hiii do u by any chance write for john logan 🥺👉🏻👈🏻 i truly love ur writings and im so excited to see what u have in store for him!!
hello, friend! yes yes yes, i very much do, and am in the process of writing a few fics for him 🤍 at the moment, i have a lot of inspiration for the idea of him out of college, playing for the bruins. but there will also be some fics set at Briar U, of course! thanks so much for reaching out 🤍 -Honey
Warning(s); Tension, kissing (barely), enemies to lovers vibe but not really enemies or lovers, reader plays for the women's hockey team, edited but not really.
Summary; Reader can't stand Dean Dilaurentis
Word Count; 1.6k
Author’s Note; This is super short, but if there is interest, I would absolutely be open to writing a smutty part two 😆. Also if you would like to be added to my taglist, feel free to comment or msg me! I separate my tag lists by character, so you can specify Off Campus to get tagged for all, or specify any of the guys individually (I will eventually be writing for each of them.) Hope all is well in your corner of the world. Go Canucks! - Honey
Dean Masterlist
Dean Di Laurentis had a reputation, and the thing about reputations at Briar was that they preceded you everywhere. Into the dining hall, into your lectures, into the locker room two floors below the one you used. You'd heard his name before you ever laid eyes on him, whispered between girls in the hallway outside the athletic center like he was something worth talking about. Di Laurentis. Said the way you'd say a brand name, something expensive and impractical that you knew better than to want.
You'd rolled your eyes then. You still rolled them now.
The problem was that you couldn't avoid him. That was the particular cruelty of being a Briar athlete in the sense that your worlds overlapped in inconvenient ways. Same training facility, same dining hall priority hours, same handful of professors who were particularly forgiving to D1 athletes. You'd see him across the weight room, golden-blond hair a sweaty mess, green eyes catching the light like he was engineered specifically to be noticed. He'd flash that smile at whatever girl happened to be walking past, and she'd dissolve, and you'd feel something sharp and irritating twist in your chest that you refused to call anything other than contempt.
Because that was what it was. Contempt. Plain and simple.
Dean Di Laurentis was everything you couldn't stand wrapped up in one infuriatingly gorgeous, tall package. He was reckless and loud, the kind of guy who treated every room like it was already throwing him a party, and he’d walk into a space and immediately begin rearranging it around himself. He was louder than everyone else, funnier than everyone else, more comfortable in his own skin than any person had a right to be. It was the confidence that annoyed you the most. That breezy, unearned certainty that the world found him as charming as he found himself.
He was a manwhore. There was no softer word for it. A rotating carousel of girls in the hallway of the arena, a different name in every group chat, a reputation so consistent it had practically become institutional. Di Laurentis. And the worst part wasn't even that he made no effort to hide it, it was that he actively enjoyed the attention. Dean Di Laurentis made it look effortless, and he had no shame. Women just fell into his orbit the way satellites fall into a planet's gravity without being asked.
You had decided, very early on, that you were not going to be one of those satellites.
And for two years, you weren't.
Then came Saturday, a night after the mens hockey team had beat Denver 4-0.
You hadn't even wanted to go. Your friend Priya had dragged you out with the kind of relentless optimism that only exists in people who sleep eight hours a night and never have morning skates. It'll be fun, she'd said. You need to relax, she'd said. You'd gone because the alternative was sitting in your dorm watching film for the fourth consecutive night and even you had limits.
The party was exactly what you expected: loud, crowded, the kind of organized chaos that only a house full of Division I hockey players could produce. You'd stationed yourself near the kitchen with a drink you weren't really touching, watching the room with the detached assessment you applied to everything that took you slightly out of your comfort zone.
You'd been doing fine, genuinely fine, right up until a certain blonde materialized at your elbow.
"You look like you're casing the place," he said, leaning against the counter beside you like he'd always been there. Up close he was worse than across the weight room. He was broader, somehow, and the green of his eyes was almost unreasonable. He smelled like something woodsy and expensive.
"I'm watching the game," you said flatly, nodding toward the TV in the corner where a few guys had gathered around a console.
"Uh-huh." Dean sounded completely unconvinced. He also did not move. "You're on the women's team, right? Defense?"
You looked at him for the first time. He was watching you with that easy, unguarded curiosity that you suspected he turned on everyone, that brand of attention that was designed to feel like being chosen. "Sure," you said.
"Sure?" He raised an eyebrow, a half-smile tugging at his mouth, dimples just peaking out. "That's a weird way to confirm your own position."
"It's a weird way to start a conversation."
He laughed, and you felt slightly disarmed by how genuine it sounded. "Fair enough," he said. "I'm Dean."
"I know who you are."
Something flickered in his expression. Not displeasure, more like intrigued, the way a cat looks at a closed door. "And?"
"And nothing." You turned back toward the room. "It was a statement, not an invitation."
He stayed anyway, and that should have been your first warning. Dean Di Laurentis, who could have turned the full force of his attention on approximately any other person in that room, stayed talking to you. Asking about hockey, how your classes are going, who you came to the party with. He lobbed questions at you with that lazy grin, kept making you answer things you hadn't planned on answering.
You left the party before anything happened, and you told yourself it didn't count. Dean absolutely did not charm you, you felt no effect from him whatsoever.
The problem started three weeks later, after a late practice, when you found him alone in the hallway outside the equipment room. He said something actually funny, and you laughed before you could stop yourself. His brows raised with surprise, like he didn’t expect you to, and his dimples made an appearance. That made your stomach do something you very pointedly ignored.
And then somehow, by increments so small you couldn't name the moment it shifted, you were here.
The text came at quarter past midnight.
you up?
Two words, lowercase, without buzz. The kind of text that had one meaning and everyone knew it.
You stared at it for a moment, maybe several moments, before you picked up your phone.
no, you typed. Deleted it.
unfortunately. Deleted that too.
You put the phone down with a sigh. Stared at the ceiling. Picked it back up after five minutes.
yeah.
His response was immediate. cool. be there in 10.
You should have said no. Actually, you shouldn’t have said anything at all, you should have ignored the text. But you didn’t, you never did. You answered that text like every other text from him after midnight, with your body before your brain could catch up. And every time, you told yourself this was the last time. That you were going to let the text sit there unanswered and go to sleep with your integrity intact. Every time you had a version of this exact internal argument and lost.
The knock came eleven minutes later. Three times, like always.
You opened the door in an oversized Briar hoodie and sleep shorts, hair still up from practice, because you were not going to pretend you'd done anything to prepare for this. He was leaning against the doorframe in sweats and a crewneck, hair doing its usual tousled thing, green eyes amused in the low light of the hall. He looked at you with ease, like he'd never once in his life been uncertain about his welcome.
"Eleven minutes," you said. "You said ten."
"Traffic."
"It's one in the morning."
"Briar's very lively." He tilted his head, smile pulling at his mouth. "You going to let me in?"
You held the door open. He walked past you, close enough that the smell of him registered before you'd even processed the movement, and your breath caught in your throat before you cleared it.
This was the part you could never explain to yourself in the daylight. Dean Di Laurentis at a distance was insufferable—cocky, loud, and relentlessly, aggressively easy to want, which was its own kind of frustrating. But Dean Di Laurentis in your space, in the dark of your room with the door closed behind him, was a different problem entirely. He wasn’t on, here. The swagger softened into something more genuine, and he looked at you like you were the person he'd wanted to be in a room with, not just any available warm body. You couldn’t decipher whether that was true, and you hated it.
You hated how easily he could dismantle the very reasonable case you'd built against him. How he could throw you in the category with all of the other girls who lusted after him with a single smile.
He turned around and found you still standing by the door, arms crossed. He looked at you for a moment.
"You look like you're deciding whether or not to kick me out." He says.
"I'm always deciding whether to kick you out."
"And yet." He crossed the room in two easy steps. The almost smile he wore when he got close, like he already knew how it was going to end, because he did, made you want to say something cutting. Except that his hand came up to your jaw, thumb brushing along your cheekbone with a gentleness that had absolutely no business being part of this arrangement, and whatever you'd been about to say dissolved somewhere between intention and speech.
"I can't stand you," you informed him.
"I know," he said, like it was the most agreeable thing you'd ever told him, and then he kissed you and that was the end of the argument, the way it always was.
If you made it this far, thanks so much for reading, I hope you enjoyed!🤍 Feel free to check out my Patreon, where I post early access fics and other fun things (:
Warning(s); None. Lots of fluff. Not really edited, though, so apologies for any mistakes
Summary; You and Dean take your three year old son, Addison-Maxwell, skating for the first time.
Word Count; 2.6k
Author’s Note; I had fun writing this, I think it's so cute! Would love to expand this universe with other chapters, so if you have anything you'd like to see, please let me know (: Hope all is well in your corner of the world. Go Canucks! - Honey
Dean Masterlist
The rink is empty on Sunday mornings, which is exactly why Dean arranged for the three of you to come at this hour. Addison's been vibrating with excitement since you told him yesterday that today was finally the day. Now, at eight thirty, he's sitting on the bench in front of the boards while Dean kneels in front of him, lacing up the tiny skates that had been wrapped under the Christmas tree two weeks ago.
"Tight, Daddy?" Addison asks, watching Dean's hands work with the laces.
"Not too tight," Dean assures him. "Just right. Can you wiggle your toes for me?"
Addison scrunches up his face in concentration, and his little feet shift in the skates. "I wiggle them!"
"Good job, buddy," Dean says, and he finishes with the second skate before sitting back on his heels. "How do they feel?"
"Good," Addison announces. Then, with the unshakeable confidence of a three-year-old, "I'm gonna skate fast like you, Daddy."
"We're going to start slow," Dean corrects gently. "Remember what we talked about? First you learn to stand, then walk, then glide."
