’s the only thing keeping him alive, brows furrowed and the tears threatening to fall from his eyes make it impossible. He looks broken. Just like you are.
“I couldn’t come back. I couldn’t do anything about it,” his voice hoarse, “they made me disappear, promised me they would keep this place- everyone in my life safe. I couldn’t risk it. If I could keep you safe from the horrors that happen out there…” he stumbles on his words a little bit. “I only read your letter after that. I wanted you to live.”
“I didn’t live,” you whisper. He flinches like you’ve struck him. “I survived. There’s a difference.”
Rain starts to fall. Soft at first, barely there, a mist that settles into your hair, your clothes, the space between you. You take a good look at him, at the exhaustion carved into his face, the weight he carries on his shoulders, the small scars on his face that you can’t recognize from childhood.
“I thought you’d move on,” he admits, the words barely audible under the growing rain, so much he wants to say yet he doesn’t know if he’s allowed to. “I thought… you deserved to move on. Find someone normal, someone who could actually be there.”
“Yeah,” you chuckle softly, “that worked out great.”
All of your fight is gone as your chest tightens. All these years, and he still feels the same. He still looks like a sad puppy when he is sad. You reach for his face with your hand, palm cupping his cheek, and he closes his eyes and leans into the touch. To be honest, you thought you were having a dream or hallucinating, but the warmth of his skin against yours grounds you.
“I tried,” you add, quieter now. “At first, I tried to go back to school. Tried to be… anything other than the person who lost you.” You shake your head slightly. “Didn’t work. Everything felt wrong. Empty.”
The rain picks up, heavier now, soaking through your clothes, but neither of you moves.
“I went back home,” you continue. “Everyone was kind. Too kind. Like I was made of glass.” A faint, bitter smile tugs at your lips. “Maybe I was.”
Leon watches you speak, cheek still pressed against the palm of your hand. Baby blue eyes staring into your soul like he’s looking for every single time you hurt because of him. To memorize it and make it up to you somehow. Every trace of anger or pain in you is mostly gone now, the feelings replaced with softness. Leon Kennedy, you’re impossible, you think. You could never stay mad at him, and he has come back to you after nearly three decades.
“I opened the café,” you say. “Remember how we used to talk about that? When we were kids, I baked my first cookies and you said I’d have a place with the best desserts in town and you’d eat everything before I could even sell it.”
A soft laugh escapes his lips, fragile and wet with tears. “Yeah… I remember.”
“I did it,” you say softly. “Opened it years ago.”
“I know,” he says.
You blink.
“…What?”
“There are flowers at the door every morning, right? That was me.”
“No,” you whisper, shaking your head. “No, that’s not- that’s not possible. That’s every day, Leon. Every single day for…”
“Twenty eight years.” He looks unsure, scanning your face for a reaction. “I remember you loved my mother’s garden, you said you’d like a room full of different flowers, so I made sure you had that every morning.”
“Why?” You caress his cheek with your thumb, over a scar that seems like it must have hurt.
“Because I have loved you all this time. All my life.” He says bluntly, eyes fixed on yours.
“…You never said anything.”
“I was scared, didn’t want to lose you if I got it wrong.” He admits, a faint, broken smile touches his lips. “Guess I managed that anyway.”
“You idiot.” You whisper.
“Yeah.” He answers softly, exhaling a breath he was holding, and places a gentle kiss to the palm of your hand on his cheek.
For a moment, neither of you moves. The rain, the years, the distance, the pain… all of it hangs in between you.
“You’re going to get sick,” you mutter, quieter now.
A small breath of laughter leaves him. “So are you.”
You hesitate just for a second, and then-
“…Come home with me,” you say. “You can shower, dry off, eat something. We’re not done talking.”
“No,” he says gently, “we are not.”
You pull your hand away from his face slowly, the absence of contact immediately noticeable. It feels cold for half a second, until his own hand slips into yours.
Summary: Dean has never met a problem he couldn’t charm his way out of or a woman he couldn’t leave completely satisfied. So when he overhears a football player publicly blame you for his own failures in bed, Dean does the only logical thing: he shows up at your doorstep with a duffel bag full of toys and a mission
Warnings: 18+ content
The crisp March wind whips across the Briar University quad, but Dean hardly feels the chill. He’s running on four hours of sleep, a triple-shot espresso, and the lingering high of a weekend well spent.
“I’m just saying,” Garrett says, adjusting the strap of his duffel bag over his shoulder. “If Coach makes us bag skate again tomorrow, I’m staging a full-team mutiny. I’m not doing it.”
Logan snorts. “You love bag skates.”
“I tolerate bag skates,” Garrett corrects him. “There’s a massive difference.”
“You’re both whining,” Tucker chimes in, his steady southern drawl a stark contrast to Garrett’s rapid-fire complaining. “Just put your heads down and skate.”
Dean grins, walking backward for a few steps so he can face his teammates. “Tuck’s right. It’s all about pacing, boys. Stamina. You can’t blow all your energy in the first period. You have to finesse it. Read the ice. Just like with a woman.”
Beau, walking beside Dean, rolls his eyes and shoves Dean’s shoulder. “Jesus, Di Laurentis. Does everything come back to your sex life?”
“When it’s as spectacular as mine?” Dean winks. “Yeah. It does.”
He isn’t trying to be an arrogant prick. It’s just the truth. Dean loves women. He loves the way they look, the way they smell, the way they sound when he’s doing things right. He grew up surrounded by affection — two powerhouse attorney parents who actually love each other, a sprawling maternal family with a business empire, and a childhood free of the usual rich-kid neuroses. He knows how lucky he is. And he believes in sharing the wealth. Specifically, by ensuring that any woman lucky enough to end up in his bed leaves it thoroughly, exhaustingly satisfied.
“Who was it this weekend?” Logan asks, kicking a stray pebble across the pavement. “Wait, don’t tell me. The blonde from the Gamma Gamma party?”
“Her name is Tori,” Dean says easily. “And she’s a delight. Highly recommend her taste in music. Terrible taste in breakfast food, though. Who orders egg whites and no bacon? It’s a crime against mornings.”
“You bought her breakfast?” Beau asks, raising an eyebrow.
“I always buy them breakfast.” Dean turns back around, matching his stride to the rest of the guys. “It’s called manners, Beau. You should try it sometime. Instead of just throwing a football at people.”
“I’m a quarterback,” Beau says defensively. “Throwing a football is literally my job description.”
“Yeah, well, my job description is making sure everyone leaves happy.”
They turn the corner near the student union. The quad is packed with bodies hurrying between afternoon classes, a sea of Briar U hoodies and overpriced coffee cups.
Up ahead, leaning against the low brick wall near the fountain, are two guys wearing Briar football jackets.
Beau groans under his breath. “Oh, great. It’s McMahon.”
“Who?” Tucker asks.
“Wide receiver,” Beau mutters. “Hands made of stone, ego the size of Rhode Island. Don’t look at him, or he’ll start complaining to me about his target share.”
Dean has no interest in football politics, so he keeps his eyes straight ahead. They’re about to walk past the two guys when McMahon’s voice carries over the noise of the quad. It’s loud. Too loud. The kind of loud a guy uses when he wants everyone around him to know he’s talking.
“I had to dump her, man,” McMahon is saying to his buddy, a sneer clear in his voice. “Total waste of my time.”
“Yeah?” The other guy asks.
“Oh, absolutely. I’m telling you, she’s a frigid bitch.”
Dean slows his steps. Next to him, Garrett stiffens.
McMahon laughs, a harsh, grating sound. “I put in the work, you know? But nothing. Swear to God, she just laid there. Something must genuinely be wrong with her. She can never cum.”
Dean stops walking completely.
Beau takes two more steps before realizing Dean isn’t beside him. He turns around. “Dean. Come on. Don’t.”
“Did you hear what he just said?” Dean asks, his voice dropping low. All the playful ease from a moment ago evaporates.
“I heard it,” Logan says, his expression tightening. “The guy’s a class-A douchebag. Let’s keep moving.”
“He just announced to half the quad that he couldn’t get a girl off,” Dean says, staring at the back of McMahon’s head. “And he blamed her.”
“Dean,” Tucker says, stepping into Dean’s line of sight. “Not our circus. Not our monkeys.”
“It is an insult to womankind,” Dean says. He isn’t joking. His chest actually feels tight with genuine indignation. “A crime. A travesty.”
“It’s a wide receiver with a fragile ego,” Beau says, grabbing Dean’s elbow. “Leave it alone.”
Dean shrugs off Beau’s hand. He isn’t going to start a brawl in the middle of the quad, he has no interest in getting suspended for the next five games. But the sheer audacity of it is ringing in his ears.
Something must genuinely be wrong with her.
No. Dean shakes his head. No, there is nothing wrong with you. He doesn’t even know who you are. He doesn’t know your face, or your laugh, or the way you look when you’re a mess in the sheets. But he knows, with absolute, unwavering certainty, that McMahon is an idiot.
“There’s no such thing as a frigid woman,” Dean says, his voice carrying just enough that McMahon’s conversation pauses. “Just lazy, incompetent guys who don’t know where the clit is.”
Silence drops over their immediate vicinity.
Garrett scrubs a hand over his face. “Jesus Christ.”
McMahon turns around, his face flushing dull red. He spots Beau first, then his eyes slide to Dean. “You got something to say, Di Laurentis?”
Dean slides his hands into the pockets of his jeans, rocking back on his heels. He gives McMahon a lazy, condescending smile. “Just offering some unsolicited biological facts, McMahon. Sounds like you need a tutor. Maybe a diagram.”
McMahon steps away from the brick wall, puffing his chest out. “Are you calling me incompetent?”
“I think you just called yourself incompetent, man,” Dean says smoothly. “Loudly. In public. I’m just agreeing with you.”
“I don’t need to know her,” Dean counters, his tone perfectly even. “I know anatomy. I know effort. If a girl doesn’t get off, it’s because you didn’t pay attention. You rushed it. You fumbled the play. Isn’t that what you guys call it? Fumbling?”
Beau winces. “Dean.”
McMahon takes a step forward, his fists clenching. “You think you’re so fucking funny.”
“I think I’m highly effective,” Dean corrects him. “And I think you should keep your bedroom failures to yourself instead of dragging a girl’s name through the mud because your fragile masculinity can’t handle the fact that you suck in bed.”
For a second, it looks like McMahon is going to swing. Dean shifts his weight, perfectly ready to slip the punch and drop the guy. He’s not a fighter by nature, but he’s a hockey player. It comes with the territory.
But Tucker steps in, his frame easily blocking McMahon’s path. “I think that’s about enough conversation for one afternoon,” Tucker says calmly. His tone is polite, but his eyes are flat.
McMahon glares at Tucker, then at Dean. He points a finger. “Watch your mouth, Di Laurentis.”
“Watch your form, McMahon,” Dean shoots back. “Maybe use two fingers next time. Or, God forbid, your tongue.”
Logan chokes on a laugh, quickly disguising it as a cough.
McMahon spits on the ground, turns, and shoves his way through the crowd, his buddy trailing awkwardly behind him.
Dean watches them go, his jaw tight.
“Well,” Garrett says after a moment. “That was diplomatic.”
“I hate guys like that,” Dean mutters, running a hand through his hair. “I really, genuinely hate them.”
“We know,” Beau sighs, clapping Dean on the back. “You’re the caped crusader of the female orgasm. We’re all very proud to know you. Can we go get food now? I’m starving.”
They resume their walk toward the dining hall, the tension slowly bleeding out of the group as Garrett and Logan pick up their argument about practice drills right where they left off.
But Dean is quiet. He tunes out the banter, his mind replaying McMahon’s harsh, dismissive words.
It’s just sloppy. It’s pathetic. Dean loves women too much to stand the thought of one being treated like a chore, or worse, a lost cause. Sex isn’t a race. It isn’t just about friction. It’s about connection, observation, communication. It’s about worshipping a body until it unravels for you.
He doesn’t know who you are. He doesn’t know what you’re doing right now. Maybe you’re sitting in a lecture, feeling insecure because some meathead wide receiver told you you were broken. Maybe you’re in your dorm room, crying over a guy who couldn’t even be bothered to figure out what you like.
Dean looks up at the crisp blue sky, mentally sending a prayer up to the universe.
“Dear Universe, please watch over this woman’s sadly neglected clitoris,” he thinks solemnly. “May it one day find someone who actually knows what they’re doing. Amen.”
He kicks a stray leaf on the sidewalk. It is a damn tragedy, that’s what it is. A tragedy that needs rectifying.
“Hey, Beau,” Dean says suddenly, interrupting whatever Tucker was saying.
Beau glances over. “Yeah?”
“Who did McMahon just break up with?”
Beau frowns, his steps slowing. “What? Why?”
“Just answer the question.”
“I don’t know, man. He dates around. I try not to keep track of his personal life. Why?” Beau squints at him. “Wait. No. Whatever you’re thinking, stop.”
“I’m not thinking anything,” Dean lies smoothly.
“You are. You have that look on your face.” Logan points a finger at him. “The ‘Dean is about to do something stupid’ look.”
“I resent that,” Dean says. “I don’t do stupid things.”
“You bought a jet ski on eBay at three in the morning last week,” Garrett points out.
“It was a steal, G. An absolute steal. You don’t understand economics.” Dean waves a hand dismissively. “Seriously, Beau. Does anyone know who she is?”
“Why do you care?” Tucker asks, amused.
“Because it’s an injustice,” Dean states flatly. “It is a cosmic wrong that needs to be righted. She’s probably out there right now, thinking she’s the problem, when the reality is she was just subjected to the sloppy, fumbling hands of a guy who treats sex like a two-minute drill.”
Beau groans, burying his face in his hands. “You’re not going to track this girl down, Dean.”
“I am absolutely going to track her down.”
“And do what?” Logan asks, laughing in disbelief.
Dean looks at his friends, entirely serious. “And give her the orgasm she’s been so cruelly denied. It’s my civic duty.”
“You’re insane,” Garrett says, though he’s grinning. “You are actually insane.”
“I’m a humanitarian,” Dean corrects him. “I’m giving back to the community.”
“You don’t even know her name,” Tucker says softly.
“I’ll find it out,” Dean promises. He glances back toward the direction McMahon disappeared.
He doesn’t know you yet. He doesn’t know if you’re blonde, brunette, tall, short, quiet, or loud. But he knows one thing for sure.
He is going to find you. He is going to ruin you for every other man on the planet. And he is going to make damn sure you never, ever think there is something wrong with you again.
***
The stale smell of pepperoni pizza and the frantic clicking of Xbox controllers fill the living room of the off-campus hockey house.
“Pass it, pass it, pass it,” Logan chants, mashing the buttons on his controller as he leans so far forward on the couch he’s practically sitting on the coffee table.
“I am passing it, you pylon,” Dean snaps back, his eyes glued to the television screen. “If you would get into position instead of skating around like a lost toddler-”
“I’m open!”
“You’re surrounded by both defensemen!”
“Shoot the damn puck!” Garrett yells from the armchair, throwing a piece of popcorn at Logan’s head. “You guys are an embarrassment to the sport. It’s a video game. It requires a fraction of the athletic ability we actually possess, and you’re still blowing it.”
“Shut up, Graham,” Dean and Logan say in unison.
On the screen, the buzzer blares. Game over. Logan groans and tosses his controller onto the cushions, dragging a hand down his face.
Dean exhales, leaning back and stretching his arms over his head. His shoulders pop. Normally, he’d be demanding a rematch, relentlessly trash-talking Logan until the guy agreed to play another round just to shut him up. But today, Dean isn’t feeling it. His head isn’t in the game. It hasn’t been in the game since they left the quad three hours ago.
He keeps replaying the conversation in his head. Or rather, the broadcast. That loudmouth wide receiver, McMahon, announcing to half the student body that the girl he was dating couldn’t get off.
It pisses Dean off. It genuinely, deeply aggravates him.
“You’re quiet,” Garrett notes, watching Dean from the armchair. “You won. Usually, you do a victory lap around the coffee table.”
“I’m conserving my energy,” Dean says, picking up his phone to check his notifications. Nothing interesting. Just a text from a girl in his sociology seminar and an email from his dad about spring break.
“He’s still thinking about his crusade,” Logan says, snagging a cold slice of pizza from the box on the table. “The caped crusader of the clitoris.”
“It’s not a crusade,” Dean says defensively. “It’s a matter of principle.”
“You don’t even know her,” Garrett points out, amused. “For all you know, McMahon was telling the truth.”
Dean glares at him. “Garrett. Look at me. Do I look like a man who accepts defeat in the bedroom?”
“You look like a man who spends too much time on his hair,” Garrett deadpans.
“My hair is flawless, and that is entirely besides the point,” Dean shoots back. “The point is, there is a fundamental lack of effort plaguing the male population of this campus. It’s an epidemic. Guys like McMahon treat sex like a race to the finish line, and then they have the audacity to blame the woman when she doesn’t cross it with them. It’s pathetic.”
Logan chews his pizza thoughtfully. “I mean, you’re not wrong. But you can’t save them all, man.”
“I don’t need to save them all,” Dean says, his voice dropping a fraction. “I just need to save this one.”
The front door swings open before Logan can reply, slamming against the wall with a loud thud.
Beau trudges into the house, looking like he just survived a minor war. He’s still wearing his gray Briar football sweatpants and a tight compression shirt that clings to his exhausted frame. He drops his massive gym bag onto the hardwood floor, kicks off his slides, and groans loudly.
“Practice?” Garrett asks sympathetically.
“Practice,” Beau confirms, shuffling into the living room and collapsing onto the empty space on the couch next to Dean. He smells faintly of artificial turf, sweat, and the sharp tang of Deep Relief muscle rub. “Coach made us run the stadium stairs. Twice. Because someone — who shall remain nameless, but his initials rhyme with DickMahon — kept dropping his routes during seven-on-sevens.”
Dean’s ears perk up. He turns to look at his best friend, his previous lethargy vanishing instantly. “McMahon?”
Beau closes his eyes and tips his head back against the couch cushions. “Don’t.”
“You were in the locker room with him,” Dean presses, shifting his body so he’s fully facing Beau. “Did you ask around?”
Beau keeps his eyes squeezed shut. “Dean, I am tired. My calves are screaming. I want a shower, a beer, and for you to stop looking at me with that deranged glint in your eye.”
“Tell me you found something out,” Dean says, ignoring every word Beau just said. “Tell me you didn’t spend two hours in a locker room full of gossiping linebackers and come back empty-handed.”
Beau sighs, a long, dramatic sound that ruffles his blonde hair. He slowly opens one eye, looking at Dean with a mixture of exhaustion and profound regret. “Do you want the good news or the bad news first?”
Dean’s heart actually kicks up a notch. He leans forward, resting his forearms on his knees. “Good news. Always start with the good news.”
Beau sits up a little, rubbing the back of his neck. “Okay. The good news is, I know who she is. I asked Howard, the backup tight end, because he knows everybody’s business. He told me who McMahon just dumped.”
“Who?” Dean demands.
“Her name is Y/N Y/L/N,” Beau says.
Dean processes the name. It suits you. It sounds smart, put-together. “And?”
“And,” Beau continues, “she’s not just some random girl. She’s a junior. Pre-law, I think. And she’s the president of the Delta Zeta sorority.”
Logan whistles low. “Delta Zeta? Those girls don’t mess around. That’s the house with the insane GPA requirement and the terrifying philanthropy events.”
Dean smiles, a slow, genuine curve of his lips. He likes this. He really likes this. A sorority president. That means you are organized. Driven. You probably walk around campus with a planner perfectly color-coded to match your outfits. You take charge, you handle responsibility, and you probably don’t take shit from anyone. Which makes it even more infuriating that a guy like McMahon made you feel inadequate.
“Y/N,” Dean says your name out loud, testing the syllables on his tongue. He likes the way it sounds. He likes the way it feels. “Okay. That’s excellent news. What’s the bad news?”
Beau hesitates. He looks away from Dean, glancing at Garrett and Logan, who are suddenly very invested in the conversation. Beau scrubs a hand over his jaw, looking distinctly uncomfortable.
“Spit it out, Beau,” Dean says, the smile fading from his face.
“The bad news,” Beau says slowly, “is that McMahon wasn’t the first guy to complain about her.”
The living room goes dead silent. The only sound is the low hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen.
Dean stares at him. “What are you talking about?”
“I’m just telling you what I heard,” Beau says defensively, holding his hands up in a placating gesture. “Howard started talking, and then a couple of the other guys chimed in. Apparently, she dated a guy on the lacrosse team last year. And before that, some dude from Kappa Sig.”
“And?” Dean prompts, his jaw tightening.
“And the grapevine says the same thing,” Beau mutters, looking at the floor. “Nobody has ever been able to make her cum. The lacrosse guy said she was completely unresponsive. The Kappa Sig guy said he tried for an hour and gave up. It’s … it’s a known thing, Dean. The guys in the locker room were joking that she’s cursed.”
Dean feels a cold, sharp spike of anger lodge itself right beneath his ribs.
He imagines you, standing in front of a mirror, wondering what’s wrong with you. He imagines the quiet humiliation of lying in bed while a guy sighs in frustration, rolls over, and goes to sleep. He imagines you carrying around a reputation you didn’t ask for, created by guys who are too incompetent to do their damn jobs.
It makes him want to punch a hole through the drywall.
“They were joking about it,” Dean repeats, his voice dangerously soft.
“Locker rooms are toxic,” Garrett says quietly from the armchair. “You know how it is, Dean. Guys talk. They exaggerate to protect their own egos.”
“It’s not an exaggeration if three different guys are saying the exact same thing,” Beau points out gently. He looks back at Dean, his expression softening into an apology. “Look, man. I know you’re on this crusade to prove McMahon wrong, but … maybe he isn’t. Maybe it’s not a lack of effort.”
Dean narrows his eyes. “What are you implying?”
Beau shifts uncomfortably. “I’m just saying … biology is weird. Some people have weird wiring. Maybe she really does have some sort of issue. You know? Like, a medical reason why she can’t get off. It happens.”
“No,” Dean says immediately.
“Dean, be reasonable,” Beau tries. “If multiple guys-”
“I don’t give a damn if the entire starting lineup of the New England Patriots tried and failed,” Dean snaps, pushing himself off the couch. He paces across the living room, running a hand aggressively through his hair. “I am shutting that theory down right now.”
“You can’t just shut down biology,” Logan argues reasonably.
“Watch me,” Dean shoots back. He turns to face his friends, pointing an accusatory finger at Beau. “Do you know what the common denominator is here? It’s not her. It’s the guys.”
“A lacrosse player, a frat bro, and a wide receiver,” Garrett lists, counting them off on his fingers.
“Exactly!” Dean throws his hands in the air. “The holy trinity of selfish lovers! What do they all have in common? Ego. They care more about their own performance than her pleasure. They probably pounded away for five minutes like jackrabbits, didn’t bother with foreplay, and then got offended when she didn’t magically explode.”
Beau sighs. “Dean-”
“I’m serious, Beau,” Dean interrupts, his voice hard. The anger is settling into something sharper, something far more resolute. “Do not sit there and tell me she’s broken. Do not tell me she has a physiological issue just because three frat-star idiots couldn’t find the clit with a flashlight and a map.”
The conviction in his voice fills the room. He isn’t laughing. He isn’t playing around. He means every single word.
“Women’s bodies aren’t slot machines,” Dean says, pacing back toward the television. “You don’t just put a coin in, pull a lever, and wait for the jackpot. It takes attention. It takes communication. You have to learn the body you’re touching. You have to figure out what she likes, what she hates, what she needs before she even knows she needs it.”
He stops pacing, planting his hands on his hips as he stares down his three friends.
“If she hasn’t come,” Dean states, absolute certainty ringing in his tone, “it is because nobody has bothered to learn her properly. Nobody has put in the work.”
Garrett raises an eyebrow. “And you think you’re the guy to put in the work?”
“I know I am,” Dean says without a second of hesitation.
“Dude.” Logan lets out a breath, shaking his head. “You’re talking about taking on a campus legend. If she really is, uh, un-finishable-”
“Stop calling her that,” Dean snaps. “She’s not a challenge on a bucket list. She is a girl who deserves to feel good.”
Beau looks at him for a long, quiet moment. He knows Dean better than anyone in the room. Beau knows when Dean is messing around, and he knows when Dean is dead serious.
Right now, Dean is dead serious.
“Okay,” Beau says softly, holding his hands up in surrender. “Okay. I hear you. But let’s look at this logically. What exactly is your plan here?”
Dean drops back onto the couch, resting his elbows on his knees. “My plan is simple. I’m going to find her. I’m going to get to know her. And then I’m going to help her.”
“Help her,” Beau repeats flatly.
“Yes. I am going to give her the release she has been denied. I am going to do what apparently no other incompetent man on this campus has managed to do.” Dean’s eyes gleam with a fierce, protective determination. “I am going to break the curse.”
Logan lets out a sudden, bark-like laugh. “You’re out of your mind.”
“I am a visionary,” Dean corrects him.
Beau rubs his temples, looking like he’s developing a severe migraine. “Dean, think about this for two seconds. You can’t just walk up to a girl — a sorority president, no less — and offer to give her an orgasm.”
“Why not?” Dean asks innocently.
“Because it’s insane!” Beau yells, finally losing his cool. “Because she doesn’t know you! You can’t just stroll up to her in the dining hall, tap her on the shoulder, and say, ‘Hey, I heard your ex-boyfriend has the sexual prowess of a wet sponge, let me fix that for you!’”
“Well, obviously I wouldn’t use those exact words,” Dean says, offended. “I have tact, Beau. I have charm. I know how to talk to women.”
“You’re going to get pepper-sprayed,” Garrett predicts, sounding entirely too cheerful about the prospect. “I’ll give you twenty bucks right now if you get it on video.”
“I am not going to get pepper-sprayed,” Dean says firmly. “I am going to be a gentleman.”
“A gentleman doesn’t solicit orgasms to strangers,” Tucker’s voice drawls from the doorway. He’s leaning against the frame, holding a massive protein shake in one hand, having apparently walked in through the kitchen halfway through the conversation.
“A true gentleman recognizes a woman in need and steps up to the plate,” Dean counters smoothly. “I’m going to do it. That’s exactly what I’m going to do.”
“Dean, please,” Beau begs, sounding genuinely distressed. “She’s a prominent figure on campus. If you go up to her and say something crazy, she’s going to ruin your reputation.”
“My reputation?” Dean laughs. It’s a bright, easy sound. “Beau, my reputation is already that of a shameless flirt who sleeps around. What’s she going to do? Tell people I offered to make her feel good? Oh, the horror.”
“She’s going to think you’re a creep,” Beau insists.
“She won’t,” Dean says confidently. “Because I’m not going to be creepy about it. I’m going to be honest. Completely, brutally honest. Women appreciate honesty.”
Garrett snorts. “Yeah, let me know how that honesty works out for you when she slaps you across the face.”
Dean ignores them. He tunes out Garrett’s laughter, Logan’s skepticism, and Beau’s frantic attempts to reason with him. His mind is already racing, piecing together a strategy.
He knows you are the president of Delta Zeta. That means you are busy. It means you are likely stressed, overworked, and constantly dealing with other people’s drama. You probably drink too much coffee, don’t get enough sleep, and carry the weight of your entire house on your shoulders.
And on top of all that, you have the baggage of guys like McMahon making you feel inadequate.
Dean feels that fierce, protective urge flare up again. It isn’t just about his ego anymore. It isn’t just about proving a point to the locker room. It’s about you. It’s about the fact that nobody has looked at you and decided you were worth the time it takes to figure out what you need.
He stands up again, suddenly too energized to sit still. “When does Delta Zeta usually hold their chapter meetings?”
Beau groans, throwing himself face-first into a couch pillow. “I’m not telling you.”
“Fridays,” Logan provides helpfully. “Usually around seven. I know because I hooked up with a DZ last semester, and she always made me leave by six-thirty so she could get ready.”
“Friday,” Dean repeats. Today is Wednesday. That gives him two days to figure out an approach. Two days to find you, study you, and plan his move.
“You’re really going through with this?” Beau asks, his voice muffled by the pillow.
“I am,” Dean says. He walks toward the hallway leading to his bedroom, pausing at the threshold to look back at his friends. “I’m going to find her. I’m going to look her in the eyes, and I’m going to offer my services.”
“Services,” Garrett echoes, shaking his head. “You make it sound like you’re an independent contractor.”
“I’m a specialist,” Dean corrects him with a wink. “And Y/N Y/L/N is about to become my top priority.”
He turns and walks down the hall, already mentally mapping out the campus to figure out where a pre-law sorority president is most likely to spend her Friday afternoon. The library? The student union? A coffee shop?
He’ll check them all. He doesn’t care how long it takes.
Because Dean loves a challenge. But more than that, he loves making things right. And making sure you finally understand that there is absolutely nothing wrong with you?
That is going to be the best thing he’s ever done.
***
Dean does not usually require props.
In fact, he prides himself on his natural abilities. He has spent years perfecting his technique, learning the exact amount of pressure, the perfect rhythm, the right things to whisper in the dark. He is a craftsman, and his hands and mouth are his chosen tools.
But as he stands in his bedroom on Friday afternoon, staring into the bottom drawer of his nightstand, he decides to make an exception.