"Then fast," Addison insists.
"Then fast," Dean agrees, exchanging an amused look with you over Addison's head.
You're already in your own skates, having laced them up while Dean helped Addison. It's been a while since you've been on ice, not since before Addison was born, really. Dean still skates regularly, both for his own practice and to demonstrate things for his youth team, but you've had less reason to. Still, it comes back quickly, muscle memory kicking in as you stand and test your balance.
"Mama's ready!" Addison observes, pointing at you.
"Mama is ready," you confirm. "Are you ready, Addy?"
"Ready!" he says seriously, in that way three-year-olds have of making everything sound intensely important.
Dean helps Addison stand, keeping a firm grip on his hands. Addison wobbles immediately, his ankles trying to bend inward, and Dean's there to steady him. "Keep your feet flat, buddy. Don't let your ankles do this," he demonstrates the wobble, "keep them straight like this."
Addison's face scrunches up again with concentration, his tongue poking out slightly as he tries to control his ankles. It's an expression you've seen on Dean's face a hundred times, usually when he's focused on reviewing game footage or planning practice drills. Your son looks so much like his father it's almost comical: the same blonde hair that never quite behaves, the same determined set to his jaw when he's working on something, the same green eyes that can shift from serious to mischievous in seconds.
"Good," Dean says. "That's really good. Now we're going to walk to the ice, okay? Just like regular walking, but I'm holding your hands."
"Okay, Daddy."
The walk from the locker room to the rink entrance is slow and careful, Addison taking exaggerated steps while Dean walks backward in front of him, keeping hold of both his hands. You follow behind with your phone, already recording because you know you'll want to remember this.
The rink is pristine, the ice freshly zambonied and gleaming under the overhead lights. It's cold enough that you can see your breath, and Addison notices immediately. Dean’s rink was one of the colder ones you’d been in.
"Mama, look! Smoke!" he exclaims, breathing out dramatically and watching the cloud of condensation.
"That's your breath in the cold air," you explain. "Pretty cool, right?"
"So cool," Addison agrees, and then he's distracted by the ice in front of him. "That's where we skate?"
"That's where we skate," Dean confirms. "You ready to go on?"
Addison nods enthusiastically, but when Dean guides him to step onto the ice, he freezes. His little hands grip Dean's tighter, and his eyes go wide.
"It's slippery," he announces, like this is a revelation.
"It is slippery," Dean agrees. "That's what makes skating fun. But Daddy's got you, okay? I'm not going to let you fall."
"Promise?"
"I promise," Dean says. "Do you trust me?"
Addison considers this with all the seriousness a three-year-old can muster, then nods. "Yeah!"
Your chest squeezes at that, at the complete faith in your son's voice. You step onto the ice yourself, skating a slow circle to warm up while Dean helps Addison get his bearings. The first few minutes are tentative, Addison barely lifting his feet, essentially just standing on the ice while Dean holds him steady.
"Okay, now we're going to try moving," Dean says. "Just slide one foot forward, like this. See? Then the other foot."
"Slide," Addison repeats, and he attempts to move his right foot forward. It goes too far and too fast, and he yelps, but Dean's grip keeps him upright.
"That's okay," Dean says immediately. "That was good. You moved! Let's try again, but smaller. Just a little slide."
You skate closer, phone still recording, watching as Dean patiently guides Addison through the basics. It's slow going. Addison's legs keep wanting to do different things, his ankles still trying to bend inward despite his concentration. But Dean's patience is endless, his voice calm and encouraging even when Addison gets frustrated.
"I can't do it," Addison says after a few minutes, his lower lip starting to tremble.
"Yes, you can," Dean says firmly. "You're already doing it. You're standing on ice, and you've moved forward. That's skating, buddy."
"But not fast."
"Fast comes later," Dean reminds him. "Uncle Nicky wasn't fast his first day on skates. Daddy wasn't fast, either."
"You weren't?" Addison looks skeptical.
"Nope," Dean says. "I fell down a lot my first time. Way more than you."
This seems to mollify Addison somewhat. The idea that his father, who he thinks can do anything, also struggled at first makes him willing to try again.
"Can Mama skate with us?" Addison asks, looking over at you.
"Sure can," you say, gliding over to them. "Want me on your other side?"
Addison nods, and you take position on his left while Dean stays on his right. Together, you both hold one of Addison's hands, and slowly, the three of you begin moving across the ice. Addison's still wobbly, his feet sliding unpredictably, but with both of you there he's more confident.
"Look, I'm skating!" he announces proudly.
"You are," you agree, smiling at Dean over Addison's head. "You're doing such a good job, baby."
"I'm not a baby, Mama," Addison corrects with the indignation of a three-year-old who's been told he's a big boy now. "I'm three. That's big."
"You're right, I'm sorry," you say seriously. "You're a big boy who's learning to skate."
"Yeah," Addison agrees, satisfied.
You make several slow circuits around the rink like this, Addison between you and Dean, his little legs working hard to keep up. He talks the entire time, a constant stream of consciousness that includes observations about the ice ("it's so white, Daddy"), questions about skating ("when I go fast?"), and random non sequiturs about his life ("my friend Lucas has a dog and it's big").
"You're doing so good, Addy," Dean says after the third lap. "Do you want to try something new?"
"What something?"
"Do you want to try gliding? That means you push with your feet and then you slide."
"Slide is fun," Addison declares.
"Sliding is very fun," Dean agrees. "Okay, so we're going to push with this foot, like this, and slide. Then push with the other foot, and slide."
Dean demonstrates, and you mirror him on Addison's other side. Addison watches intently, then tries to copy the movement. His first attempt is more of a shuffle than a glide, but Dean praises him anyway.
"Perfect! Good job, buddy. Let's do it again."
It takes a few more tries, but slowly, Addison starts to get the rhythm of it. Push, glide. Push, glide. His movements are jerky and uncoordinated, but there's definite progress. And more importantly, he's smiling, that wide unreserved smile that shows his dimples and makes his eyes crinkle just like Dean's do.
"Mama, take picture!" Addison demands suddenly. "I'm skating!"
You've been taking periodic photos and videos throughout, but you stop to take a proper photo of them, then a selfie of Addison between you and Dean, all three of you on the ice. Dean makes a goofy face that makes Addison giggle, and you capture that too, the pure joy of this moment.
"Can I try by myself?" Addison asks after another few minutes.
Your immediate instinct is to say no, that it's too soon, that he'll fall. But Dean catches your eye and gives you a small nod, and you trust his judgment on this. He knows what he's doing.
"You can try," Dean says. "But we're going to be right next to you, okay? So if you start to fall, we'll catch you."
"Okay, Daddy."
Dean slowly releases Addison's hand, and you do the same on your side. Addison stands there for a moment, arms out for balance like a tiny tightrope walker. His face is a mask of concentration, and you hold your breath.
Then, very carefully, he lifts one foot and slides it forward. Then the other. He's doing it. He's actually skating on his own, even if it's only for a few feet before his balance wobbles and Dean has to catch him.
"Did you see?" Addison asks excitedly, looking between you and Dean. "I did it by myself!"
"You did!" you confirm, your voice a little thick because your baby, your three-year-old, is skating. "That was great, Addy."
"I'm just like Daddy," Addison beams proudly.
"You are," Dean agrees, and there's something soft in his expression as he looks at your son. "You're doing so good, buddy. I'm really proud of you."
"Can we do more?"
You spend another twenty minutes on the ice, watching as Addison gets incrementally more confident. He falls a few times, despite Dean and you being right there, but he bounces back immediately each time, that resilient way small children have of not dwelling on failures. By the end of the hour, he's able to move several feet on his own before needing to be caught, and he's absolutely beaming with pride.
"Okay, buddy," Dean says eventually. "I think that's enough for today. Your legs are probably getting tired."
"I'm not tired," Addison protests automatically, even though you can see he's starting to flag.
"Maybe not," Dean says diplomatically. "But the ice needs a break. We'll come back another day, okay?"
"Tomorrow?"
"Maybe not tomorrow," you interject. "But soon. We can practice every week."
"Every week," Addison repeats, nodding like this is a binding contract. "And then I go fast."
"Then you'll go fast," Dean agrees.
Getting Addison off the ice and on the bench isis easier than getting him on was. He's tired now, even if he won't admit it, and he lets Dean carry him to the bench. While Dean unlaces Addison's skates, you pull out your phone to review the photos and videos you took.
"Look at this one," you say, showing Dean a photo of him and Addison on the ice together, both of them with matching expressions of concentration.
Dean smiles, that soft smile he reserves for moments like this. "Send that to my mom. She'll love it."
"Already planning to," you say. "Your dad's going to be so excited that Addy's started skating."
"He's been asking about it every time we talk," Dean admits. "I think he was starting to worry we weren't going to do it."
"Well, now he's done it," you say, looking at your son who's chattering to Dean about how he's going to be the fastest skater ever. "Our little hockey player."
"Maybe," Dean says. "Or maybe he'll decide he hates it next week. He's three. Attention span of a goldfish."
"Fair point."
But watching Addison animatedly describe his skating experience to Dean, his little hands gesturing wildly as he recounts how he "had so much fun, daddy! The most fun!" you have a feeling this is going to stick. He's got the Di Laurentis hockey gene, that love of ice and speed and competition that runs through Dean's family.
Later, after you've gotten Addison changed back into his regular shoes and Dean's packed up the skates, the three of you head out to the parking lot. Addison's holding both of your hands, swinging between you with each step, still talking about skating.
"When we come back, I'm gonna go faster," he announces. "And I'm gonna... gonna do the spinny thing. What's the spinny thing called, Daddy?"