Because you aren’t just a regular Friday night hookup. You are a mission. You are the final boss of Briar University’s dating pool, a girl who has allegedly stumped every self-serving idiot on this campus. And while Dean is completely, undeniably confident in his own mouth, he also believes in being prepared. A good lawyer — like his mother always says — never walks into a courtroom without covering all his bases.
So, he grabs a sleek, black duffel bag from his closet.
He tosses in a small, discreet bullet vibrator. Then a curved silicone toy that he knows for a fact works absolute miracles. He adds a bottle of premium, water-based lubricant, just to be safe. He zips the bag up, slinging it over his shoulder.
“Where are you going?” Garrett asks, looking up from the kitchen island as Dean walks out of his room. Garrett is eating cereal straight out of the box.
“I have an appointment,” Dean says, checking his reflection in the hallway mirror. He runs a hand through his hair, making sure it falls with just the right amount of effortless messiness. He’s wearing a fitted black long-sleeve henley that highlights his shoulders, and his favorite jeans. He looks good. Approachable. Trustworthy.
“An appointment,” Garrett repeats flatly. His eyes drop to the black duffel bag. “Are you going to the gym, or are you actually going through with this psychotic plan to accost McMahon’s ex-girlfriend?”
“Her name is Y/N,” Dean corrects him. “And I am not accosting anyone. I am offering a philanthropic service. I’m giving back to the community.”
“You’re going to get arrested,” Garrett says, tossing a piece of Cap’n Crunch at him.
Dean catches it mid-air and eats it. “Have a little faith, Graham. I’ll be back in a few hours. Victorious.”
He walks out the door before Garrett can say anything else.
The Delta Zeta house is a massive, sprawling brick mansion situated at the end of Sorority Row. It has white columns, a perfectly manicured lawn, and an intimidating aura of organized femininity. Dean walks up the pristine paved walkway, his heart doing a strange, unfamiliar flutter against his ribs.
He isn’t nervous. Dean Di Laurentis doesn’t get nervous around women. But he is acutely aware that he is operating without a net here. He doesn’t have an introduction. He doesn’t have a mutual friend paving the way. All he has is his charm, a bag of toys, and a burning desire to prove McMahon wrong.
He steps onto the porch and presses the doorbell. It chimes, a soft, melodic sound that echoes through the heavy oak door.
Dean takes a breath. He squares his shoulders. He prepares his opening line. He’s going to be suave. He’s going to introduce himself, ask if you have a minute to talk privately, and then gently, delicately broach the subject.
The lock clicks. The door swings open.
And Dean completely forgets how to speak.
You are standing there, holding a clipboard in one hand and a half-empty mug of coffee in the other. You are wearing a pair of faded gray sweatpants and an oversized Briar University sweatshirt that is slipping off one shoulder. Your hair is pulled up into a messy bun that looks like it’s barely surviving, held together by a single, desperate claw clip. You look exhausted, irritated, and absolutely, devastatingly beautiful.
He wasn’t expecting this. He expected a perfectly polished sorority president in a twinset and pearls. But you look real. You look like a girl who has been managing fifty different crises since six in the morning.
You blink at him, your eyes trailing from the toes of his boots, up his jeans, to his face. “Can I help you?”
Your voice is slightly raspy, like you’ve been talking all day. It sends a sudden, sharp jolt straight to Dean’s groin.
“Uh,” Dean says. The suave opening line evaporates from his brain. The delicate approach vanishes. He stares into your eyes, overwhelmed by the sudden, intense urge to drag you upstairs, lay you down, and spend the next six hours worshipping every single inch of you.
“Hello?” You prompt, arching a single, perfect eyebrow. “I’m in the middle of a budget crisis with my treasurer, so if you’re looking for one of the sisters, you need to tell me who, or I’m shutting this door.”
Dean’s brain short-circuits entirely. “I’m here to make you come.”
Silence.
Thick, heavy, suffocating silence drops over the porch.
You freeze. The hand holding the coffee mug tightens so hard your knuckles turn white. You stare at him, your eyes widening in sheer, unadulterated shock.
Dean realizes what he just said a fraction of a second too late. “Wait. No. I mean-”
The slap echoes across the porch like a gunshot. Your palm connects with Dean’s cheek with stunning, terrifying precision. It stings instantly, a hot flare of pain that snaps his head to the side.
Before he can even register the hit, you step back.
“Get the hell off my porch, you absolute creep!” You snap, and then you slam the heavy oak door directly in his face. The deadbolt clicks into place with a resounding finality.
Dean stands there, staring at the brass knocker. He slowly reaches up, pressing two fingers to his stinging cheek.
“Well,” he mutters to himself. “That could have gone better.”
He doesn’t leave. He can’t leave. If he leaves now, he’s just the lunatic who showed up and harassed you. He drops the duffel bag onto the porch mat, takes a deep breath, and knocks on the door. Firmly.
“Go away!” Your voice filters through the wood, muffled but furious. “Or I’m calling campus security!”
“Please!” Dean calls out, leaning closer to the door. “Just give me one minute! I swear to God, I didn’t mean it like that!”
“You literally said you were here to make me come!” You yell back.
“I know!” Dean winces. “I know I said it! My brain stopped working! I panicked! But I’m not a creep, I promise!”
The lock turns. The door cracks open just an inch, held securely in place by a heavy brass chain. Your eyes appear in the gap, glaring at him with a mixture of anger and deep suspicion.
“You have exactly ten seconds to explain yourself before I pepper-spray you,” you say sharply. “And yes, I have it in my hand.”
Dean immediately holds his hands up in surrender, stepping back so you can see he isn’t trying to force his way in. “Okay. Okay, fair. Listen to me. My name is Dean Di Laurentis-”
“I know who you are,” you interrupt, your voice dripping with disdain. “You play hockey. You’re Beau Maxwell’s best friend. And you have a reputation for sleeping with half the female population of this school.”
“Okay, half is an exaggeration,” Dean says defensively. “A third, maybe. But that’s exactly why I’m here! Listen, I’m a feminist. I love women. I genuinely, deeply respect women and their right to absolute satisfaction.”
You stare at him through the crack. “Are you on drugs?”
“No! Look, I overheard McMahon talking on the quad yesterday.”
The shift in your demeanor is instantaneous. The fiery anger in your eyes extinguishes, replaced by a sudden, protective wall of pure ice. Your jaw clenches, and Dean can practically see you putting your armor on.
“Oh,” you say softly. The word is hollow. “I see. You heard what he said.”
“I heard it,” Dean confirms, his voice dropping, softening. “And I heard what the other guys in the locker room have been saying, too. The lacrosse guy. The Kappa Sig guy.”
You close your eyes for a brief second. When you open them, the ice is thicker. “And you came here to what? Mock me? Place a bet with your friends to see if you can be the one to break the curse?”
“No!” Dean is genuinely horrified. “No, God, absolutely not. I came here because it pisses me off. It pisses me off that these lazy, incompetent assholes don’t know what they’re doing, and they’re making you feel like you’re the problem.”
You don’t say anything. You just watch him through the narrow gap in the door.
“I came here to right a wrong,” Dean pleads, leaning in slightly. “To redeem my gender. I brought toys, just in case, to cover all the bases! I can even give you references, if you want. Seriously. Call Leah from Beta. Call Kayla from the dance team. Call-”
“Stop naming girls you’ve slept with,” you hiss, glancing nervously past him.
Dean looks over his shoulder. A group of freshmen girls are walking down the sidewalk, staring openly at him standing on the Delta Zeta porch, talking to the door.
You let out a frustrated groan. “You are causing a scene. Di Laurentis, I swear to God, if you make this a spectacle …”
“I’ll stand here all day,” Dean threatens lightly, giving you a small, charming smile. “I’ll shout my references to the quad. I’ll sing them. I have a terrible singing voice, Y/N. It will be tragic for everyone involved.”
You glare at him, a muscle ticking in your jaw. Then, with a harsh sigh, you shut the door.
For a second, Dean thinks he’s lost. But then he hears the rattle of the chain sliding out of the lock. The door swings open wide enough for him to enter.
“Get in,” you snap. “Before someone takes a picture.”
Dean quickly grabs his duffel bag and slips past you into the foyer.
The inside of the house is beautiful — hardwood floors, a sweeping staircase, the faint smell of vanilla and expensive perfume. But Dean doesn’t look at any of it. He turns to look at you.
You shut the door behind him and lean against it, crossing your arms tightly over your chest. Without the door between you, Dean can see the exhaustion lining your eyes. You look incredibly guarded, like a cornered animal waiting for the strike.
“Okay,” you say, your voice flat. “You’re inside. You got your little heroic speech out of the way. Now let’s get one thing straight.”
“I’m listening,” Dean says, matching your serious tone. He drops the bag onto the floor.
“You think this is about them,” you say, gesturing vaguely toward the door, indicating the male population at large. “You think McMahon and the others are just selfish lovers who didn’t try hard enough. You think you can waltz in here with your magical hockey-player hands and fix the lazy mistakes of frat boys.”
“I do, actually,” Dean says without hesitation. “I know I can.”
You let out a harsh, humorless laugh. It lacks any real joy. “Your ego is astounding. Truly. But you’re wrong, Dean. It’s not them.”
Dean frowns, taking a half-step toward you. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, it’s me,” you say bluntly. You look him dead in the eyes, refusing to flinch, refusing to look away. “I have never come. Ever.”
Dean stops. “I know. The rumor-”
“No,” you cut him off, your voice slicing through the air. “Not just with guys. Never. Not with men. Not with women. Not with a vibrator. Not with my own hand in the privacy of my own bedroom.”
Dean stares at you. The cocky comeback dies in his throat. He literally doesn’t know what to say.
“It’s a dead end,” you continue, your voice terrifyingly calm. “I have tried everything. I have read the articles, I have bought the expensive toys, I have tried relaxing, I have tried not overthinking it. It doesn’t work. The wires don’t connect. I physically cannot achieve orgasm.”
Dean’s heart aches. It’s a strange, sudden pang right in the center of his chest. Because he can hear the resignation in your voice. He can hear the years of frustration, of quiet, lonely disappointment, all packed into those few clinical sentences.
“Y/N,” he starts softly.
“Don’t,” you say, holding a hand up. “Do not give me pity. I am perfectly fine with it. I have made my peace with my body. I still enjoy sex. I still like the intimacy. It’s the guys who can’t handle it. They take it as a personal insult to their masculinity. They throw tantrums, they call me frigid, and they whine about it to their friends in the locker room.”
You drop your hand, your posture stiffening.
“So, thank you for the valiant attempt to save me,” you say, your tone dripping in sarcasm. “But I don’t need your help. I don’t need a savior. And I certainly don’t need another guy treating my body like a puzzle he has to solve just to stroke his own ego. You can take your bag of toys and leave.”
You reach behind you, grabbing the doorknob.
“Wait,” Dean says, moving faster than he ever has on the ice. He closes the distance between you, stepping just close enough that you pause, but far enough away that he isn’t crowding you.
He looks down at you. You are breathing a little heavy, your eyes defiant, daring him to push.
This changes things. Beau was right. It wasn’t just lazy guys. It’s a deep-rooted wall. But the thing about Dean Di Laurentis is that he doesn’t back down from walls. He scales them. He dismantles them brick by brick.
“I’m not leaving,” Dean says quietly.
You frown, your grip on the doorknob tightening. “I just told you-”
“I heard what you told me,” Dean says, his voice steady, entirely stripped of the usual playful banter. “You think you’re broken. You think it’s impossible. And you’re sick of guys making it about them instead of about you.”
You swallow hard, your eyes flickering with something that looks dangerously like vulnerability. “Yes.”
“I am not them,” Dean says. He holds your gaze, pouring every ounce of sincerity he possesses into the look. “I don’t care about my ego. My ego is perfectly intact. I care about the fact that you have convinced yourself you aren’t allowed to feel the best feeling in the world.”
“It’s not that I’m not allowed-”
“It’s a mental block,” Dean interrupts gently. “Or a physical one. Or a combination of both. But it’s not permanent. Nothing is permanent.”
“You don’t know that,” you whisper, looking away. “You don’t know my body.”
“Then let me learn it,” Dean says.
You snap your eyes back to him, shocked.
“Give me one chance,” Dean pleads. He isn’t cocky anymore. He is practically begging. “One chance, Y/N. No expectations. No pressure. If nothing happens, I will walk away. I will never bother you again. I won’t throw a tantrum, I won’t blame you, and I sure as hell won’t talk about it to a locker room full of idiots.”
You stare at him, your chest rising and falling rapidly. You look genuinely torn, the exhaustion and the fear battling against the tiny, microscopic sliver of hope he just offered you.
But then the wall goes back up.
“No,” you say firmly. You shake your head, stepping away from the door and pointing toward it. “No. I am not doing this again. I am not getting my hopes up just to lie there and feel broken while you get frustrated. Out. Now.”
Dean’s mind races. He’s losing you. He can see the door closing on this entire crusade, and he refuses to let you push him away just because you’re scared.
He needs leverage. What does he know about you?
Sorority president. Pre-law. Busy. Philanthropy.
“What if we make a wager?” Dean blurts out.
You stop. “What?”
“A wager,” Dean repeats, the idea taking shape in his mind as he speaks. “A bet. To make it worth your while. If I try, and I fail — which I won’t, but let’s pretend for a second that I do — I will give you something you want.”
You look at him like he’s lost his mind. “There is nothing you have that I want, Di Laurentis.”
“Delta Zeta is hosting the Splash & Dash charity car wash next Saturday, right?” Dean asks, pointing a finger at you. “To raise money for the women’s shelter downtown?”
You blink, clearly thrown off by his knowledge of your sorority’s philanthropic schedule. “How do you know that?”
“I pay attention to things,” Dean says smoothly. “Now, traditionally, your sisters wash the cars in bikinis. It brings in decent money. The frat guys show up, they pay twenty bucks, they ogle your sisters. It’s a solid business model.”
“Where are you going with this?” You demand, your patience wearing thin.
Dean grins. The slow, devastating, million-dollar grin that has gotten him out of trouble more times than he can count.
“If I fail to give you an orgasm,” Dean says slowly, letting the words hang in the air, “I will personally guarantee that the entire Briar University hockey starting lineup will participate in your car wash.”
You stare at him.
“And,” Dean adds, leaning in just a fraction, “we will do it shirtless.”
Your mouth parts slightly. You don’t say anything, but Dean can practically see the gears turning in your head.
The Briar hockey team is campus royalty. They are the most popular, most sought-after guys at the university. Garrett, Logan, Tucker, himself — they draw crowds just by walking into the dining hall.
“Shirtless,” you repeat, your voice skeptical.
“Shirtless,” Dean confirms. “Washing cars in the blazing sun. flexing. Sweating. We will advertise it. We will bring in hundreds of girls. Sorority girls, townies, professors — they’ll all show up. You will triple your fundraising goal in two hours.”
You look at him, the logic warring with your defense mechanisms. “Garrett Graham would never agree to that.”
“I am very persuasive,” Dean promises. “I will make them do it. If I lose.”
“And if you win?” You ask, narrowing your eyes. “What’s in it for you?”
Dean looks at you. He looks at the dark circles under your eyes, the messy bun, the oversized sweatshirt that hides a body he is dying to uncover. He thinks about McMahon’s cruel words on the quad, and the quiet resignation in your voice when you told him you’ve never come.
“If I win,” Dean says, his voice dropping to a low, husky register, “then I get the satisfaction of knowing I made you feel as good as you deserve to feel. That’s it. That’s the prize.”
You search his face, looking for the catch. Looking for the punchline, or the arrogant smirk. But there is nothing there except absolute, unwavering sincerity.
The silence stretches out. The grandfather clock in the hallway ticks steadily.
Finally, you let out a long, slow breath. The tension bleeds out of your shoulders. You look down at the floor, then back up at him.
“Shirtless,” you say softly.
“Pants are non-negotiable sadly,” Dean says solemnly. “Tucker is very modest.”
The tiniest, most microscopic hint of a smile tugs at the corner of your mouth. It’s barely there, but Dean catches it, and it feels like he just won the Stanley Cup.
“One chance,” you say, your voice turning serious again. “You get one chance, Dean. When it doesn’t work, we stop. You leave. And you deliver your team on Saturday.”
“Deal,” Dean says instantly. He holds his hand out.
You look at his hand. You hesitate for a second, then reach out and shake it. Your hand is small, your skin soft, but your grip is firm.
“When?” You ask.
“Tomorrow night,” Dean says, unwilling to wait any longer than absolutely necessary. “Eight o’clock. My place.”
You drop his hand, pulling your sweatshirt tighter around yourself. “Fine. Tomorrow night.”
Dean picks up his duffel bag from the floor. He gives you one last look, memorizing the way you look standing in the foyer, the challenge clear in your eyes.
“Get some sleep, Y/N,” Dean says, stepping out the door onto the porch. “You’re going to need your energy tomorrow.”
He doesn’t wait for your response. He turns and walks down the paved path, his heart hammering a victorious rhythm against his ribs.
He got his foot in the door. He got the chance.
Now, he just has to do the impossible.
***
The house is completely, suspiciously silent when you knock on the front door at exactly eight o’clock on Saturday night.
Dean opens the door before you can even lower your hand. He’s wearing gray sweatpants that hang low on his hips and a plain white t-shirt. His hair is slightly damp, curled at the ends, and the faint, clean scent of his body wash drifts out into the cool evening air.
He looks entirely too calm. You, on the other hand, feel like you might throw up.
“You’re right on time,” Dean says, a slow, easy smile spreading across his face. He steps back, opening the door wider. “Come on in.”
You step into the foyer, clutching the strap of your purse like a lifeline. You’re wearing jeans and a simple black sweater, a deliberate choice to make this feel casual, even though your heart is currently hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird.
“Where are your roommates?” You ask, your voice sounding a little too tight, a little too loud in the empty house.
“I bribed them to leave,” Dean says easily, shutting and locking the front door. “Logan and Tucker went to a movie. Garrett took his girlfriend out to dinner. The house is ours until at least midnight. I wanted zero distractions.”
He turns to look at you, and his smile softens. He can clearly see how rigid your shoulders are, how tightly you’re holding onto your bag.
“Hey,” he murmurs, stepping closer. “Relax. I’m not leading you to the gallows.”
“I know,” you say defensively. “I’m relaxed.”
“You look like you’re about to take the LSAT,” Dean counters. He reaches out, his large, warm hands gently curling over your shoulders. He rubs his thumbs in slow, soothing circles against your collarbones. “Look at me, Y/N.”
You lift your gaze from the center of his chest, meeting his eyes. They’re a warm, bright green, and completely devoid of the cocky arrogance you usually associate with him.
“Forget the bet,” Dean says quietly. “Forget the car wash, forget McMahon, forget the locker room. Tonight is just about you. And if you want to leave right now, or in ten minutes, or in an hour, you just say the word and I’ll walk you to the door. No questions asked. No pressure. Okay?”
You swallow hard, the tight knot of anxiety in your chest loosening just a fraction. “Okay.”
“Good.” Dean drops his hands, gesturing down the hallway. “My room is this way.”
Dean’s bedroom is surprisingly immaculate. You expected a stereotypical frat-boy disaster zone, but the bed is made with dark gray sheets, the floor is clear, and the only mess is a small stack of textbooks on his desk. The bedside lamp is on, casting a warm, dim glow over the room.
On the nightstand rests the black duffel bag from yesterday.
You stare at it, your stomach doing a complicated flip.
Dean catches your look. He tosses your purse onto his desk chair and turns to face you. “The bag is just backup. Honestly, I don’t think we’ll need it.”
“Your confidence is terrifying,” you mutter, crossing your arms over your chest.
“It’s not confidence. It’s just a fact.” Dean steps right into your personal space. He doesn’t ask permission to touch you this time, he simply lifts his hands and frames your face. His palms are slightly rough from handling a hockey stick, but his touch is incredibly gentle. “You think too much. I can practically hear the gears turning in your head.”
“I can’t help it,” you whisper, closing your eyes briefly as his thumbs brush over your cheekbones. “I’m waiting for the part where this doesn’t work, and you get annoyed, and I have to pretend I’m sorry.”
“That part isn’t coming.” Dean’s voice is a low, raspy murmur right against your mouth. “Open your eyes.”
You do. He is staring at your lips.
“I’m going to kiss you now,” Dean says, the warning a courtesy. “And you aren’t going to think about anything except how it feels.”
He closes the distance before you can argue. His mouth covers yours, warm and firm and demanding. You’ve been kissed a lot, but this is different. It isn’t rushed. He doesn’t shove his tongue down your throat or grope you aggressively. He simply takes his time, parting your lips, tasting you like he has all the time in the world.
A small, involuntary sigh escapes your throat, and Dean swallows it. His hands slide from your face, down your neck, tracing the line of your shoulders before sliding under the hem of your sweater. His warm palms flatten against the bare skin of your waist.
The shock of skin-on-skin contact makes you gasp, and Dean takes advantage, his tongue sliding against yours. He tastes like mint and something inherently dark and male.
“That’s it,” he murmurs against your mouth. “Just feel.”
He walks you backward, his hands pulling you flush against his chest, until the back of your knees hit the edge of the mattress. Dean breaks the kiss just long enough to pull your sweater up and over your head, tossing it blindly over his shoulder.
You reach for the hem of his t-shirt, suddenly desperate to feel his bare skin, but Dean catches your wrists.
“Uh-uh,” he says, a teasing lilt in his voice. “My clothes stay on for now. You don’t get to focus on me. Tonight is a one-way street.”
“Dean,” you protest, but he just smiles, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead.
He unhooks your bra with terrifying efficiency, letting it drop to the floor. The cool air hits your bare breasts, making your nipples pebble instantly. Dean tracks the movement, his eyes darkening as they drag down your torso.
He pushes you gently down onto the edge of the bed. You’re sitting there in just your jeans, feeling exposed and hyper-aware of his gaze. But there is no judgment in his eyes, no impatient rush to get to the main event. He just looks at you like you are the most incredible thing he has ever seen.
Dean drops to his knees on the hardwood floor between your legs.
He reaches out, his hands wrapping around your waist, pulling you an inch closer to the edge. “You’re beautiful,” he says softly, pressing an open-mouthed kiss directly in the center of your chest.
You shiver, your hands instinctively tangling in the thick hair at the nape of his neck.
Dean unbuttons your jeans. He slides the zipper down, his knuckles brushing intentionally over the sensitive skin of your lower stomach. You suck in a sharp breath. He pulls the denim down your legs, taking your plain cotton underwear with them, until you are completely bare, sitting on the edge of his bed while he kneels between your thighs.
“Dean,” you whisper, your voice shaking slightly as the familiar, suffocating wave of performance anxiety begins to creep in. What if he realizes it’s hopeless? What if nothing happens?
“Stop,” Dean says instantly. He looks up at you, his eyes blazing. He knows exactly what you’re doing. “Stop thinking. Stop putting pressure on yourself. If you don’t cum tonight, you don’t cum. I don’t care. I’m perfectly happy just staying down here and tasting you for the next three hours regardless.”
The blunt, dirty honesty of his words sends a jolt of liquid heat straight between your legs.
Dean doesn’t give you time to overthink it again. He shifts closer, wrapping his strong hands around the backs of your thighs, and gently parts your legs wider.
He lowers his head.
The first touch of his tongue is a shock to your system. It’s a slow, broad, open-mouthed slide right up your center. You jerk instinctively, your hands gripping his shoulders.
“Easy,” Dean murmurs, his breath hot against your dripping core. “I’ve got you.”
He goes back in, and this time, there is no hesitation. Dean Di Laurentis is a master at this, and he proves it in seconds. He doesn’t dive right for the clit, pounding away like every other guy has. He takes his time. He kisses the soft skin of your inner thighs. He traces the delicate folds with the tip of his tongue, teasing, mapping out your body, figuring out exactly what makes your breath hitch and your muscles tighten.
“You taste so fucking sweet,” Dean groans, the vibration of his voice buzzing directly against your most sensitive flesh.
He finds the swollen bundle of nerves and swirls his tongue around it, light and teasing. You let out a soft, stuttering gasp, your head dropping back.
It feels good. It feels amazing. But the mental block is a heavy, leaden thing sitting in the back of your mind. You hit the plateau — the place you always hit, where the pleasure builds and builds but never actually crests. You feel yourself tensing, bracing for the inevitable disappointment.
Dean feels it. He stops immediately.
“Look at me,” he orders. His voice isn’t gentle anymore; it’s low, rough, and demanding.
You force your eyes open, looking down. Dean is kneeling between your legs, his lips wet and shining with your arousal, his green eyes locked onto yours. The sight is so intensely intimate, so totally raw, that it makes your chest ache.
“Tell me what you’re feeling right now,” Dean demands, his hands tightening on your thighs, his thumbs pressing firmly into your skin.
“I … I can’t,” you stutter, shaking your head. “Dean, it’s not going to-”
“I didn’t ask what’s not going to happen,” he interrupts sharply. “I asked what you’re feeling right now. Describe it to me.”
“It feels good,” you whisper, tears of frustration stinging the corners of your eyes. “But I’m stuck. I’m stuck.”
“You’re not stuck.” Dean leans in, kissing the inside of your thigh, his breath hot. “You’re in your head. So get out of it. Focus on my mouth. Focus on my fingers.”
He slides two thick fingers directly inside you. You gasp, your hips bucking up off the mattress as he stretches you open. You are incredibly wet, slick with your own arousal, and Dean uses it to his advantage. He curls his fingers upward, hitting a deep, heavy spot inside you with a firm, relentless rhythm.
“Tell me what that feels like,” Dean says, his eyes never leaving yours.
“It’s full,” you choke out, your fingers digging painfully into his shoulders. “It’s deep.”
“Good.” Dean lowers his head again. He replaces his mouth over your clit, but this time, he isn’t teasing. He sucks the sensitive nub directly into his mouth, applying a firm, steady suction while his tongue flickers against it relentlessly.
The combination of his fingers sliding deep inside you and his mouth pulling fiercely at your clit is a sensory overload.
“Dean,” you sob, the sound entirely involuntary.
He doesn’t stop. He doesn’t ask if you’re okay. He knows exactly what he’s doing. He keeps his eyes open, staring right up at you as his tongue lashes against you and his fingers pump in a rapid, demanding rhythm.
The pressure is building. It’s a hot, coiled spring in the center of your body, winding tighter and tighter. You try to pull away, terrified of failing again, terrified of hitting the wall, but Dean’s hands are like iron on your thighs. He holds you perfectly still, refusing to let you escape the pleasure.
“Come on,” Dean growls, pulling his mouth away for a fraction of a second. “Let go, Y/N. Give it to me. Let go.”
He goes back to sucking, harder this time, dragging his teeth lightly against the hood.
The sensation splinters through your entire body. The wall in your mind — the mental block that has haunted you for years — suddenly shatters under the sheer, overwhelming force of what he’s doing to you. You can’t think. You can’t analyze. You can only feel.
The coiled spring snaps.
A choked scream rips out of your throat as the climax hits you like a freight train. It explodes, radiating from your core out to your fingertips in violent, uncontrollable waves of pleasure. Your hips jerk up, grinding frantically against Dean’s mouth as your inner muscles clamp down brutally around his fingers.
Dean swallows your scream, his mouth sealed tightly against you, taking every single drop of your release. He doesn’t stop, even when you’re thrashing, even when you’re begging him to because it’s too sensitive. He forces you to ride out every single wave, his fingers continuing to pulse inside you until you are completely spent.
When he finally pulls his hand out and lifts his head, you collapse backward onto the mattress.
You are panting, staring blindly at the ceiling. Your entire body is trembling. Tears — actual, physical tears of sheer disbelief and overwhelming relief — are sliding down your temples into your hairline.
Dean stands up. He looks down at you, his chest heaving under his white t-shirt, his hair thoroughly wrecked from your hands. He reaches over, wiping the moisture from his chin with the back of his hand.
He doesn’t look cocky. He doesn’t look like he just won a bet. He just looks satisfied.
He climbs onto the bed, hovering over you, and gently wipes a tear from your cheek with his thumb.
“You see?” Dean whispers, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your slightly swollen lips. “You aren’t broken, Y/N. You just needed someone to actually pay attention.”
You let out a shaky, hysterical laugh, wrapping your arms around his neck and burying your face in his shoulder. “Oh my god. Oh my god, Dean.”
“I know,” he murmurs, wrapping his arms around your waist and holding you tight. He strokes your bare back, letting you ride out the aftershocks. “I know.”
You lie there for what feels like hours, just breathing him in. You feel light. You feel like a massive, suffocating weight has just been lifted off your chest. It wasn’t you. It was never you. You just needed a guy who cared more about your pleasure than his own ego.
“Thank you,” you whisper into his neck.
Dean pulls back slightly, looking down at you. His green eyes are dark, glittering with something dangerous. The tender, comforting moment shifts instantly, replaced by a heavy, palpable heat.
“Don’t thank me yet,” Dean says, a wicked, devastating smile curving his lips. “We have the house until midnight, Y/N. And I am far from finished.”