"A spin?" Dean suggests. "Or maybe you mean a hockey stop?"
"Hockey stop!" Addison repeats enthusiastically. "I'm gonna do a hockey stop."
"That's pretty advanced," Dean says. "But we can work on it."
"I can do it," Addison insists with the boundless confidence of a three-year-old who just learned to shuffle forward on ice. "I skate good, daddy."
"You are really good," you agree, squeezing his little hand. "Daddy was impressed, weren't you, Daddy?"
"Very impressed," Dean confirms. "You're going to be better than me someday."
"I wanna be the best," Addison says matter-of-factly, and you and Dean both laugh.
In the car on the way home, Addison falls asleep within five minutes, exhausted from the physical exertion and the excitement. You glance back at him in his car seat, his head tilted to the side, his mouth slightly open, and your heart squeezes.
"He did really well," you say to Dean.
"He did," Dean agrees. "Better than I expected, honestly. His balance was pretty good for a first timer."
"He gets that from you."
"Maybe," Dean says. "Or maybe he's just naturally gifted. Either way, I'm claiming credit."
You laugh softly, not wanting to wake Addison. "Of course you are."
Dean reaches over and takes your hand, lacing his fingers through yours. "Thanks for doing this. I know you were worried it was too soon."
"I was," you admit. "But you were right. He was ready. And he loved it."
"He did," Dean says, and there's satisfaction in his voice. "My kid on skates. That's... that's pretty cool."
"Your kid who looks exactly like you, acts exactly like you, and now skates like you," you tease. "I had no genetic input whatsoever, apparently."
"You gave him his stubbornness," Dean offers. "That's all you."
"Excuse me?"
"In the best way," Dean amends quickly, grinning. "His determination. His refusal to give up even when things are hard. That's you."
That mollifies you somewhat, and you settle back in your seat, watching the city slide past the windows. When you get home, Dean carries a still-sleeping Addison upstairs while you grab the bag with the skates. Inside the apartment, Dean lays Addison on the couch rather than in his bed, knowing he'll probably wake up soon anyway.
You sit on the coffee table across from the couch, just watching your son sleep, and Dean joins you, his arm coming around your shoulders.
"Think he'll remember this when he's older?" you ask quietly.
"Maybe not consciously," Dean says. "But it'll be there somewhere. First time on ice. First time skating with his dad."
"And his mom," you add.
"And his mom," Dean agrees. "Who, for the record, looked very good out there. Maybe we should go skating more often. Just the two of us."
"Is this your way of asking me on a date?"
"Maybe," Dean says. "Would you say yes?"
"Obviously," you say, leaning into him. "Though finding a babysitter might be tough, considering Addison’s a velcro kid."
"We'll figure it out," Dean says, and he presses a kiss to the top of your head.
Addison stirs on the couch, his eyes blinking open slowly. When he sees you both watching him, he smiles, sleepy and content.
"Mama? Daddy?" he says. "Can we go skating again?"
"Soon, buddy," Dean promises. "Really soon."
“Yay," Addison says, and he closes his eyes again.
You and Dean exchange an amused look. He's definitely a Di Laurentis.
If you made it this far, thanks so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed it as much as I did writing it 🤍. -Honey
Warning(s); 18+ but no explicit smut, mention of sex, oral, spit kink, cursing (?), barely edited so apologies for any grammar errors
Summary; NSFW alphabet featuring Dean. I tried to encapsulate him best based on my personal opinion of what I think he'd be like + how he is shown in the books as well as the show.
Word Count; 5.6k
Author’s Note; This took a little longer than I thought it was going to, but I still do like it. Hope I captured Dean well, I tried my best. Also, yes, I did give Dean a spit kink. To be honest, I have a hard time not giving every hockey player I write about, a spit kink. I just find it soooo sexy. You might get a Dean fic about that in the future if there is interest. Please let me know your thoughts if you have any, and feel free to send any requests through my inbox (: Hope all is well in your corner of the world. Go Canucks! - Honey
Dean Masterlist
A - Aftercare (what is he like after sex?)
Dean's surprisingly attentive afterward, though he plays it casual. He's not the type to make it overly sentimental or awkward, but he'll check in with you in that easy way of his, asking if you need water or whatever while already reaching for a bottle from his nightstand. There's usually some light conversation, a joke to keep things from getting too heavy, because that's just how he operates. He's perceptive enough to read what you need without you having to spell it out. If you want space, he gives it. If you want to stay close, his arm finds its way around you like it's the most natural thing in the world. He's had enough experience to know the basics of taking care of someone after, and despite his reputation, he doesn't just bail immediately. With you specifically, he's gotten better at the small things: making sure you're comfortable, handling cleanup without being weird about it, staying present instead of immediately moving on to the next thing. It's not performative; it's just Dean being Dean, that underlying decency that exists beneath the cocky exterior. He might not be writing poetry about the experience, but he makes sure you're good before he lets himself fully relax. His previous hookups might answer otherwise, it wasn’t unusual for them to see the door after fucking, but for you it’s different. He’s different.
B - Body Part (his favorite body part of yours)
Dean's absolutely a boob guy, which he's never been shy about. He loves your breasts, is borderline obsessed with them in a way that would probably be embarrassing if he cared enough to be embarrassed. His hands gravitate there constantly: when you're kissing, when you're lying in bed together, absent-mindedly when he comes up behind you when you’re washing dishes. He loves burying his face between them, the softness and warmth of it, the way you react when he does. Watching them bounce when you ride him might be one of his favorite pictures in existence, something he's definitely mentioned more than once in that appreciative way he has. He's got a thing about taking your nipples in his mouth too, the way you arch into him when he does, the sounds you make. His hands span your ribcage and slide up with clear intent, thumbs brushing over sensitive skin in ways that make you shiver. There's a possessive element to it, the way he touches you there, like he's claiming that part of you specifically. And he's shameless about it, will tell you straight up how much he loves them, how perfect they are, how the sight of them does things to him. It's probably a cliche answer if anyone asked, but Dean genuinely doesn't care. He knows what he likes.
C - Cum (anything to do with cum)
Dean's got specific preferences about where he finishes, and he's never been shy about communicating them. He loves cumming on your chest, watching his off-white seed spurt across your tits in a way that satisfies something deep inside him. There's a visual component to it that gets to him significantly, the evidence of what you do to each other, the way you look marked by him like that. He also loves finishing in your mouth when you let him. The way you look up at him when you do it, the way you gag slightly before he’s pulled off, drool pooling around your mouth. That might be his favorite, honestly. The sight of you like that, the knowledge that you're willing to do that for him, destroys any composure he has left. He's vocal about what he wants, has no problem telling you exactly what he's thinking, and he gets off on your reactions as much as the physical sensation. The mess doesn't faze him at all; if anything he finds the whole thing incredibly hot rather than something to be awkward about. He has no problem with cleaning up.
D - Dirty Secret (a dirty secret of his)
Dean actually gets off on exhibitionism more than he'd readily admit to most people. It's not just that he doesn't mind the possibility of getting caught; he actively likes it. The thrill of it, the risk, the idea of someone walking in and seeing exactly what he's doing to you... that does something for him that goes beyond just the physical aspect. He's had sex in the living room of his house multiple times, in positions and locations where any of his housemates could walk in, and have, and that edge of danger makes everything more intense. He's told you before, that once he gets caught, he likes being watched. It's the combination of control and display, the confidence of knowing he's good at fucking and not caring who knows it. There's also the fact that he thinks about you way more than is probably reasonable for what's supposed to be casual. He'll see you in his space, wearing his shirt, and his brain immediately goes somewhere it shouldn't when he's supposed to be focusing on homework or game film. And despite his reputation as someone who hooks up freely, he's been effectively exclusive with you for weeks now without either of you naming it, which is its own kind of secret he's keeping from himself.
E - Experience (how experienced is he?)
Dean's extremely experienced, which is fairly common knowledge around campus. He's got a reputation for a reason: he's slept with a lot of people, doesn't make a secret of it, and has the skills to back up the confidence. He knows what he's doing, has figured out through sheer volume of practice what works and what doesn't, how to read women and adjust accordingly. But he's also smart about it in that analytical way he applies to everything else. Dean's a poly sci major who got into Harvard Law, he's not just coasting on natural talent. He pays attention, remembers details, treats it almost like a skill to be mastered. With you, though, there's been a learning curve that's made things better. He's had to figure out your specific preferences, what works for you individually, and he's put in the effort because apparently you're worth it. If anything, all that practice has made him better at this with you specifically, because he knows what questions to ask, what signs to look for, how to make it good rather than just adequate.
F - Favorite Position (what is his favorite position?)
Dean likes you on top, which makes sense given his thing about watching. Seeing you take control, the view it gives him, the way your body moves when you're chasing what you want... that visual does more for him than almost anything else. Plus his hands are free to roam, to grip your hips and guide the pace when he needs to, cup your breasts in his palms, touch you everywhere he wants. He's also partial to you bent over various surfaces in his house: the arm of the couch, his desk, the kitchen counter that one time when Logan walked in on you guys. There's something about the angle and the semi-public nature of those locations that just appeals to him. He likes taking you from behind in general, the view and the depth and the control it gives him. But he's not opposed to more traditional positions either, especially when he wants to see your face, watch every reaction flicker across your features. You on your back with your legs around his waist works perfectly fine when the mood calls for it. He wants to see what he's doing to you, wants to watch you fall apart, and he's shameless about arranging things to make that happen. Variety keeps things interesting, and Dean's creative enough to make use of whatever space you're in.
G - Goofy (is he serious or humorous during sex?)
Dean strikes a balance that somehow works perfectly. He's not overly serious or performative about it, but he's not cracking jokes the entire time either. Sex with Dean feels natural, comfortable in a way that allows for both intensity and lightness. If something awkward happens, a weird noise, a clumsy moment, someone bumping their head, he'll laugh it off with a quick comment that diffuses any tension. Taking it too seriously isn't really his style. He's the type to grin against your mouth when you say something bratty, tease you when you're being impatient, make some smartass remark that makes you laugh even when you're supposed to be annoyed with him. But when things get heated, when the tension builds and you're both too far gone to think straight, he gets more focused, more intense. The humor doesn't disappear completely, though. He's still Dean, still can't resist a well-timed quip, but it takes a backseat to everything else. He's good at reading the room, at knowing when to keep things fun and when to let the intensity take over. The combination works because it never feels forced either way; he's just genuinely comfortable enough with you to be himself.
H - Hair (how well groomed is he?)
Dean's pretty low maintenance in general, but he's not a slob about it. He keeps things neat and trimmed because he's an athlete and it's just practical. Nobody wants to deal with excess hair when you're sweating through practice or games. He's not obsessive about it, doesn't spend forever on grooming or manscaping, but he's aware enough to keep things under control. His routine is efficient: regular trimming, stays on top of it without making it a whole thing. The rest of him is similar. He keeps his facial hair in check when he bothers to have any, though usually he's clean-shaven because of personal preference. His hair gets styled with minimal effort, just enough product to look intentional without looking like he tried too hard. He showers after every workout without fail, uses decent products because his mom raised him right, and generally smells good in that casual way that suggests he's put in exactly enough effort and no more. He's not vain about his appearance, but he's definitely aware of it, takes care of himself in the same way he approaches most things. Good hygiene is just a given. He's sleeping with you regularly, so of course he's going to maintain basic standards. It's not even something he thinks about much; it's just part of the routine.
I - Intimacy (how is he during the moment? the romantic aspect)
Dean's not naturally romantic in the traditional sense. He's not going to recite poetry or light candles or do any of that Hallmark movie nonsense. But there's an intimacy that exists in how he touches you, in the attention he pays to what you need, in the way he makes sure you're good before he worries about himself. His guard comes down during sex in ways it doesn't otherwise, and you can see it in those moments when things slow down, when the urgency fades and it's just the two of you. The way he'll brush hair out of your face, maintain eye contact in a way that feels almost dangerous, trace patterns on your skin like he's memorizing the feel of you... those gestures communicate more than his words typically do. He's not great at verbalizing feelings, that's never been his strong suit. But he shows up, pays attention, makes you feel like you matter even within the undefined parameters of whatever this is between you. Lately there's been more softness creeping in, more lingering, more of those quiet moments where his forehead rests against yours and neither of you needs to say anything. The intimacy is there, just expressed in his own language rather than some prescribed romantic script.
J - Jack Off (does he masturbate?)
Obviously. Dean's a college athlete in his early twenties with a high sex drive and a healthy relationship with his own sexuality. It's a regular part of his routine, something he doesn't think twice about. Post-workout, late at night, morning showers when he has time. It's just a normal physical need he takes care of efficiently. He's never been weird about it. Though since you've been in the picture, his mental material has definitely shifted in your direction. He thinks about you more than he'd probably admit out loud: specific moments you've shared, things you've done, scenarios he'd like to try. That time you wore his jersey with nothing underneath? Yeah, that's made multiple appearances in his highlight reel. The way you look on top of him, breasts bouncing as you fall apart on top of him, the sounds you make, specific things you've said. All of it gets filed away for later use. He's also not above texting you when he's thinking about you, those late-night messages that start innocuous and escalate depending on your response. And if you've sent him photos, even relatively tame ones, those definitely get revisited with some frequency. His drive is high enough that even with regular sex, he still takes care of himself when you're not around. It's efficient, uncomplicated, just part of managing his physical needs.
K - Kink (one or more of his kinks)
Dean's got a serious praise kink that goes both ways, and it's one of the things that genuinely gets to him beyond just the physical. He loves telling you how good you are, how perfect you feel, how well you take him. Watching your reaction to his words, the way you respond when he tells you exactly what you're doing to him, that does something for him that's hard to articulate. It's not just dirty talk; it's specific, genuine praise that makes you fall apart in his hands. And when you return the favor, when you tell him how good he makes you feel, how much you want him, how perfect he is at this... that absolutely destroys his control. He'll get visibly affected, his breathing will change, and whatever composure he was maintaining completely shatters. There's something about verbal affirmation during sex that intensifies everything for him. Then there's the spit kink, which was a revelation for both of you when it first happened. He'd been caught up in the moment, let saliva drip from his mouth into yours almost without thinking, and your reaction, the way you opened for him willingly, the way it clearly turned you on, unlocked something in him he hadn't fully known was there. The first time he did it, he felt this rush of power and control simultaneously, something raw and primal that went beyond normal dirty talk or physical acts. The way you wanted it, eyes practically begging for it as you opened your mouth for him, tongue resting on your plump bottom lip. The moan you let out as a line of spit fell from his mouth, hitting your tongue as you swallowed eagerly, he just about came right then and there.
L - Location (where's his favorite place to do it?)
Dean's not particularly picky about location, which is part of his whole thing. His bed is convenient and comfortable, offers privacy and familiarity, but he's equally likely to pull you onto the couch in the living room, bend you over his desk, or find some other semi-public spot in the house. He's had sex in most rooms of the place at this point, doesn't really see the point in limiting himself to one location when variety is available. The living room is a frequent choice because of the exhibitionist element, the thrill of his housemates potentially walking in. His desk chair has become a regular spot, you in his lap while he's supposed to be studying. The shower works when logistics align, though it's more cramped than ideal. He's also not above finding semi-private spots at parties: bathrooms, empty bedrooms, his car parked somewhere dark. The common thread is that he likes a little edge of risk, the possibility of being caught or seen. That said, his bed late at night or during lazy afternoons is still good for when you actually have time to draw things out without worrying about interruptions.
M - Motivation (what turns him on, gets him going?)
Dean's got pretty consistent triggers. You in his clothes will derail his entire train of thought: his t-shirts, his Briar U jacket, anything that marks you as his in that possessive way he doesn't fully acknowledge. Confidence gets to him, when you know what you want and aren't shy about taking it or asking for it directly. He loves when you're bratty with him, challenging him or talking back, because it becomes about proving a point and asserting control. Competence is surprisingly hot to him; watching you be good at something, seeing you in your element, attracts him beyond just the physical. The visual component matters a lot: the way you look fresh out of the shower, how your body moves, specific clothing choices that highlight what he already knows is underneath. Intelligence turns him on too, which makes sense given he's smart enough to get into Harvard Law. He likes verbal sparring, the back-and-forth banter that has an edge to it. And yeah, the casual touches throughout the day build in ways that culminate later: your hand on his arm, fingers in his hair, the way you lean into him without thinking. The juxtaposition of normal life and the knowledge of what you're like behind closed doors creates tension he can't ignore.
N - No (something they wouldn't do, turn offs)
Dean's got clear boundaries despite his generally adventurous attitude. Anything that feels faked is an immediate turn-off. He can tell when someone's doing something because they think they should rather than because they want to, and that kills his interest completely. He needs genuine enthusiasm, real desire, or he's not into it. He's also not into actual pain beyond the occasional bite or mark; anything that crosses into genuinely hurting someone doesn't appeal to him at all. Humiliation is off the table too. He'll talk dirty, sure, but it's never cruel or degrading in a way that's meant to actually make someone feel bad. There's a difference between sexy confidence and being an asshole, and he knows where that line is. Another turn off being threesomes. Dean has been a part of plenty of threesomes within his college experience, but the idea of having one with you and another girl? Maybe. Another guy? Absolutely not, no way in hell.
O - Oral (preference in giving/receiving, skill, etc.)
Dean's genuinely enthusiastic about going down on you, which tracks with his overall approach to sex. He's good at it too, has enough experience to know what he's doing and pays close enough attention to figure out what works specifically for you. He likes the control aspect of it, having you completely at his mercy, making you come apart with just his mouth. There's definitely an ego component: he takes pride in his skill, in reducing you to incoherence. He's the type to hold your hips down when you start squirming, to make eye contact at the worst possible moments because he knows it destroys you, to talk you through it in that low voice that makes everything more intense. As for receiving, he's absolutely not going to turn it down. The visual component gets to him as much as the physical sensation, watching your mouth wrap around his cock is its own kind of torture in the best way. He's vocal about what he likes, will guide you with his hands in your hair, but he's good about letting you set the pace too.
P - Pace (is he fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)
Dean's pace depends entirely on context and mood, and he's gotten good at reading what any given situation calls for. When there's urgency, when you've been building tension all day, when you finally get a moment alone after wanting each other for hours, he's fast and intense. Those times are rougher, more desperate, neither of you particularly careful about it. He likes it like that sometimes, likes the raw energy of just taking what you both need. But he's equally capable of slow and passionate when the situation calls for it, especially during those long afternoons when there's no rush. He'll draw it out then, make you wait, because he likes watching you unravel slowly and he's patient enough to make it happen. The variety keeps things interesting, means you never quite know what you're getting. Sometimes it starts slow and builds to something frantic. Sometimes it's urgent from the start and stays that way. He's good at switching gears mid-way through if needed, responsive to what's working in the moment.
Q - Quickie (his opinion on quickies, how often, etc.)