Your eyes widen. “Dean, I don’t think I can—I’m so sensitive-”
“I know,” he says smoothly. He reaches over to the nightstand, grabbing the black duffel bag and unzipping it. He pulls out the small, sleek bullet vibrator. “But you’re about to learn that the second time is always easier than the first. The wall is gone now. Now, we’re just playing.”
He turns it on. The low, electric hum fills the quiet room.
You swallow hard, your core clenching in anticipation.
Dean pushes you onto your back, his knees bracketing your hips. He finally grabs the hem of his t-shirt and pulls it over his head, tossing it onto the floor. His chest is broad, defined, covered in a light dusting of hair that trails down beneath the waistband of his sweatpants. You stare at the prominent V-lines pointing downward, suddenly incredibly desperate to see the rest of him.
But Dean isn’t rushing the main event. He reaches down, parting your folds with two fingers, and presses the buzzing toy directly against your swollen clit.
You arch completely off the bed, a loud, unabashed moan tearing from your lips.
It is instantaneous. Without the mental block holding you back, your body reacts with terrifying speed. Dean grins, watching your face as he manipulates the toy, circling the most sensitive nerves. He leans down, capturing your mouth in a deep, filthy kiss, his tongue mimicking the frantic circles of his hand.
You reach down, frantically grabbing at the waistband of his sweatpants, desperate to touch him, but Dean swats your hands away.
“Not yet,” he pants against your mouth. “Focus.”
It takes less than three minutes. The second orgasm crashes through you with even more ferocity than the first. You scream his name into his mouth, your nails digging crescent moons into his shoulders as your body bows off the mattress, shaking violently.
Dean pulls the toy away, tossing it onto the nightstand, and finally reaches for his own waistband.
He strips out of his sweatpants and boxers in one fluid motion. He is heavily, beautifully aroused, his thick erection jutting out, hot and ready. He grabs a condom from the nightstand drawer, ripping the foil open with his teeth, and rolls it on with quick, efficient movements.
You are still trembling from the second climax, your eyes hazy and completely blown out.
Dean settles himself between your legs, his hands gripping your hips to anchor you. He lines himself up with your wet, slick opening.
“Look at me,” he demands softly.
You meet his eyes.
“You’re perfect,” Dean whispers.
And then he pushes his hips forward, burying himself deep inside you in one long, smooth thrust.
You gasp loudly, the feeling of him filling you completely sending fresh sparks of pleasure racing through your overloaded system. Dean lets out a harsh groan, his head dropping back as he gives himself a second to adjust to the tight, wet heat of your body.
He begins to move. He doesn’t pound into you; he makes love to you. He pulls almost all the way out before driving deep again, grinding his hips firmly against yours so that the base of his shaft perfectly rubs against your clit with every single thrust.
It is a steady, relentless rhythm. You wrap your legs around his waist, locking your ankles together to pull him even deeper.
“Dean,” you pant, your head tossing back against the pillows. “Please.”
“I’m right here,” he answers, his voice strained. He reaches a hand down, slipping his thumb perfectly between your bodies to press firmly against your clit while he continues to thrust inside you.
The sensory overload is absolute. The deep, heavy stretching inside and the sharp, electric friction on the outside. You are unraveling, falling completely apart underneath him.
“Let it go again, baby,” Dean encourages, his thrusts getting faster, harder, completely losing his earlier restraint. “Come for me. Give it to me.”
You shatter for the third time. The orgasm rips through you so forcefully that your vision actually whites out for a second. You clamp down around his cock with brutal strength, crying out as the pleasure sweeps through you in violent, pulsing waves.
Your tight, milking climax is enough to send Dean right over the edge with you. He lets out a guttural shout, his hips driving into you one final, desperate time as he comes hard, his body rigid and shaking above yours.
He collapses heavily onto your chest, burying his face in the crook of your neck, his chest heaving as he fights to catch his breath.
You lie there, your arms wrapped tightly around his broad back, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his. The room is completely silent except for the sound of your combined, ragged breathing.
A full five minutes pass before Dean finally lifts his head. He props himself up on his elbows, looking down at you. His hair is a wild, sweaty mess, his eyes heavy with post-coital satisfaction.
He smiles. It’s a soft, genuine smile that makes your chest squeeze.
“So,” Dean rasps, tracing the line of your jaw with his finger. “I guess this means the hockey team is keeping their shirts on next weekend.”
You let out a weak, breathless laugh. “You’re a menace, Di Laurentis.”
“I’m a man of my word,” he corrects you, rolling off you and pulling you flush against his side. He drags the gray sheet up over your naked bodies, tucking you securely under his arm. “Though Logan is going to be incredibly disappointed. He’s been doing extra crunches all week just in case.”
You smile against his bare chest, tracing a lazy circle over his heart.
The bet is over. He proved his point. He did what no other guy could do, and he won.
But as Dean presses a lingering kiss to the top of your head, his arm tightening possessively around your waist, you get the overwhelming feeling that this is no longer just a mission for him.
And as you close your eyes, listening to the steady beat of his heart, you realize it’s definitely not just a bet for you, either.
***
The Delta Zeta front lawn looks like a chaotic, high-budget commercial for spring break.
The bass from the massive portable speakers is vibrating through the soles of your white sneakers, blasting a remix of a top-forty pop song that you’ve heard at least six times since nine o’clock this morning. Soapy water floods the driveway, running in iridescent little rivers toward the street drain. Everywhere you look, girls in bright bikinis and cut-off denim shorts are scrubbing windshields, spraying each other with the hose, and flagging down passing cars with neon pink cardboard signs.
“Y/N!” Jess, your vice president, jogs over to the cash box table where you’re currently organizing a stack of slightly damp twenty-dollar bills. She’s out of breath, her blonde hair plastered to her forehead. “We’re out of microfiber towels. And I think Brittany just accidentally sprayed a physics professor in the face.”
You sigh, dropping a twenty into the lockbox. “Check the garage for the backup towels. And tell Brittany to aim lower. Has the line of cars slowed down?”
“A little,” Jess admits, wiping her brow. “It’s barely noon, though. The frat guys won’t drag themselves out of bed for at least another hour.”
You look out at the street. She’s right. The morning rush of faculty and early-risers has died down, leaving an empty spot in the driveway. If you want to hit your fundraising goal for the women’s shelter, you need a second wave. A big one.
“We need a draw,” you mutter, tying your hair back up into a higher ponytail. “Something to get the foot traffic to stop.”
“I think your draw just arrived,” Jess says, her voice suddenly dropping an entire octave. She points toward the sidewalk.
You follow her gaze, and your breath catches in your throat.
Walking down Sorority Row, looking like a slow-motion shot from a movie, are four massive guys. Garrett looks annoyed, Logan is already grinning and waving at a group of sophomores, and Tucker is casually spinning a key ring around his finger.
And leading the pack is Dean.
He’s wearing a pair of faded board shorts, flip-flops, and a gray Briar Hockey t-shirt. Sunglasses hide his eyes, but the moment he spots you standing by the cash table, a slow, devastating smirk spreads across his face.
A collective gasp ripples through the sorority girls on the lawn. Two freshmen actually drop their hose. The hockey team doesn’t just show up to random philanthropy events unless there’s a camera crew involved.
You cross your arms over your bikini top, fighting the massive smile threatening to break across your face as Dean stops right in front of your table.
“Good morning, Madam President,” Dean says smoothly. He pulls his sunglasses down, resting them on the collar of his shirt. His green eyes travel down the length of your body, lingering on the exposed skin of your stomach before snapping back up to your face. The heat in his gaze is entirely inappropriate for a Saturday morning charity event.
“Di Laurentis,” you say, keeping your voice even despite the butterflies staging a full-scale riot in your stomach. “What are you doing here?”
“We’re here to wash cars,” Logan chimes in from behind Dean, dropping his bucket onto the grass. “Obviously. Show me to the nearest CR-V.”
“You don’t have to be here,” you say, looking back at Dean. You lower your voice so only he can hear. “You won the bet, Dean. You proved your point. Vigorously. Multiple times.”
Just the memory of last Saturday night sends a flush of heat up your neck. You haven’t seen him all week — midterms, chapter meetings, and his away games kept you completely separated. But you certainly haven’t forgotten. You haven’t been able to think about anything else.
“I know I won the bet,” Dean says, stepping a fraction closer. “And it was the most satisfying victory of my athletic career. But the guys and I took a vote. We decided we want to participate anyway.”
“Oh, really?” You raise an eyebrow. “Just out of the goodness of your hearts?”
“Not exactly,” Garrett grumbles, crossing his muscular arms. “Dean wouldn’t shut up about it. He threatened to hide my skates if I didn’t show up. Put me to work, Y/N, before I change my mind and go back to bed.”
You laugh, motioning toward the empty driveway. “Grab a hose, Graham. The sponges are in the buckets.”
Garrett, Logan, and Tucker disperse, immediately swarmed by a giggling flock of Delta Zetas who are suddenly very eager to demonstrate proper soap application techniques.
Dean doesn’t move. He stays right in front of your table, leaning his hip against the edge.
“The team’s participation comes with a new condition,” Dean says softly, his eyes locking onto yours.
“A condition?” You tilt your head. “I didn’t agree to any conditions.”
“You’re going to want to agree to this one,” Dean promises, that wicked smirk returning. “We wash cars today. We bring in the crowds. And in exchange, you agree to go on a real date with me tonight.”
Your heart does a stupid, happy little flip. “A date.”
“A real date,” Dean confirms. “No bets. No ulterior motives. Just you, me, a disgustingly expensive Italian restaurant downtown, and absolutely zero talk about hockey or sorority budgets.”
You bite your lower lip, trying to maintain a facade of careful consideration. “I don’t know, Dean. I’m pretty busy.”
“I am offering you free labor, Y/N. Look at them.” He gestures behind him.
You look. Garrett, Logan, and Tucker have already pulled their t-shirts over their heads, tossing them onto the grass. The reaction is instantaneous. Cars that were driving past suddenly hit their brakes. A group of girls walking on the opposite side of the street literally change direction and sprint toward your lawn.
“Well,” you say, trying to suppress your laughter. “If it’s for the good of the charity.”
“Exactly. You’re a humanitarian.” Dean reaches out, tracing a single finger over the back of your hand where it rests on the cash box. The light touch sends a jolt of electricity straight up your arm. “So. It’s a yes?”
“It’s a yes,” you agree.
“Perfect.” Dean takes a step back. “Now, where do you want me?”
“You’re a professional,” you tease. “I’m sure you can find a spot. Just make sure you follow the dress code.”
Dean’s grin widens. Without breaking eye contact, he grabs the hem of his gray t-shirt and pulls it smoothly over his head.
You actually forget how to breathe for a second. You saw him naked a week ago, but seeing him out here in the broad daylight is a completely different experience. His chest is broad, sculpted from years of brutal on-ice conditioning, the muscles in his stomach flexing as he tosses the shirt onto your table. The sunlight catches on the light dusting of hair trailing down his stomach, disappearing into the low waistband of his board shorts.
“How’s the dress code looking?” He asks innocently.
“Acceptable,” you manage to choke out.
“Glad to hear it.” Dean winks at you, grabs his bucket, and jogs over to join his teammates.
The next two hours are absolute pandemonium.
Word spreads across campus faster than a wildfire. The Briar hockey team is shirtless at the Delta Zeta house. The line of cars waiting to get washed stretches entirely down the block. Frat boys show up just to see what the commotion is about. Groups of girls from other sororities line the sidewalk, pulling out their phones to record videos of Garrett spraying Logan with the hose, or Tucker politely scrubbing the roof of a minivan for a local soccer mom.
And Dean.
Dean is putting on a show.
You sit on the hood of a dry, parked Jeep Cherokee near the edge of the lawn, taking your state-mandated break. Jess handed you a plastic cup of spiked pink lemonade ten minutes ago, and you are happily sipping it while watching the chaos unfold.
Dean is currently washing a sleek black Audi. He is entirely soaked. Water runs down the planes of his chest, catching the afternoon sun and making his skin glisten. Suds cling to his arms and the waistband of his shorts. He’s laughing at something Logan just said, his head thrown back, running a soapy sponge over the hood of the car with long, effortless strokes.
He looks unfairly sexy. It’s actually offensive to the general public.
Every few minutes, he glances over his shoulder, catching your eye through the crowd. He always gives you a quick smirk or a subtle wink, making sure you know exactly who he’s showing off for.
“I’m going to ask you a question,” Jess says, hopping up onto the hood of the Jeep next to you. She takes a sip of her own lemonade. “And as your sister, I demand absolute honesty.”
“Shoot,” you say, not taking your eyes off Dean.
“Did you sleep with Dean Di Laurentis?”
You choke on your lemonade, coughing as the sour liquid burns the back of your throat. “Excuse me?”
“Don’t play coy with me,” Jess says, bumping her shoulder against yours. “He has been staring at you like you’re his last meal on death row for two hours. And you keep looking at him like you want to drag him into the bushes.”
You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, feeling your face burn. “We’re … hanging out. It’s new.”
Jess lets out a low whistle. “Damn. Good for you. He’s gorgeous. A menace to society, but gorgeous.”
“He’s actually really sweet,” you defend him quietly.
“I’m sure he is.” Jess smirks, hopping off the car. “I’m going to go make sure Logan hasn’t flooded the neighbor’s flower bed. Enjoy the view.”
You smile into your cup. The view is indeed spectacular.
You watch Dean finish rinsing the Audi. He wipes his forehead with the back of his forearm, looking genuinely exhausted but incredibly happy. He tosses his sponge into the bucket, says something to Tucker, and then starts walking toward you.
Your heart does that stupid flip again.
He reaches the Jeep and stops right between your dangling legs, resting his wet, soapy hands on the metal on either side of your thighs. He is breathing hard, radiating heat. The smell of coconut-scented soap, clean sweat, and Dean completely overwhelms your senses.
“You’re working hard,” you note, reaching out to brush a stray, wet curl off his forehead.
Dean leans into your touch instantly. “I’m earning my keep. The lockbox looks full.”
“We broke our fundraising record an hour ago,” you smile. “The shelter is going to be thrilled. Thank you, Dean. Seriously.”
“I told you I’d deliver.” Dean steps closer, until his bare, wet chest is practically brushing against your knees. “Though I expect to be heavily compensated tonight. We’re talking appetizers, an entrée, and at least two desserts.”
“I think I can manage that.”
“Good.” Dean tilts his chin up, his eyes dropping to your lips. “Can I kiss you? I know we’re in public, but you look incredible in that bikini and I have zero self-control.”
You laugh, tangling your fingers into his damp hair at the nape of his neck. “Yes, you can kiss me.”
He doesn’t need to be told twice. Dean leans up, capturing your mouth in a deep, wet, entirely distracting kiss. He tastes like lemonade and sunshine. You pull him closer with your knees, letting your eyes flutter shut as he hums in approval against your lips.