Dean's absolutely a fan of quickies. They happen regularly: between classes, before practice, stolen moments when the house is briefly empty or when he just doesn't care if it's not. There's something appealing about the haste, the "we need this right now" energy that doesn't allow for extended foreplay or overthinking. He likes the efficiency of it, the way you both know exactly what you're doing and can make it work in whatever time you have. Against the wall, bent over his desk, you in his lap in that chair, in the living room when he's pretty sure the guys will be gone long enough. Quickies serve a purpose that's different from taking time. They satisfy immediate need, that pressing want that can't wait. He's good at them too, knows how to make it satisfying despite time constraints, knows exactly where to touch to get you there fast when necessary. That said, he definitely prefers having time to really take you apart when possible. Quickies are great for what they are, but they don't replace the longer sessions where he can be more thorough. They probably happen a few times a week depending on schedules and opportunity, usually initiated by whoever's more desperate, and they're a pretty regular part of the dynamic at this point.
R - Risk (is he game to experiment? does he take risks? etc.)
Dean's generally open to experimentation within reason. He's got his preferences, but he's not rigid about them. If there's something you want to try, he's usually game to at least discuss it, even if that leads to him tied up at the wrists. He approaches new things with characteristic confidence, willing to figure it out as you go. Some of his favorite things came from spontaneous experimentation rather than planning. The spit thing, for example, wasn't discussed beforehand; it just happened and you both discovered you were into it. He's also gotten more comfortable with relinquishing control as things have progressed between you, which was its own kind of risk for someone who usually likes being in charge. That's been surprisingly rewarding. He's never going to suggest anything too extreme on his own, but if you bring something up, he'll consider it seriously. His intelligence means he thinks things through, weighs potential outcomes, but he's not so cautious that he misses out on things that could be good.
S - Stamina (how many rounds can he go for? how long does he last?)
Dean's stamina is legitimately impressive, which makes sense for a college athlete in peak condition. He can go multiple rounds given enough recovery time between them. Two or three isn't unusual during those long days when neither of you has anywhere to be. The refractory period isn't instant, but it's relatively quick, especially if you're actively working to get him there again. As for duration, he's got solid control under normal circumstances. He's experienced enough to know his own limits, can hold off when he needs to, generally makes sure you finish first because that matters to his ego. But there are specific things that wreck that control: you on top, when you talk dirty unexpectedly, if you've been teasing him for extended periods before actually getting started. Those scenarios shorten his fuse considerably. He's learned his triggers well enough to adjust, to change position or slow down when he needs to make it last. And he's got no problem using other methods if he finishes before you're satisfied: his hands, his mouth, whatever it takes. The athletic conditioning definitely helps with endurance; he doesn't get winded easily, can maintain pace and intensity without tapping out. Those marathon sessions where you go multiple rounds with breaks in between appeal to the competitive side of him.
T - Toys (does he own toys? does he use them on himself or you?)
Dean's got some experience with toys, specifically using them on partners. He's used a vibrator during sex before, knows how to incorporate it effectively, sees it as another tool to make things better rather than something to be intimidated by. If you have toys, he's definitely interested in them, wants to know how you use them when you're alone, finds that information extremely useful for his own purposes. He's the type who'd be into using one on you, controlling when and how you get stimulation, because that plays directly into the authority thing he likes. Watching you fall apart because of something he's controlling appeals to him significantly. He doesn't own much himself and hasn't really experimented with using them on himself, that's not territory he's explored. But he's practical about their use in general: if it works and makes things better, why not? It's not something that gets incorporated every single time, most encounters are just the two of you without additional equipment, but when toys do come into play, it adds a dimension he's learned to appreciate. He approaches it with the same confidence he brings to everything else, no weird hang-ups about it.
U - Unfair (how much he likes to tease)
Dean is absolutely merciless when it comes to teasing, and he's completely shameless about how much he enjoys it. He's figured out exactly what gets to you and deploys it like it’s second nature, because it kind of is to him. He'll start early sometimes, casual touches throughout the day that seem innocent but are clearly intentional: a hand on your lower back that drifts too low, fingers tracing patterns on your thigh, standing close enough that you're hyperaware of him. He likes watching you try to maintain composure when he's actively working to destroy it. During sex, he's even worse. He'll bring you right to the edge and then pull back, slow down exactly when you need more, make you beg for what you want before he'll give it to you. The power dynamic of it appeals to him, seeing how desperate he can make you, how much you want him. And he's smug about it too, that infuriating smirk when you finally break and tell him to stop messing around. It goes both ways though; when you tease him back, when you give him a taste of his own medicine, he gets visibly affected even while pretending otherwise. The building tension, the back-and-forth of it, makes everything more intense when you both finally get what you want. He's learned that anticipation improves the payoff exponentially, so he's willing to draw things out as long as you can both stand it.
V - Volume (how loud is he? what sounds does he make? etc.)
Dean's not overly loud as a baseline, but he's definitely not silent. He modulates based on circumstance: when the house is full and walls are thin, he controls it best he can, though you can still hear his breathing change and catch the low sounds he makes. When you're actually alone or when he just doesn't care, he's more vocal. He talks during sex, likes telling you what he's going to do, what he wants, how good you feel. His voice drops lower, gets rougher, and that alone is enough to affect you. He groans when something feels particularly good, curses under his breath when you catch him off guard. When he's getting close, his breathing gets ragged and he becomes less articulate, words fragmenting into your name and profanity. He's vocal in other ways too: sharp intakes of breath, the sound he makes when you kiss his neck a certain way, that low rumble of approval when you do exactly what he wants. He's louder when you're on top and he's given up control, like relinquishing that authority loosens something in him. And when he finally cums, he's definitely not quiet about it, though he'll muffle it against your shoulder or mouth if the situation requires it. The sounds he makes are half the appeal for you, hearing the evidence of how much you're affecting him.
W - Wildcard (a random headcanon)
Dean has a thing about mornings after that he doesn't really talk about. When you stay over and wake up in his bed, there's this window of time, usually while you're still half-asleep, where he's content in a way he rarely is otherwise. He'll watch you sleep sometimes, not in a creepy way, but just taking in the fact that you're there, in his space, comfortable enough to be completely unguarded. It grounds him somehow, makes the casual thing you have feel less casual even though he's not ready to examine that too closely. He's also weirdly domestic in ways that surprise both of you. He'll make sure you eat, will order food without asking because he knows you're hungry, keeps your favorite drinks stocked in the fridge even though he doesn't drink them himself. Small things that suggest he's paying more attention than he lets on. And he's got a whole mental catalog of details about you that he's accumulated without trying: how you take your coffee, which of his shirts you prefer to take, the specific way you like to be touched when you're tired versus when you're wound up. He files all of it away like it matters, because apparently it does, even if he hasn't said that out loud yet. The casual arrangement has stopped being truly casual for him a while ago, but he's letting you both exist in the comfortable denial of not defining it for as long as possible.
X - X-Ray (let's see what's going on under those clothes)
Dean's built like a hockey player: lean muscle, broad shoulders, strong core and legs from years of skating. His body is functional, trained for performance on ice, but the aesthetic result is objectively good. Defined abs, solid chest, muscular thighs that come from explosive movements and endurance training. He's got good hands too, large and capable, equally comfortable gripping a stick or gripping your ass. As for specifics, he's proportional to his frame and definitely nothing to worry about. Above average in both length and girth, substantial enough that the first time required adjustment. He's experienced enough to know how to use what he's got effectively, and that confidence isn't unfounded. A few scars from hockey injuries scattered across his body, faded marks that add character. He moves with the unselfconscious confidence of someone who's never had reason to doubt his physicality, comfortable in his body in a way that translates to how he approaches sex. Overall, the package matches the personality: confident, capable, built for endurance, and fully aware of his own assets while being only slightly obnoxious about it.
Y - Yearning (how high is his sex drive?)
Dean's sex drive is consistently high, which tracks for someone in his early twenties with his activity level and general approach to physicality. It's not that he's constantly thinking about sex, but there's a baseline interest that's pretty much always there, ready to activate given the right circumstance. Having regular access to you has meant his natural drive has a consistent outlet, and if anything it's intensified because he's genuinely attracted to you beyond just physical availability. He's usually the one initiating, though you've learned to read when he's particularly wound up. Post-workout he's especially energized, endorphins making him more forward. Late at night when he should be tired and gets a second wind if you're around. The mental component is strong: he'll get going just from thinking about you, from replaying previous encounters, from anticipating next time. Being in close proximity doesn't help; having you in his space tends to put ideas in his head even when he should be focused elsewhere. Recovery time between rounds is relatively short because his drive doesn't quit just because he's already finished once. It's healthy and normal for his age and activity level, but definitely on the higher end of the spectrum, which works fine given he's got the outlet for it.
Z - ZZZ (how quickly does he fall asleep afterwards?)
Dean doesn't immediately pass out after sex, which seems relatively uncommon based on general reputation. He'll stay awake for a while, sometimes just lying there, sometimes talking about random things, sometimes on his phone while you're against him. The physical exertion doesn't knock him out the way it might others; his hockey conditioning means efficient recovery. That said, there's a specific tiredness that sets in maybe twenty or thirty minutes later, especially if it's late or if you've gone multiple rounds. He gets quieter, responses slower, and you can feel him starting to drift. He usually makes sure you're settled first though, that you've got what you need, before he lets himself fully relax into sleep. Once he does fall asleep, he's out solidly. Doesn't move around much, and sleeps hard. Morning practices and early workouts have trained him to sleep efficiently when he gets the chance. But immediately after sex? He's still present, still engaged, not checking out before you do. It's one of those small things that makes the arrangement feel less transactional than his usual hookups, the fact that he sticks around rather than disappearing into unconsciousness the second it's over.
If you made it this far, thanks so much for reading! I really hope you enjoyed, I had fun writing it ☺️ - Honey
Warning(s); Fluff, kissing, edited but not really.
Summary; An afternoon spent in Dean's bed.
Word Count; 2.2k
Author’s Note; Don't really have thing for blondes, but he pulls it off so well, so of course I had to write for him 😄. Another short fic, sorry for that, still trying to get back into the groove of writing. I do plan to write more for Dean, maybe Logan and Tucker too, so if you have any fic requests, you can send those through my inbox 🤍. Hope all is well in your corner of the world. Go Canucks! - Honey
Dean Masterlist
The sun filters through Dean's half-closed blinds in strips of gold, painting bars of light across the rumpled sheets and your bare legs tangled with his. It's that particular kind of day that feels suspended in time, when the whole day stretches ahead with no obligations, no places to be, nothing demanding your attention except the slow, pleasant pull of sleep and the warmth of Dean's mouth finding yours again.
You're not sure what time it is anymore. Late afternoon, maybe? You'd both been awake earlier, properly awake, when you'd first arrived at the house around eleven. There'd been the usual chaos downstairs, Tucker making breakfast for what appeared to be half the hockey team, Garrett playing some sort of video game, Logan sprawled on the couch complaining about a paper he hadn't started. Dean had intercepted you at the door, his hand slipping into yours with easy familiarity, leading you upstairs before anyone could rope either of you into whatever plans were being formed.
That had been hours ago now. Or maybe just one hour. Time feels elastic up here in Dean's room, where the world has narrowed down to just the two of you and the lazy rhythm you've fallen into. Kissing, dozing, waking up to kiss some more. There's no urgency to any of it, no clear destination. Just this slow, meandering afternoon that keeps pulling you both under and back up again like a gentle tide.
Dean's hand is tracing patterns on your lower back, his fingers slipping beneath the hem of your shirt. His shirt, actually, one you'd pulled on earlier when you'd gotten too warm in your hoodie. The fabric is soft and worn, smells like him, like laundry detergent and something woodsy that might be cologne or might just be Dean. His touch is relaxed, mapping out the curve of your spine with the kind of attention that makes your breath catch even though you're half asleep.
"You awake?" he murmurs against your temple.
"Mm," you hum, which isn't really an answer but is all you can manage right now.
You feel him smile against your skin, and then his mouth is trailing down to your jaw, pressing lazy kisses there that make you shift closer to him instinctively. Your leg slides between his, and his hand moves from your back to your hip, fingers spreading wide against bare skin where your shorts have ridden up.
This has been the pattern for the past hour, maybe longer. Drowsy kissing that builds into something deeper, more heated, hands starting to wander with clear intent, before one of you pulls back and you both drift off again into a light doze. Then you wake up. Sometimes five minutes later, sometimes twenty, and it starts all over again, this comfortable cycle that neither of you seems particularly motivated to break.
It's different from your usual dynamic. Usually when you're in Dean's bed there's a clear trajectory, a straightforward progression from point A to point B. This thing between you started as purely physical, after all, built on a little chemistry and the convenience and easy attraction that doesn't require much discussion. But lately, and especially today, there's been this softness creeping in. This willingness to just exist together without any particular agenda, to be close for the sake of being close rather than as a means to an end.
You're not examining it too closely. That feels dangerous, like putting a name to something might change it into something else entirely. So instead you just let yourself sink into it, into the warmth of Dean's body against yours and the pleasant weight of his arm around your waist and the way his breath hitches slightly when you kiss the corner of his mouth.
"C'mere," he says quietly, even though you're already as close as two people can reasonably be while still technically clothed.
But you understand what he means. You shift upward slightly, and his hand comes up to cup your jaw, tilting your face toward his. The kiss is slow and deep, the kind that makes your toes press into the mattress and your fingers curl into the fabric of his t-shirt. His tongue slides against yours with lazy confidence, like he's got all the time in the world to explore your mouth, to figure out exactly what makes you sigh against him like that.
Your hand finds his hair, fingers threading through the blonde strands that are messy from sleep and from you running your hands through them repeatedly. He makes a low sound in the back of his throat when you tug gently, and you feel the vibration of it against your lips. His hand slides from your jaw down to your neck, thumb brushing over your pulse point, and you wonder if he can feel how fast your heart is beating.
When you finally break apart, you're both breathing heavier, and Dean's eyes are clouded when they meet yours. He looks at you for a long moment, his expression unreadable, before he leans in and presses a softer kiss to your forehead. Then your nose. Then your mouth again.
"I like you," he says against your lips, affectionate, and uncomplicated.
"Yeah?," you let out a hum before responding, your voice coming out raspier than you intended.
"Yeah," he admits easily, his hand sliding back down to your waist, fingers splaying possessively across your ribcage.
The house is quiet around you, that particular mid afternoon lull when everyone's off doing their own thing. You can hear faint sounds from outside, someone's music playing a few houses down, a car passing on the street, but inside it's just the two of you and the soft whir of the ceiling fan above the bed. The sheets are a disaster, half kicked off, pillows everywhere except where they're supposed to be. Dean's room always looks lived-in, comfortable in its chaos, but right now it looks particularly messy in a way that makes you smile.
Dean catches the smile, his own lips curving up in response. "What?"
"Nothing," you say, but you're still smiling. "This is just nice."
Something flickers across his face. Surprise, maybe, or pleasure, before he's kissing you again, harder this time, with more intent. His hand slides under your shirt properly now, palm warm against your stomach, and you arch into the touch without thinking. The kiss deepens, grows more urgent, and you can feel the shift happening again, that slow build of heat that's been simmering all afternoon starting to intensify.
You roll onto your back and Dean follows, his body covering yours, supporting his weight on his forearms so he doesn't crush you. This position is familiar, well practiced by now, but it still sends a thrill through you when his hips settle between your thighs. He's kissing down your neck now, finding that spot just below your ear that makes you gasp, and his hand is sliding higher under your shirt.
"Dean," you breathe, and your hands find his shoulders, feeling the muscles shift under your palms as he moves.
He pulls back just enough to look at you, his hair falling into his eyes, his expression full of intensity. "Yeah?"
You're not sure what you were going to say. Maybe nothing. Maybe everything. But before you can figure it out, he's kissing you again, stealing whatever words you might have found. Your fingers dig into his shoulders, holding him close, and he makes that sound again, that low rumble of approval that you've learned means you're doing something he likes.
The afternoon stretches on, golden and hazy, and you lose yourself in it. In him. In the way his hands know exactly where to touch you, the way his mouth finds all the places that make you forget your own name. There's a languidness to it all, even as things intensify, a sense that you've got all the time in the world to figure each other out.
Eventually, though, the heat peaks and then subsides, leaving you both breathing hard, skin flushed, completely tangled together. Dean's face is buried in your neck, his breath warm against your skin, and your fingers are still in his hair, gentler now, just touching because you can. The room feels warmer than it did before, or maybe that's just the two of you.
"Jesus," Dean mutters into your shoulder, and you feel him smile against your skin.
You hum in agreement, too content to form actual words. Your body feels heavy, satisfied, and already you can feel sleep trying to pull you under again. Dean shifts slightly, enough to look at you, and there's something soft in his expression that makes your chest feel tight.
"You good?" he asks quietly.
"So good," you confirm, and you mean it in about a thousand different ways.
He presses a kiss to your shoulder, then carefully extracts himself from you, rolling onto his side and pulling you with him. You end up tucked against his chest, his arm around you, your leg thrown over his hip in a tangle of limbs that should probably be uncomfortable but somehow isn't. The sheets are even more of a disaster now, but neither of you makes any move to fix them.
"We should probably get up at some point," you say, but you make no effort to move.
"Probably," Dean agrees, also not moving. His hand is back to tracing patterns on your skin, slow circles and figure eights that make your eyes drift closed. "Eventually."
"What time is it?"
He stretches slightly to glance at his phone on the nightstand, then settles back. "Like three thirty."
Three thirty. You've been up here for four and a half hours, just existing in this bubble you've created. It should feel like too long, maybe, like you should be bored or restless or ready to do something else. But instead it just feels natural, like this is exactly where you're supposed to be on an afternoon with nowhere else to be.
"The guys are gonna give you so much shit when we finally go downstairs," you observe.
Dean snorts. "They give me shit regardless. It's like their primary function."
"Fair point."
The fan continues its rotation above you, and outside the window you can hear what sounds like kids playing in a yard somewhere nearby. Normal sounds, the world continuing on while you're suspended here in this room that smells like Dean and sex and easygoing afternoons. Your eyes are getting heavy again, and you let them close, pressing your face into Dean's chest.
"You falling asleep again?" he asks, and you can hear the amusement in his voice.
"Maybe," you mumble against his shirt. "You're comfortable."
His arm tightens around you, and you feel him press a kiss to the top of your head. "Sleep if you want. I'll wake you up in a bit."
It's such a simple statement, but it settles something in your chest anyway. The casualness of it, the ease. The implicit promise that he's content to just stay here with you, that this doesn't have to be anything more complicated than what it is right now. Two people who like each other, who are good together, who've found something that works.
You let yourself drift, lulled by the steady rhythm of Dean's breathing and the warmth of his body against yours. Sleep comes easy, pulling you under like a whisper. The last thing you're aware of is Dean's fingers still tracing those absent patterns on your back, and the thought that you could get very used to this.
When you wake up again, the light in the room has shifted, the sun lower now, the strips of gold across the bed turned to amber. Dean is still beside you, still holding you, but he's awake. You can tell by the change in his breathing, the way his hand is moving gently along your back.
"Hey," you say quietly, your voice rough with sleep.
"Hey yourself," he replies, and there's something warm in his tone that makes you smile.
You tilt your head back to look at him, and find him already looking at you. His hair is an absolute mess, his t-shirt wrinkled, and there's a crease on his cheek from the pillow. He looks perfect.