“Well, well, well. Isn’t this a touching scene.”
The loud, grating voice slices through the bubble of your perfect moment like a rusty knife.
You freeze. Dean pulls back, his body stiffening instantly.
You look over Dean’s shoulder. Standing on the sidewalk, holding a red solo cup and flanked by two of his giant, meathead friends, is McMahon.
He looks you up and down, his lip curling into a condescending sneer. Then he looks at Dean.
“Slumming it, Di Laurentis?” McMahon asks loudly, making sure the people around them can hear. “I heard you were desperate for a date, but I didn’t think you’d settle for my sloppy seconds.”
A dead, heavy silence drops over your immediate vicinity. The music is still playing, the water is still running, but everyone within earshot has stopped what they’re doing. Even Garrett and Logan have dropped their hoses, their heads snapping toward the sidewalk.
Your stomach plummets. You instinctively pull your legs back, suddenly feeling entirely too exposed in your bikini, the old, familiar shame threatening to choke you.
But Dean doesn’t step back. He doesn’t let you pull away.
He stands exactly where he is, keeping his hands planted on the Jeep, shielding your body with his own massive frame. Slowly, he turns his head to look at McMahon.
All the playful, charming energy evaporates from Dean’s demeanor. His jaw tightens, the muscles in his back cording with tension. He looks terrifying. He looks like a guy who spends three hours a day slamming people into glass walls for a living.
“What did you just say?” Dean asks. His voice is eerily quiet. It doesn’t boom. It doesn’t yell. It just carries.
McMahon puffs his chest out, trying to look intimidating, but you can see the slight hesitation in his eyes. He clearly wasn’t expecting Dean to look quite so murderous. “I’m just saying, man. You could do better. I already warned you she’s a dead end in bed.”
Garrett takes a step forward, his hands balling into fists, but Dean throws a hand up, stopping his friend in his tracks.
“I don’t need you to fight my battles, Graham,” Dean says, never taking his eyes off McMahon.
Dean turns fully around, facing the wide receiver. He crosses his arms over his bare chest. He doesn’t look angry anymore. He looks amused. And somehow, that’s so much worse.
“You know, McMahon,” Dean says smoothly, his voice carrying perfectly over the background noise. “I actually owe you a thank you.”
McMahon frowns, clearly thrown off script. “What?”
“I said thank you,” Dean repeats, a sharp, patronizing smile touching his lips. “Because if you weren’t such a loudmouth, incompetent idiot, I never would have found her.”
McMahon’s face flushes a dark, ugly red. “Watch your mouth, Di Laurentis.”
“No, you watch mine,” Dean steps off the grass and onto the concrete, closing the distance until he is standing a foot away from McMahon. He has a solid two inches of height on the football player, and he uses every bit of it, looking down his nose with absolute disdain.
“I tried to give you the benefit of the doubt, man,” Dean says loudly, making sure the surrounding crowd can hear every single word. “I really did. I thought, ‘Hey, maybe he’s just new at this. Maybe he doesn’t know where the clit is.’ But then I spent some time with Y/N.”
You cover your mouth with your hand, your eyes widening as a few sorority girls in the background gasp.
“And let me tell you,” Dean continues, his tone conversational but his eyes lethal. “There is absolutely nothing wrong with her. In fact, she is perfectly, beautifully responsive. Explosive, actually.”
McMahon’s jaw drops. “You’re lying.”
“I don’t need to lie,” Dean laughs, a harsh, dismissive sound. “She came three times, McMahon. Three. In the span of an hour. And the only thing she needed was a guy who actually knows what the hell he’s doing.”
The silence on the lawn is absolute. A few frat guys in the back actually let out low whistles of impressed shock.
“So,” Dean concludes, leaning in so close that McMahon actually takes a half-step backward. “The fact that you couldn’t get her off? The fact that you blamed her in front of half the campus? That isn’t her failing, buddy. That is a pathetic testament to your own sexual inadequacy.”
McMahon opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. He looks completely, utterly humiliated. His two buddies have actually taken a step away from him, clearly not wanting to be associated with the collateral damage.
Dean isn’t finished.
He drops the amusement. The lethal seriousness returns, dark and unyielding.
“If I ever hear you talk about her again,” Dean says, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous gravel. “If I ever hear you say her name, or look at her, or breathe in her general direction … I will not use my words next time. I will put you on the ground. Are we clear?”
McMahon swallows hard. He looks around at the massive crowd staring at him, judging him, laughing at him. He looks back at Dean, the reality of the situation finally sinking in.
He doesn’t say a word. He just turns on his heel and stalks away down the sidewalk, his friends trailing awkwardly behind him.
The crowd immediately erupts into whispers and laughter. Someone starts a slow clap that ripples through the hockey team.
Dean completely ignores them. He turns his back on the crowd and walks straight back to you.
You are sitting on the hood of the Jeep, staring at him in absolute awe. The lingering anxiety that McMahon’s appearance had sparked is completely gone. In its place is a rush of pure, unadulterated affection.
No one has ever stood up for you like that. No one has ever publicly, unapologetically claimed you.
Dean stops between your knees again. He looks a little flushed, the tension slowly draining out of his shoulders. He looks up at you, suddenly looking a little unsure.
“Was that too much?” He asks quietly. “I know you don’t like a scene, but I couldn’t just let him-”
You cut him off by grabbing the sides of his face and kissing him.
It’s not a sweet kiss. It is desperate, hot, and entirely public. You pour every ounce of gratitude and desire you have into it, your tongue tangling with his. Dean lets out a rough sound of surprise before his arms wrap tightly around your waist, hauling you flush against his chest, lifting you slightly off the hood of the car.
The crowd around you actually cheers, but you barely hear them.
You pull back, resting your forehead against his. You are both breathing heavy, smiling like idiots.
“That was perfect,” you whisper.
“Yeah?” Dean’s green eyes shine with relief and happiness.
“Yeah. Though you just ruined that man’s reputation forever.”
“He ruined it himself. I just provided the facts.” Dean smirks, rubbing his thumb over your hip bone. “Besides. I told him the truth. You are explosive.”
You swat his shoulder, laughing as a blush covers your cheeks. “Shut up and go wash a car, Di Laurentis. You still have an hour on the clock.”
Dean groans dramatically, dropping his head onto your shoulder. “You are a cruel, demanding taskmaster. I’m being exploited for my body.”
“You love it,” you remind him.
“I do,” Dean admits softly, turning his head to press a lingering kiss to the bare skin of your neck. “I really, really do.”
He pulls back, giving you one last, breathtaking smile.
“I’ll pick you up at seven,” Dean promises. “Wear something that’s easy to take off.”
“Dean!”
He just laughs, a bright, booming sound that echoes over the noise of the car wash. He winks, turns around, and jogs back over to grab his sponge, immediately shoving Logan out of the way to take over a sports car.
You sit on the hood of the Jeep, watching him work.
You think about the girl you were a week ago — convinced you were broken, resigned to a life of quiet disappointment, carrying the weight of incompetent men on your shoulders.
And then you look at Dean. Arrogant, charming, relentless, and fiercely protective. The guy who saw a wall and decided to tear it down with his bare hands.
You take a sip of your lemonade, a soft, permanent smile etched onto your face.
Using your One Wish Willow was supposed to be a joke. What happens now that Leon Kennedy himself is in front of you, seemingly in love with everything you are?
word count: 1.6k, chapter one
content: reverse isekai and transmigration, inspired by Obsession (2025). fluff and angst and eventual smut. short chapters.
A single One Wish Willow.
You found it in a thrift store, tucked away behind novelty mugs and dusty china. If anything, it looked purposely hidden. Perhaps someone wanted it for themselves, but didn’t have the chance to take it yet.
At the resounding price of $3, you thought the box looked interesting enough. A wish that comes true? Surely, it was a bunch of hocus pocus. But something about the worn package and its promise of an incredible happening was too intriguing.
Taking it home meant you inspected the box curiously, fingers gliding over the words.
“Amaze your friends. You only get one wish,” you mumbled to yourself. The characters on the box were cute enough. Part of you didn’t want to open it. Maybe keep it as a decoration in your room, as the trinket it seemingly was.
But… a bigger part of you wanted to see what was inside. Shaking it, you could hear that it physically carried an object.
You figured, ‘fuck it,’ and opened it with careful fingers. Slowly, you extracted the wooden piece from the box. It looked… fine. Normal, even.
You thought to yourself for a moment. What wish would be most fulfilling at this moment? Money? Fame?
You looked around your room. It was quiet, only the hum of whatever sad song you were listening to in the background. Still, you wished for company. Companionship in the shape of a kind lover. Someone who’d love you unconditionally, despite all your flaws.
Your eyes stopped at a picture of him on your desk; a dumb printout meant to make you passingly happy while you lived life tirelessly.
You smiled, chuckling to yourself. Snapping the stick, you jokingly said: “I wish Leon Kennedy was real.”
It was silly, and you knew it. You wished for it anyways. Deep down, you wanted him to exist. To see if you’d get along, form a relationship of any kind. But that was all silly.
At least, until you heard a crackle in your room. Once, then twice. The sparks of life materializing in front of you. You gasped, falling backwards on your bed until your head hit the mattress.
Things kept spinning, yellow and orange pigments shimmering in the center of your room. The world itself seemed to shake, with the rattling of your furniture making your heart pound furiously. You could only stare in fear and awe as he appeared slowly. Blurred locks of blonde hair, a compression shirt, and tactical pants.
It couldn’t be him. No, no. Your eyes were playing a trick on you. Or maybe you were dreaming this all up. Maybe, just maybe, the stick was hallucinogenic? But that was crazy.
You stayed on your bed, practically trembling as you watched him become clearer. More detailed. For a fleeting moment, he looked as he did in-game. But then he became more. Flesh and skin, blood and bones.
He stretched a bit. Then came the familiar sound of his grunts. Quiet, barely there. You screamed. He stumbled back.
“Oh my god!” you squeaked, scrambling away in your bed.
He looked down at himself and at his hands. Leon felt… strange. Different. He couldn’t pinpoint how, though.
You threw a pillow at him, afraid of how this could be occurring. He let it hit him square in the face before catching it in his hands.
“Ouch,” he grumbled.
“Oh my god,” you repeated. “What the fuck.” Your eyes were wide as saucers, unable to look away from him.
“What?” he asked, your panic making him uneasy.
“You!” you exclaimed.
“What about me?”
“You’re real!”
He scoffed, arms crossing over his chest. “Well, of course I’m real.”
You squeaked again, before finally tumbling out of your bed to approach him. Your room wasn’t the biggest, so you were in front of each other now.
The details in his face were astounding. The tired blue eyes. The mole beneath his right nose. The cleft chin. It was all him. Not Eduardo, the face model. All Leon.
Your hand slowly reached out, fingers hovering besides his face. He looked unsure for a moment, which made you pause.
“Sorry,” you mumbled. “You just look…”
“Familiar?” he guessed.
“Uh, yeah.”
The hint of a smirk tugged at his lips. God, those lips. You’ve probably imagined them a million times. And now they were here, in front of you. Your mouth went dry.
“I think I need to sit down…” and you slowly retracted yourself to the edge of the bed.
“Yeah, you’re not looking great.”
You would have made a snarky remark if you weren’t so incredibly baffled. He seemed calm, though. Too calm. Like he didn’t mind being here with you, in your room.
What the fuck was that supposed to mean?
The truth was… Leon couldn’t recall anything. He couldn’t remember anything about himself apart from the basic things. He’s a government agent. He likes Oreos. He’s an orphan, and he’s so, so lonely. Everything else is in bits and pieces; shallow memories that feel a million light years away.
So to suddenly show up in the comfort of your home… it didn’t seem so bad. And he thinks you’re cute, as startled as you are.
After your initial shock, you had to let him take refuge in your room. Where else was he supposed to go? He could tell he wasn’t home. Not near his sad apartment in D.C., and it wasn’t one of those nightmares where he was in Raccoon City again. This was different.
Your room was warm. Nice. You had little pictures on the walls, some personal and some not. Your bookshelf was littered with little toys and knickknacks. He could see himself being happy here. Much happier.
When it was nighttime, and you’d successfully kept Leon away from anyone who’d notice him, you finally got to thinking about your sleep dilemma.
“So…” you started, twisting your fingers together awkwardly.
He sat on the chair of your desk patiently, like a puppy awaiting instruction. It made your heart palpitate. He did that to you in general, you noticed.
“Bedtime,” you said. “Uh, you can take my bed. I’ll set something up on the floor.”
His eyes narrowed. “No,” he said without hesitation. “No way. I’ll take the floor.”
“But—”
“Trust me,” he said with a tiny smirk. “I’ve been in worse sleeping situations than this.”
You wanted to offer the two of you to share the bed, desperately, but you didn’t have a king. If the two of you slept together, there’d be unavoidable points of contact. And were you ready for that, now that Leon was actually here? You almost died when he patted your shoulder earlier. There was no way you’d survive sharing a bed.
“O-Okay,” you finally said. “But I’ll make sure to give you lots of pillows and blankets.”
“Deal,” he said with a nod.
“Right, okay.”
You hurriedly got to organizing him a spot on the floor, with him watching you curiously. You’d been so skittish that he felt a need to calm you down. He doesn’t know how, though. He’s never been too good at the comforting thing.
Pulling the various pieces from your bed and a closet in the hallway, you successfully set up a makeshift bed on the ground for him.
“Ta-da,” you said.
He smiled, just barely, and it felt like sunshine. You’d watched him smile at Ashley Graham in game, but when it was aimed at you? Geez.
“Thanks,” he said. “Looks comfy.”
You let out a small, awkward laugh. “Yeah. I tried.”
His smile grew a fraction and he shook his head, finally standing up from the chair. He didn’t seem to care that he wasn’t dressed for bed, even if you’d been in your pajamas for a while. He still settled into the floor, as calm as ever.
“You need anything before I, you know…”
He shook his head ‘no’ and slowly laid until he could pull a blanket over himself. “‘m fine,” he said.
You exhaled, nodding to yourself. “Okay, cool.” Reaching over him to turn the light off, you quieted your voice. “Well, goodnight.”
“Night.”
You went back to your bed, where you closed your eyes. And you were too aware of him and his breaths. In and out, as gentle as the spring breeze.
You closed your eyes, and sleep felt impossible. You wondered if you’d wake up, and he’d be gone. That seemed likely, ‘cause again, maybe you were just high as shit and imagining him.
But sleep eventually claimed you.
When you woke up, it was still dark. There was a small rasp against your desk. Quiet scratches. Your head lifted from your pillow, and you squinted as he stood at the edge of your bed.
“Leon?”
“Hm?”
“What are you doing?” you asked.
“Nothing,” he said. “Couldn’t sleep.”
Right. Nightmares. Leon was a haunted man, with an awful backstory. Tragic. That was the reality.
“Um, well…”
“Can I sleep in your bed? With you?”
You froze. That was simultaneously the best and worst idea.
“Uh…”
“It’s okay if you don’t want to,” he whispered. His eyes seemed to practically glow. “I’m just… not used to this.”
“Used to what?”
“Feeling… comfortable around someone.”
“What?”
“Yeah,” he said slowly. “I feel pretty comfortable around you. Dunno why.”
“Oh.”
Was that really what this was about? He found comfort in you?
“Well, I guess it’s okay.”
“Really?” he asked, but he was already climbing in.
You scooted over to make space for him. “Yeah, yeah. Of course. No big deal.”
“Thanks.”
You took in a breath, trying not to tremble. Leon was right beside you now, looking at you with kind, appreciative eyes. And you didn’t know what to do.
pairing: neighbor!simon “ghost” riley x neighbor!reader
summary: you ask your neighbor for help with your gardening
masterlist!
“okay, maybe i can’t do this on my own,” you huffed to yourself, wiping the sweat off your forehead with the back of your hand. your car’s trunk was open, you leaned inside, hunched over a large bag of soil compost, another large bag of perlite positioned next to it. you’ve been trying to pick up this stupid bag of compost for the last five minutes, failing to even lift it an inch. you needed a fucking break, choosing to rest your torso against the plastic, plump boobs pushed up to your chin.
“ya need some help there, fawn?” you heard a deep voice ask, yelping at the gruff accent that startled you, jumping up from the trunk, a loud thud being heard, followed by an ow. hitting the back of your head on the car’s roof, and it hurt so damn bad, hand quickly moving to the injured spot. “oh shit,” the sound of footsteps getting closer to you.
you felt a hand on the small of your back, guiding you out of your trunk and straightening your spine when you were free. you felt a second hand on the top of your head, assuming the person was shielding you from another potential injury. “s’ always somethin’ involvin’ m’ tha’ scares ya,” he tells you, moving his large hand from your head, taking hold of your tiny hand, the one that wasn’t clinging your bodily harm. “hi ghost,” you still sweetly say, despite your pain. “hi y/n,” he replies, now rubbing circles on your lower back, skull balaclava ruffling in the wind. oh, your neighbor was so enamored by you, obsessed with your good-natured spirit.
the brit had stepped outside his house for a smoke, your small figure repeatedly moving from your car to your house grabbing his attention. he noticed you were carrying things inside, taking a final inhale and puff before putting out the bud and walking towards your driveway. the man decided he would help his little neighbor, still feeling bad for the way his dog frightened you. he’s seen you since in passing, mostly while you’re on your walks, a beautiful smile adorned your features while you waved to him, the man nodding in return, but he hasn’t had the opportunity to actually speak with you. you seemed like your were struggling with the last couple of items, so what better chance than now?
the man’s cheeks reddened at your state. seeing your full, round ass perched in the air, plush thighs spread slightly, it was doing things to him, ghost moving a hand to his clothed dick. you were such a pretty bonnie to your british neighbor, the brute shaking his mind free of all the dirty thoughts he conjured, m’ here to help tha’ lass out, he reminded himself.
frowning at your current predicament, “saw ya strugglin’ and jus’ wanted to see if ya wanted m’ help?” he’s looking at the back of your head now, examining the damage, “m’ so sorry ‘bout yer pretty head, hon.”
“no worries! it doesn’t hurt too much anymore,” you try to reassure, but the ex lieutenant didn’t miss the way you winced when his hand grazed over the area. looking into his eyes, you continued, “i could actually use some help,” you attempt to change the subject, “i’m trying to make a strawberry tower, infinite strawberries for all eternity!” a beat. “what?”
“i saw a tutorial on how to make a plant tower for strawberries to grow in. i’ve been wanting to start a new project for a while, and i guess today is the first day, haha,” you giggle while explaining.
you showed your neighbor the video you were referring to, ghost nodding his head, “m’ can help ya with tha’. shouldn’ be too hard for us, fawn,” he winked next, you looking down at your intertwined fingers. he detected the blush on your cheeks, patting your back with his other hand, “let’s get to work, yeah?”
with a final squeeze to your hand, he walked you a couple of steps backwards, going to your trunk alone. you couldn’t stop your jaw from dropping at his succeeding actions, your neighbor picking up both bags of soil compost and perlite in one arm, using his available one to shut your trunk.
he faced you, gesturing you to lead the way. “is that not heavy, ghost?” your mouth still agape, leading the man to your backyard. “don’ weigh nothin’,” he shrugged. “not fair,” you mumbled, holding your front door open, the brute laughing. “the backyard door is at the very end, just keep walking straight.”
ghost couldn’t stop his eyes from roaming, couldn’t help observing your home, taking in your colorful furniture and abstract decorations. he needed to find ways to be in here more, a complete opposition to his dark furniture and boring, plain walls.
you opened the back door for him, following him to your pile of other gardening objects, “i already brought everything else here, so we can start now!”
you and ghost had been working on this project for a little over an hour, riley now running around in your backyard, barking at the occasional squirrel he saw. your neighbor brought him over about half an hour ago, you actually asking him if riley could come. “of course he can.”
ghost did all of the harder, physical labor, while you did more of the prepping, removing his shirt at some point, using it to wipe the sweat from his toned body. the sight was heavenly, his strong build sending a throb to your core, imagining feeling all his muscles with your hands. you coughed and awkwardly looked away when he caught you staring, a snicker leaving him. “u-uh, here’s the tutorial,” a cute stutter as you fumbled for your phone.
he obeyed the instructions, sticking the plant stake deep into the ground. you spent time cutting draining holes into each of your pots, placing them on the stick, alternating each one to build your tower. you watched your shirtless neighbor pour in the compost and perlite, the sweat glistening on his muscles making you salivate. ghost was so fucking attractive and he treated you so nicely. you felt yourself developing a little crush on your neighbor, wanting to somehow spend more time with him.
you buried your soaked strawberry roots into the pots after he flattened the mixture, the man going to grab your water hose while you were finishing up the last one. “all the strawberry roots are in!” you happily exclaimed, petting riley when he ran up to you.
you proceeded giving riley pets, the large brit spraying the hose over your strawberry tower. “s’ all officially done, sweets. we did it,” ghost tells you, joining you in your pets after returning your hose.
before you could stop yourself, you hugged him when he squatted down, ghost rocking back and forth, trying to balance both of you, “thank you so much for your help, ghost! it means so, so much to me,” you say, arms wrapping around his neck.
feeling his arms circle your waist, massive hands roaming your back, you wanted to melt in his hold, felt so weak in it, “m’ help ya with whateva’, fawn. wheneva’ ya need somethin, need anythin’, you tell m’, yeah?”
he pulls back at your lack of response, clutching your chin in his tight grip, forcing your attention on him, your eyes on him. “tha’s’ no good,” he tsks, raising your chin higher, leaning your head back, “m’ asked ya a question.”
“i u-understand, sir,” you gulped out, the man releasing his hold on your face, you wrapping yourself around him again. “good.”
he kept you in his hold for a while longer, the both of you craving this for longer than you’d like to admit. feeling your hot neighbor’s beefy muscles around your smaller frame, oh, it was just straight ecstasy. what would it take to get this man inside? get in his pants? the things you’d do to ghost, yeah, you needed that.
maybe you could invite him over for dinner one day?
★ reader loves animals deeply leon and reader are married, pure fluff.
★ di or re9 leon but can be any
★ i wrote this during a cetacean biology class lol
The apartment is quiet except for the soft hum of the TV, there’s some nature documentary playing softly. You and Leon barely pay attention to it anymore.
You’re curled comfortably against Leon’s side on the couch, with some peanuts while he scrolls lazily through his phone.
His free hand lazily caresses your arm and his lips often meet the top of your head, your shampoo clouding his senses.
¨What’s your favourite animal?¨ He asks suddenly.
You glance up immediately with your eyebrow slightly risen.
¨That’s random…¨
Leon shrugs without looking away from his phone.
¨Surprise me.¨
You think for a second before smiling softly.
¨Whales.¨
That finally makes him look up from his phone and at you, as you are already looking at him.
¨Whales?¨ Leon repeats, taken by surprise at your answer.
You laugh softly curling even more against his chest.
¨Yeah, whales.¨
¨Why?¨
Your expression softens instantly and look down at the bowl resting over your lap.
¨They’re really emotional animals.¨ You murmur. ¨They have strong family bonds. Some species even stay connected for life.¨
Leon watches you softly. Your words sink in. His lips curl into a soft smile, he understands now why they are your favorite animals. They’re just like you.
¨They protect each other a lot too,¨ You continue quietly.¨ especially the babies.¨
Something warm settles inside Leon’s chest. You always got softer talking about things you loved.
¨Plus!¨ you grin suddenly, looking back at him¨ Baby whales are sooo cute.¨
Leon huffs softly through his nose.
¨Cute until they sink your boat.¨
¨They don’t sink boats!¨ You scoff playfully.
¨I’m tellin’ you right now, if I ever see one in real life, I’m keepin my distance.¨
You laugh.
¨Coward.¨
Leon immediately pulls you closer against his chest.
¨I’m just smart.¨
You roll your eyes before giving him a soft kiss. You grab the TV remote control and change it to something more entertaining.
Little did you know Leon’s is preparing a big surprise.
Months later, cold ocean wind whips softly through your hair while the boat rocks gently beneath your feet.
You still haven’t fully recovered from realizing where Leon brought you.
¨You remembered,¨ you murmur for probably the fifth time that morning.
Leon leans lazily against the railing beside you wearing sunglasses and a dark jacket. A huge contrast to your bright orange bikini set.
¨You say I have memory problems.¨
¨You barely remember where your car keys are.¨
¨That’s different.¨
Your laugh mixes softly with the sound of waves around the boat. You’ve barely stopped smiling since you got out of the plane.
You look at the crystal clear water in front of you, the sun reflecting against it. Everything around you screams calm. Except the excitement in your stomach.
¨You’re excited.¨
You glance up at him immediately.
¨Of course!¨
A faint smirk pulls at the corner of his mouth.
¨You’ve talked about whales more these last two days than normal people talk about their families.¨
Leon snorts softly.
The guide toward the front of the boat continues explaining migration patterns to the group nearby.
¨Remember everybody, sightings aren’t guaranteed today.¨ You overhear the guide. Your expression falls immediately.
¨Told you,¨ He murmurs softly beside you, caressing your arm. ¨Ocean’s kinda big. There’s a chance your giant sea cows don’t show up.¨
You gasp quietly.
¨They are not cows!¨
¨They are huge.¨
¨They are more than that.¨ You argue.
¨They are still huge.¨
You smile softly before opening your mouth to argue again. Then suddenly.
A massive spray of water erupts in the distance. The entire boat goes silent.
Your heart skips a beat and you swore you could cry at the excitement you feel in your chest.
Your hand grabs Leon’s sleeve instantly.
¨Oh my god.¨
A whale breaches partially through the water. Huge, swimming gracefully.
Your entire body freezes beside him. Leon physically feels your grip tighten around his arm.
¨No way…¨ You whisper breathlessly.
Leon feels his shoulder relax, almost letting out a sigh. He’s been praying that you get to see the whales today. He’d actually feel disappointed if you both didn’t.
The guide starts talking excitedly nearby but you barely hear any of it.
Another shape surfaces beside the whales. Way smaller. A baby whale.
Your entire face softens quickly, your lips turn into a small pout it almost hurts Leon to look at it.
He glances between the whales and your expression. The whales, mildly terrifying. You, completely enchanted.
The calf surfaces closer this time. A soft rush of air leaves its blowhole before it disappears beneath the water again, circling lazily near the boat.
You almost fly to the edge of the boat, gripping the metal bar tightly.
¨Leon,¨ You whisper, like speaking too loud might scare them away. ¨It’s so little. A little baby.
You laugh softly under your breath, without looking away from the water. The small sound of water can be heard as the baby whale surfaces curiously again.
The people on the boat gasp quietly while cameras start clicking somewhere behind you.
Meanwhile Leon watches the mother. A huge shadow beneath the water. Calm yet ever watchful.
¨She’s definitely judging us.¨ He mutters quietly.
You look back at him. ¨She’s literally just existing,¨
¨She could flip this boat if she wanted.¨
¨You’re scared of whales?¨
¨I’m respectful of creatures that weight more than military vehicles.¨ You laugh. Leon could listen to that sound forever.
The calf is now beside the railing you’re standing on. It makes a soft clicking noise to its mother, which answers loudly.
Your entire face melts instantly, you have to cover your mouth.
¨Oh my God, did you hear that.¨
Leon nods slightly.
You lean slightly over the railing carefully, completely fascinated now. Waving like an idiot to the calf beneath you.
¨Hi baby.¨ You kneel down, your hand still on the metal bar, whispering to the baby whale, you’re pretty sure people around you think you’re crazy. ¨Hi sweet boy¨
Leon slowly turns his head towards you.
The calf makes a soft clicking noise while surfacing again. Your hand immediately flies to your chest.
¨You are SO cute.¨ You continue emotionally, almost like talking to a baby. ¨Yes, yes you are. Perfect baby. Sweet angel.¨
Leon blinks. Completely speechless.
The whale calf circles in front of you. Making you melt over the railing.
¨I love you sososososo much.¨ You whisper dramatically towards the ocean creature.
He stares at you in complete disbelief. You’ve always been this way with animals. Everytime you both see a puppy at the park you always gotta whisper sweet things to it like it's yours.
¨That thing could flip this boat over.¨
You gasp quietly without taking your eyes off the whale.
¨Don’t say that in front of him.¨
¨Him?¨ Leon repeats. ¨You assigned it a gender already?¨
¨Well, he feels like a boy.¨
¨The whale feels like a boy?¨
¨Mhm.¨ You nod.
Leon drags a hand slowly down his face.
The calf surfaces again closer this time making another curious sound towards the boat.
You open your mouth slightly.
¨Oh my God, he talked to me, Leon!¨
Leon lets out a stunned laugh.
¨Look at this little face.¨
¨Baby, that thing is bigger than you.¨ He blinks, pointing at the baby.
¨And yet he’s still a baby.¨
¨They’re so social.¨ You speak a bit louder this time. ¨Especially calves. They learn from their mothers constantly.¨
Your voice carries the same warmth from months ago on the couch. The same softness. Leon still remembers every word.
The calf makes another small sound, almost answering back making your heart skip a beat. You feel like a Disney princess.