"We really destroyed your bed," you observe.
He glances around at the chaos of sheets and pillows, then back at you with a grin. "Worth it."
You laugh, the sound disrupting the quiet in the room, and lean up to kiss him, just because you want to. When you pull back, Dean is smiling, and he brushes a strand of hair away from your face with careful fingers.
"You hungry?" he asks. "We could order something. Or go downstairs and see if Tuck made too much food again."
"In a bit," you say, settling back against his chest. "Don’t wanna move."
"Mhm," Dean agrees quietly, his arms wrapping around you again. "Me either."
And so you stay, wrapped up in each other as the afternoon fades into early evening, in no particular rush to return to the real world. This thing between you might still be undefined, might still exist in some gray area between casual and serious, but right now, in this moment, it feels good.
If you made it this far, thanks so much for reading, I hope you enjoyed it at least a little bit (: - Honey
Warning(s); Just fluff. Established relationship, that’s really it.
Summary; A saturday morning in late July.
Word Count; 1.7k (blurb! just dipping my feet into writing for Cooper.)
Author’s Note; I had an author’s note written out, but Tumblr didn’t save my draft, so long story short, I will continue to write about NHL players as well as expand to NBA players, but I will not be writing about the Hughes brothers for the foreseeable future. My relationship with writing has gotten a lot better, so I am planning on posting once at week at minimum. Hope all is well in your side of the world! Canucks got screwed in the draft lottery and I’ve been sulking a bit over that, but I’m cautiously optimistic for this off-season. Cheers! - Honey
"Get off me."
The words come out as barely more than a strained rasp, your voice still thick with sleep and rough around the edges. Your throat feels dry, scratchy in that particular way it does when you've been breathing through your mouth all night because someone's considerable weight has been restricting your lungs. The weather has been warming up in Dallas. Not that you learned this from checking your phone or watching the morning news, but from the thin sheen of sweat that's been gathering between your bodies when you sleep pressed together the same way you have all winter. What worked perfectly fine in January, when Cooper's body heat was a welcome furnace against the cold, has become substantially less practical now that it's late July and the Texas heat is beginning to assert itself with authority.
You exhale another breath, slower this time, and try to shift your body even just a few inches to the left. Your right arm has gone partially numb from being pinned at an odd angle. "Coop, seriously."
His 6'9, 220-pound frame is currently draped across you like a weighted blanket designed by someone who has fundamentally misunderstood the assignment. His long legs are sprawled out comfortably, one thrown over both of yours, the other stretched toward the end of the bed where his feet definitely hang off the edge. Your full size mattress was never meant to accommodate someone of Cooper's proportions, but he's never said a word about it. His arms are locked around your waist in a grip that would be endearing if you weren't currently overheating, his face buried somewhere in the vicinity of your shoulder and neck, his breath warm and even against your skin.
You try again to push out of his grasp, pressing your palms against his shoulders and attempting to create even a few inches of space between your bodies. The effort elicits a low groan from him, the sound rumbling up from his chest, still more asleep than awake.
"Stop moving," Cooper mumbles into your neck, and his arms immediately tighten back around your waist like a reflex, he’s done this a hundred times by now. It's not a suggestion, either. It's delivered with the same confidence he brings to everything, whether he's setting a screen or telling you he's ordering Chipotle for dinner.
"It's too hot for you to be laying on top of me right now, Cooper," you say again, hearing the edge creeping into your voice. The heat is beginning to make you genuinely agitated now, that specific irritation that comes from being uncomfortable in your own skin. Your tank top is sticking to your back. Your hair feels damp at the nape of your neck. You'd turned the air conditioning off last night before bed because the weather had promised a cooler evening. And it had been, the temperature dropped beautifully once the sun went down, and you'd fallen asleep with the windows open to a pleasant breeze. But the morning has betrayed you. The sun has been up for maybe an hour, and it's already turning into a scorcher, the kind of day where the heat builds and builds until the entire city feels like it's baking under a relentless sky.
"I told you to leave the air on," Cooper says, and you can hear the smirk in his voice even though you can't see his face.
You roll your eyes at his words, the audacity of being right while also being the primary source of your discomfort, and flick him squarely on the forehead with your index finger.
"Ow," he says, dramatically, like you've genuinely wounded him rather than barely made contact. But it works. His grip loosens just enough, and you take the opportunity to push out of his arms entirely, rolling toward the edge of the bed and planting your feet on the floor.
The apartment is quiet in the way it only is early on weekend mornings, before the neighbors start moving around, before the traffic picks up on the street below. You pad down the hallway to where the thermostat glows softly on the wall, and you bump the air conditioning back on, hearing the system whir to life somewhere in the walls. Then you detour into the bathroom, flipping on the light and squinting against the brightness. You splash cold water on your face, letting it run over your wrists too, feeling your body temperature start to regulate. When you glance up at the mirror, your reflection looks exactly like someone who just got overheated by their enormous boyfriend: hair a mess, face flushed, tank top twisted slightly to one side.
By the time you make your way back into the bedroom, Cooper hasn't moved much from where you left him. He's still sprawled across the bed, taking up approximately seventy percent of the available mattress space, but he's rolled onto his side now. The sheet has slipped down to his waist. His eyes are still closed, but you can tell from the change in his breathing that he's more awake now, hovering in that in-between space. Upon hearing your footsteps against the hardwood, he cracks one eye open.
"Come back," he says, and his voice has that low, mumbled quality it always has first thing in the morning, before he's really spoken to anyone.
You do come back, because despite the heat and the sweat and the mild suffocation, cuddling in bed with Cooper is one of your favorite things to do. You fall back into your side of the bed, the left side, the side closest to the closet door. The side that's become yours over the months Cooper has been splitting his time between here and everywhere else his life takes him. The mattress dips under your weight, and immediately Cooper's large frame shifts to engulf you again, though he's more careful this time. He doesn't put his full weight on you. Instead, he molds himself against your side, one arm draped over your stomach, his hand slipping under the hem of your tank top to rest against your bare skin. His fingers trace absent patterns there—circles, figure eights, nothing in particular. It's something he does without thinking, a habit you've noticed over time. When he's tired, when he's content, when he's thinking about something else entirely, his hands find you and just move in these slow, gentle patterns.
"Better?" he asks, his breath tickling your shoulder.
"Mhm," you confirm, even though you're still warm. The air conditioning hasn't had time to do much yet, but at least you're not being fully compressed anymore.
It's summer now, the off-season for Cooper, which is both a blessing and a strange adjustment. You'd gotten used to the rhythm of his season: the games, the travel, the structured chaos of the NBA schedule. You'd learned to exist in the spaces between his obligations, to build your relationship in the gaps. But now it's late July, the season is over for everyone, and Cooper's time is his own again, at least for a while.
He'd spent his first blip of freedom back in Newport with his family, visiting his parents, his brothers, just spending time in his childhood home for cookouts and boat days and all the normal things that Cooper missed during the season. You'd seen the photos he sent: Cooper and his brothers on the dock, Cooper holding someone's baby cousin, Cooper looking genuinely relaxed in a way he never quite does during the season. Then there were a handful of other obligations, a couple of sponsor appearances, a youth basketball camp where he'd spent three days teaching defensive rotations to kids who barely came up to his elbow, a spontaneous trip to New York.
But after all that, he'd come back here. To Dallas. To your apartment with its full size bed and its temperamental air conditioning and its kitchen that's approximately the size of his walk-in closet. He'd shown up at your door with his duffel bag and that particular smile he gets when he hasn't seen you in a while, and he'd folded himself into your space like he'd never left.
That was two weeks ago, and he hasn't mentioned leaving. His stuff has gradually migrated out of the duffel bag and into your drawers, onto your bathroom counter, onto the coat hooks by your door. His sneakers live by the front door now, the size of them hilarious in comparison to your own. There's a second toothbrush in the holder in your bathroom, and your refrigerator has more food in it than it has in months because Cooper cannot survive on the random assortment of leftovers and questionable yogurt that you consider adequate groceries.
Cooper doesn't have any obligations right now, not really. Besides his self-regimented summer training, which he does every single day without fail. You've learned that this is non-negotiable. No matter how lazy the morning, no matter how late you stayed up the night before, no matter what else is happening, Cooper will do his workout. He frequents a gym about fifteen minutes away from the arena, and every day around mid-morning he'll extract himself from whatever you're doing, change into activewear, and disappear for two or three hours. He'll come back sweaty and energized, endorphins making him chatty, and he'll drink approximately a gallon of water while telling you about whatever podcast he listened to or whatever funny thing his trainer said.
But that's later. Right now, it's still early. The sun is filtering through the curtains you never quite close all the way, casting the room in a golden haze. Cooper's breathing has evened out again, and you think he might be drifting back toward sleep, lulled by the slowly cooling air and the comfort of having nothing he needs to do.
You turn your head slightly to look at him. His face is relaxed, peaceful in a way it rarely is when he's awake. There's always something active behind Cooper's eyes when he's conscious. He's always thinking, always processing, always three steps ahead. But like this, asleep or nearly asleep in your bed on a Saturday morning with nowhere to be, he looks younger. More tranquil.
Today feels like one of those days where he'll probably want to do nothing, which is completely fine by you.
Warning(s); Established relationship, penatrative sex, spanking, cursing, cringe?, edited once, not sure what else
Summary; Reader does a TikTok prank on Luke while he's at the gym.
Word Count; 5.7k
Authors Note; Hey, long time no see! Life has been kicking my ass in multiple ways, but I missed writing and I missed you guys, so I am back (: So so sorry for disappearing, that was never my intention and I feel super horrible about it!!!! I hope you guys are doing well! 🤍 P.S: this was originally a nate mac fic, so if you see a nathan here or there sorry lol!! i only edited once
You're scrolling through TikTok during your lunch break, procrastinating on the work emails that can definitely wait another ten minutes, when you stumble across a video that makes you laugh out loud.