¨Leon,¨ You whisper. ¨Do you realize how lucky we are right now?¨
Leon watches you instead of the whales. ¨Starting to.¨
The baby swims closer to its mother again, brushing gently to her side as they both swim closer to the boat this time.
Your hand immediately flies to your chest.
¨Oh my God,¨ You mumble. ¨I can’t handle this.¨
Leon laughs quietly under his breath.
¨Yes, you can.¨
¨No, I actually can’t.¨ You turn towards him, still knelt down. ¨This changed me as a person.¨
¨That dramatic, huh?¨ He crosses his arms.
¨You don’t understand.¨ You point emotionally towards the whales. ¨Look at them.¨
Leon obediently looks back at the giant ocean creatures, both of them capable of destroying the boat.
The calf swims close to its mother now, brushing its head gently across its mother fin.
Then he looks back at you.
Your expression softens softly at the gentle action of the calf.
¨Leon.¨ You look up at him with complete sincerity. ¨I want a baby.¨
He nearly chokes on absolutely nothing.
¨What?¨
You gesture dramatically towards the whales again.
¨Look at THEM.¨
¨I am lookin’ at them.¨
¨Now I want a baby.¨
Leon stares at you silently while the ocean breeze blows your hair softly. His hand slides over his mouth trying to hide the laugh escaping him.
¨You can’t just say things like that outta nowhere, sweety.¨
¨I’m having an emotional experience.¨ You say, defending yourself.
¨You’re havin’ a whale-induced baby fever.¨
¨Yeah.¨ At least you’re honest.
Leon’s eyes drift toward the mother whale swimming beside her calf. And then, to the happiness tainting your face.
Both, mother and calf, make a small sound before disappearing beneath the water.
Leon looks at the whales for another second before looking back at you. At the excitement still glowing across your face.
He feels content. The whole trip was for this, not only the whales but for you. About seeing you happy.
His hand slides quietly into yours, his warm fingers intertwined with yours. He helps you stand up
It takes you by surprise. You turn at him immediately. Leon shrugs softly.
¨Figured whale expert needed some emotional support.¨
Your smile turns unbearably soft.
¨Thank you for bringing me here, baby.¨
Leon’s chest tightens at the softness of your voice.
¨Yeah, baby.¨ He murmurs quietly against your lips ¨Worth it.¨ He says, before finally locking his lips with yours in a soft kiss.
tags | angst, abusive relationships, reader is married to another man, blood, murder of animals eventually, eventual smut, religious guilt, infidelity, darker than most concepts I write, please heed the tags before each chapter as this story is 18+
"When I look in your eyes I see the entire galaxy reflecting back at me"
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Pairings: re9!husband!leon x wife!reader
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Genre : fluff, romance, banter, emotional intimacy, soft leon, flirt
°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･
Summary - Waking up beside your husband: Leon, every morning was a feeling not even the seven heavens above could compete with.
And as you lay there beside him, watching the quiet rise and fall of his chest, all you could feel was utterly enchanted by beautiful scene before you.
WC : 1.3k
As soft morning light filtered through the blinds of your bedroom, brushing your skin in pale gold, your eyes slowly fluttered open.
And a sleepy sound escaped your lips as you turned your head toward the bear of a man sleeping beside you.
Leon was literally completely out of it.
And somehow that made you far too aware of him. Then you rolled over on your side, beneath the blankets, taking your time as you admired him.
God. He looked gorgeous like this. His messy blond hair had fallen across his forehead during the night, stubborn strands sticking out in every direction.
His soft brown freckles decorated his pale skin, scattered across his nose and cheeks like tiny constellations. And you smile faintly as you notice his nose scrunched lazily before relaxing again, while his ridiculously long lashes rested against his eyes.
You groaned at the sight, then your eyes traveled to down to his lips and you were actually shocked; because of how good they looked at first thing in the morning. You simply stared at them for a bit and the sight before you made your heart swell pleasantly against your ribs.
And a soft hum escaped you as you reached across the duvet and gently brushed your fingers against his cheek, tracing his skin softly.
But of course he didn't react.
And that alone gave you a beautiful idea.
Your smile widened as you leaned over him, your gaze lingering on his sleeping face for a moment longer.
Then, overcome by a sudden wave of what could only be described as cute aggression, you pressed a soft kiss to his forehead, letting your lips linger there briefly before pulling away.
A fond smile tugged at your lips, and you leaned in again, pressing another gentle kiss against the side of his temple.
He doesnt move.
So you kissed his cheek, and a giggle bubble up your chest. Then slowly you pressed your lips on his nose.
"God, Leon you're so pretty."
Then his jaw.
"My husband." You smiled and murmured against his skin.
Though still nothing, so you pulled back a bit, Leon wasnt making any noises except few snore that sounded way too fake.
You narrowed your eyes suspiciously at him, because he was way too still and there was absolutely no way Leon Kennedy slept this deeply.
Determined now, you gently brushed your fingers through his hair before trailing them down his arm, slowly tracing the muscles beneath his shirt.
Goosebumps rose over his body as his breathe deepens but he doesnt wake.
"Uh-oh you are gonna play this game, hm?" you whispered and poked his cheek.
He was still-still.
Then you cradled his face before squishing it slightly. Your eyes narrowed further at him and you playfully hum, “Guess I could bite him now.”
Finally, the corner of his mouth twitched upward, the skin around his eyes crinkling slightly even though he still refused to open them.
The moment you caught it, you immediately sat upright, a betrayed smile spreading across your face. "You're awake." you accused and in same breath you gasped dramatically. "You are a terrible actor!"
But still he plays pretend and lies still, then slowly sighing you lean closer to him, "Leon."
The next thing you knew, a strong arm slipped around your waist. You barely had time to let out a startled squeak before the world tilted beneath you.
In one smooth motion, Leon pulled you down onto him, and suddenly you found yourself sprawled across his chest. "Leon!" you yelped, gripping his shoulders as his laughter rumbled beneath you.
"You were saying?" He chuckles deeply, his words vibrating in your chest.
"You were pretending to sleep!"
"You kissed me like twelve times." Leon grins.
"You counted?"
"I counted every single one."
Your face immediately warmed, as heat spreads across your chest and the traitor only looked pleased with himself.
And you notice his one arm remained securely around your waist while the other settled behind his head. His eyes were still heavy with sleep, yet amusement danced inside them.
"You look very proud of yourself," you giggled, rubbing your chin lightly against his chest as you settled more comfortably on top of him. The motion only seemed to make his smug expression grow wider.
"I am." He mumbled.
"For what?"
"Catching you." Leon teased as he rubbed his chin across your hairs, making you giggle again.
Then as you gaze up at him, his smile softened a moment later, and his eyes slothfully locked on yours, like he was seeing something worth millions.
Your heartbeat stumbled at his softened reaction. "What?"
For a moment he simply looked at you. Then his hand came up, brushing a loose strand of hair behind your ear.
His expression turned unexpectedly gentle and he whispers with a smile, "When I look in your eyes," he paused then takes a big deep breath before continuing, "I see the entire galaxy reflecting back at me."
Your breath get caught in your lungs again, "Wow."
The smug smile returned instantly on his face. "Wow?"
"You are so cheesy first thing in the morning," you teased, though your heart was already betraying you, drumming frantically against your chest as warmth spread across your face.
"I was being romantic," he pouted, his lips jutting out ever so slightly as he looked at you with exaggerated offense.
You mumbled against his chest. "Fine, fine... it made my heart stutter."
Leon chuckled softly at that before pressing a kiss against your temple.
Then he rested his chin lightly atop your head as you settled more comfortably against his chest. Your own chin found its place on his shoulder while his arms remained securely around you.
You stayed like that, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat echoing beneath your ear.
After a while, you glanced up at him and found his eyes closed, a peaceful expression settling across his features.
A small smile tugged at your lips at the sight. For all his toughness, Leon was an absolute softie when it came to you, and moments like these reminded you of that more than anything else.
For a while you just stayed there tangled in each other as morning sunlight continued to spill across the room.
While the blankets tangled between your legs.
You felt so comfortable lying on top of him that it genuinely felt as though you were resting on a cloud.
As the two of you gradually relaxed into the quiet of the morning, you tilted your head upward, your chin brushing lightly against his chest. "When did you wake up?" you asked, letting out a soft sigh against his skin as you looked up at him.
Leon didn't even open his eyes this time, instead he hummed and replied, "When you were staring at me."
You laughed shaking your head and lifted your head to look at him. "You were awake at that point?" you asked, disbelief and amusement slipping into your voice.
"You know when you stirred I though you were going to be awake and I can't sleep when you're not near me. Can't help it, baby," he said, his eyes softening as he looked at you.
A quiet sigh escaped you at his words, and you melted further against his chest, feeling strangely safe there, almost as if you were being held by an angel, instead of Leon.
The sound you made earned another kiss against your temple. Then Leon pulled you even closer against his chest, his arms tightening around you as though he had no intention of letting go anytime soon.
Absentmindedly, your fingers found his biceps, tracing lazy circles over them while you settled comfortably against him.
Neither of you made any effort to leave the warmth of the bed, content to remain tangled together in the quiet comfort of the morning. Because after all, some mornings were simply too good to rush.
okay hear me out.. RE6 Leon is female!readers mission partner right… and she trained under him and whenever she would do something wrong he clicks his tongue. ACCIDENTALLY SORT OF CLICKER TRAINING READER and mayhaps it leads to some nsfw stuff during a mission??🫣🫣
I'm so sorry but I could not find a way to sneak the smut in there! But I really hope you like this either way. (Also RE6 is so underrated! I played it with my partner and it was a blast!)
Summary: Leon accidentally clicker trains you. Pavlov would be proud.
One Shot Masterlist
Pavlov was a Dick - Leon Kennedy x Reader
The first time it happens, neither of you notices.
Which is probably why it gets so bad.
Training under Leon Kennedy is, frankly, a nightmare. He’s not particularly cruel or unfair, no. Actually, you couldn’t be trained by anyone better. In a way, that’s the problem. He's annoyingly good at everything he does.
Every stance correction is perfect. Every critique is somehow correct. Every piece of advice immediately solves whatever problem you're having. It's insufferable.
"Your shoulders."
You immediately straighten. Leon nods once. "Better."
You hate how satisfying that approval feels.
You hate it even more when he clicks his tongue. It's never loud. Just a small little sound whenever you do something stupid.
Miss a target?
Click.
Forget to check a corner?
Click.
Nearly trip over your own feet during a drill?
He made the noise twice that time. Click click.
It's not even intentional. Half the time he doesn't seem aware he's doing it. But after months of training together, the sound becomes synonymous with one thing; you've done something wrong.
Unfortunately, your brain decides to take that information and run with it.
.
.
.
It becomes apparent during a mission six months later. Leon is crouched beside you, behind an overturned vehicle, while gunfire erupts across the street.
His hand comes up, holding up three fingers. You understand immediately.
Three hostiles. You nod.
He gestures again, this time waving his hand a little to the left.
Left side is mine. Another nod. With that, you start standing up, readying your weapon-
Click.
You sit back down so fast you nearly give yourself whiplash. Both of you freeze.
Leon blinks.
You blink.
"...Why did you do that?" The words are whispered, barely audible under the noise of the gunfire.
Your mouth opens. Then closes. You sit there a moment, mouthing out unintelligible words. Then, "...I don't know."
Neither of you thinks much about it.
… At first. Then it happens again. And again. And again.
A month later, while sloughing through the underground ruins of a cathedral, his newest tag along finds out.
She’s a nice young woman. A bit younger than him, with chestnut brown hair and kind eyes. Her name is Helena, if you’re recalling correctly.
You’re reaching for something when Leon clicks his tongue. Immediately, without hesitation, you pull back
Her eyebrow raises. "Wait.”
Both you and Leon give her a confused glance.
“Leon…” she takes a breath, “Make that noise again.”
He does. As if on cue, you step a little closer to him, your eyes snapping to his form, as if waiting for a command.
Helena’s eyes widen. "Oh."
You give her a confused look, before starting to walk again. Helena clicks her tongue.
You freeze. The room goes silent.
Then, Helena lets out a laugh. It’s the most genuine reaction you’ve ever heard from her. You can almost see tears forming in her eyes as she doubles over, chuckles falling from her lips.
"You clicker trained your partner!"
Leon’s arms come up in defence. "I did not."
"You absolutely did." The woman gestures towards you both.
"I did not."
"You made her into a golden retriever!"
More laughter. You can feel yourself melting into an embarrassed puddle as Leon just shouts.
"I DID NOT."
.
.
.
The worst part is that once everyone notices, nobody lets it go.
Chris finds out, while you both try to pursue Ada Wong. Then Piers. Then, Sherry and Jake. Suddenly everyone is testing it.
It's humiliating. It's horrible. It's nonstop.
Click.
You stop peeking out from cover.
Click.
You stop running and start listening.
Click.
You skid to a halt mid run.
The last one makes Leon groan loudly enough to be heard from feet behind you. "This is my fault."
"This is absolutely your fault."
He just rolls his eyes. "I didn't mean to do it."
Helena is quick to snort. "You Pavlov'd her."
"That's really not what Pavlov did."
"You know what I mean."
Meanwhile, you're standing still, watching helplessly while this argument happens around you. Honestly, you're still not entirely convinced it's real.
Until after the mission is over.
The two of you are alone in the safehouse. It's late. Everyone's exhausted. You're sitting on the floor cleaning your pistol when Leon walks into the room carrying two coffees.
Without thinking, you reach for yours. You don’t go for the handle. Instead, you reach for the mug itself.
The cup is hot. Very hot. Hot enough to burn. Leon’s brows raise.
Click.
Your hand jerks away before you even register the sound. The movement is instant. Automatic. Reflexive. The room goes quiet. Slowly, you both look down at the coffee. Then at each other. Then, back at the coffee.
"...Oh."
"...Yeah."
For some reason, that's the moment it finally hits him. Not necessarily because it’s funny, or because everyone keeps teasing him, no. It’s because he realizes how much you've trusted him.
For months.
Every correction. Every lesson. Every warning. Every tiny click of his tongue. Somewhere along the way, your brain decided that sound meant safety.
To listen to him. That he's trying to help.
The realization hits Leon right in the chest.
He looks away first, which is unusual. He's never been particularly good at hiding things from you.
"What?" you ask.
His jaw flexes slightly. "Nothing."
"You're being weird."
A pause. "...You listen to me."
Your brow furrows. "Usually? Duh?"
"No, I mean..." He exhales softly. "You really trust me."
The words make you freeze for a moment. He hands you the coffee carefully this time, turning it so that you can grab the handle. His shoulder bumps yours when he sits beside you. For a moment, neither of you speaks. He feels warm beside you.
Then, Click.
Your head immediately turns toward him.
Leon bursts out laughing. It’s the happiest he’s sounded in days.