A woman has sent her husband AI-generated photos of an impossibly attractive shirtless handyman supposedly fixing things around their house, complete with perfectly ridiculous texts about how helpful he's being. The husband's increasingly frantic responses are hilarious.
You watch it twice, grinning, and then a delightfully evil idea forms in your mind.
Luke's at the gym right now, some team workout that he'd mentioned this morning over breakfast. You have the house to yourself and approximately thirty minutes before your next meeting. That's plenty of time.
You pull up one of those AI photo generator apps you've seen advertised and get to work. After a few attempts and increasingly specific prompts, you manage to generate a photo of a generically handsome man in jeans and work boots, strategically shirtless, kneeling in front of what could plausibly be your kitchen sink with a toolbox beside him.
It's absurd. The lighting is slightly off, and if you look too closely, something about his hands seems wrong in that uncanny AI way. But at a glance, especially on a phone screen when you're not expecting it? It's convincing enough.
Perfect.
You save the photo and open your messages to Luke, barely containing your laughter as you type.
Hey babe, dishwasher broke. Had to call someone to come fix it.
You attach the photo and hit send before you can second guess yourself.
Then you deliberately silence your phone and set it face down on your desk, going back to your laptop to at least pretend you're working. You give it three minutes, enough time for Luke to see the message but not so long that you lose your nerve.
When you flip your phone over, there are already two messages waiting.
Luke: What?
Luke: Who is that?
You bite your lip to keep from laughing and type back: The repair guy. He got here like five minutes ago.
The typing indicator appears immediately, disappears, appears again. You can practically feel Luke's confusion through the phone.
Luke: Why didn't you just call me? I could have looked at it when I got home.
You were at the gym and it was leaking everywhere. I didn't want to bother you.
Luke: You wouldn't have been bothering me.
Luke: Why is he shirtless?
You have to press your hand over your mouth to contain your laughter. Time to commit to the bit.
He said it was hot under the sink. Something about the pipes?
Luke: ???
Luke: It's November
Luke: The house is not that hot
Idk babe, he said he runs warm.
There's a longer pause this time, and you're watching the screen with gleeful anticipation when your phone starts ringing. Luke's calling.
You decline the call and immediately text back: Can't talk right now, he's explaining what's wrong with the dishwasher.
Luke: Why can't you talk
Luke: What's he explaining
Luke: Actually why do you need him to explain anything, that's what I'm for
You're fully giggling now, hunched over your phone like a teenager, and you're very glad you're working from home today because you would not be able to explain this to coworkers.
He's actually really nice! Very knowledgeable about appliances.
Luke: I don't care how nice he is
Luke: Why is this man in my house without a shirt on
Luke: Please tell me you see how this is weird
You decide to really push it and quickly generate another photo, this time of the same AI man standing up, wiping his hands on a towel, looking directly at the camera with that perfectly generic handsome smile.
He says he can fix it! :)
You attach the second photo.
Your phone immediately starts ringing again. You decline it again.
Luke: ANSWER YOUR PHONE
Luke: Who is this guy
Luke: Why does he keep posing for pictures
Luke: Why are YOU taking pictures of him???
Luke: I'm coming home
Luke you're being ridiculous, he's just fixing the dishwasher
Luke: WITH HIS SHIRT OFF
Luke: IN OUR KITCHEN
Luke: I AM THE GUY. I FIX THINGS. ME.
You're laughing so hard now that tears are streaming down your face. You can picture him so clearly at the gym with his teammates, probably getting increasingly agitated while they wonder what the hell is going on.
Luke: I'm leaving now
The gym is 20 minutes away, you just got there!
Luke: Don't care
Luke: I'm literally walking to my car right now
Luke: Tell shirtless appliance man his services are no longer needed
You probably should come clean now. You've definitely pushed this far enough, and the last thing you want is for Luke to actually be upset. But the thought of his face when he gets home and realizes he's been pranked is too good to pass up.
You're overreacting. He's almost done anyway.
Luke: I'm not overreacting
Luke: There's a half-naked stranger in our house and my wife is TAKING PICTURES OF HIM
Luke: How is this not worth reacting to
He's not a stranger, he's a certified repair technician
Luke: I don't care if he's certified by the Pope himself
Luke: He needs to put a shirt on and leave
Luke: Actually just the leaving part. He can stay shirtless, just not in my house
Luke: Wait no
Luke: He needs to be fully clothed AND leave
You're trying to type a response when another message comes through.
Luke: I'm driving. I'll be home in 20 minutes.
Luke: Maybe 15 if I hit the lights right
Luke: Please tell me he'll be gone by then
You decide to show mercy. Kind of.
Okay okay, relax. I'll tell him you're on your way.
Luke: Good
Luke: Wait are you saying he's still there??
Luke: I thought you said he was almost done
He is! He's just wrapping up!
Luke: Wrapping up should take 30 seconds
Luke: Tell him to wrap faster
You set your phone down, still grinning, and actually try to focus on work for the next fifteen minutes. You've just finished responding to an email when you hear Luke's car pull into the driveway, definitely faster than 20 minutes, possibly breaking a few traffic laws in the process.
The front door opens with more force than necessary.
"Hello?" Luke's voice carries through the house, tense and alert. "Where is everyone?"
You appear at the top of the stairs, leaning against the railing with your most innocent expression. "Hey! You're home early."
Luke is standing in the entryway, still in his gym clothes, looking slightly wild-eyed and definitely suspicious. "Where is he?"
"Where's who?"
"The-" Luke gestures vaguely, frustratedly. "The shirtless dishwasher guy!"
"Oh, him." You start down the stairs slowly, enjoying every second of this. "He left about ten minutes ago."
"He left." Luke's eyes narrow. "Just like that. Coincidentally right before I got home."
"Well, he finished the job." You reach the bottom of the stairs, and Luke's looking at you like he's trying to solve a complicated puzzle. "Said it was just a loose connection or something."
"A loose connection." Luke's voice is flat.
"Yep."
"That took a shirtless man forty-five minutes to fix."
"He was very thorough."
Luke stares at you for a long moment, and you can see the exact second he starts to suspect something. His eyes narrow further, and he takes a step closer.
"Show me the dishwasher."
"What?"
"The dishwasher. Show me what he fixed."
"Luke-"
"Show me." But there's something in his voice now, a slight shift that tells you he's starting to figure it out.
You lead him to the kitchen, and Luke immediately goes to the dishwasher, opening it, running his hand along the front. Everything is completely fine, exactly as it was this morning.
He straightens up slowly and turns to look at you, his expression somewhere between realization and disbelief.
"There's nothing wrong with the dishwasher."
"Isn't there?" You're fighting back a smile now.
"No. There's not." Luke crosses his arms over his chest. "So either your repair man is a miracle worker, or..."
"Or?"
"There was no repair man."
You can't hold it back anymore, you burst out laughing, and Luke's face goes through several expressions in rapid succession. Realization. Disbelief. The beginning of amusement. And then something that looks suspiciously like annoyance mixed with reluctant humor.
"Are you kidding me right now?" He's trying to sound stern, but you can see the corner of his mouth twitching. "You made me leave the gym. I was in the middle of training."
"I know!" You're still laughing, pulling out your phone to show him the AI-generated photos. "It's a TikTok trend! Look, these aren't even real people!"
Luke takes your phone, examining the photos more closely, and you watch as he spots all the telltale AI glitches: the weird hands, the slightly off lighting, the too-perfect features.
"These are fake," he says slowly.
"Very fake."
"There was no shirtless man in our house."
"Nope."
"I drove like a maniac across town,"
"You did."
"Cut my workout short,"
"Uh-huh."
"Probably gave Seamus and Šimon the impression that I was having some kind of emergency,"
"You definitely did."
Luke sets your phone down on the counter carefully, and when he looks at you again, there's something different in his expression. Something heated.
"You think this is funny," he says, and it's not a question.
"I think it's hilarious." You're still grinning, pleased with yourself. "You should have seen your texts. 'I AM THE GUY.'" You do your best impression of his voice, and Luke's jaw ticks.
"You pranked me."
"I pranked you," you confirm.
"With a fake shirtless handyman."
"AI-generated shirtless handyman, yes."
"And you let me think," Luke takes a step closer, and suddenly the kitchen feels smaller. "You let me drive all the way home thinking there was some other guy in my house."
"In my defense, I didn't think you'd actually leave the gym." Your voice is slightly breathless now because Luke's looking at you in a way that makes your stomach flip. "I thought you'd just be mildly annoyed."
"Mildly annoyed." Luke takes another step forward, and you instinctively take one back, your hip hitting the counter. "I wasn't mildly annoyed. I was," He pauses, seeming to search for the right word. "I was significantly annoyed."
"I can see that."
"Can you?" He's right in front of you now, his hands coming up to bracket you against the counter, caging you in. "Because you're still smiling like this is the funniest thing that's ever happened."
"It kind of is though." You're looking up at him, your heart racing, and you can see the exact moment his annoyance shifts into something else entirely.
"You're so annoying," Luke says, his voice almost a childish whine, exasperated. "You know that?"
"I know."
"You'd be upset," His eyes drop to your lips. "if I did the same thing." He deadpans.
"Upset at what?" You try to keep your voice steady with faux confidence. "A harmless prank?"
"Harmless." Luke laughs, but there's little humor in it. "You had me convinced some guy was in here, taking his shirt off, being 'really nice' to my wife."
"AI guy," you correct.
"I don't care if he was AI or real or imaginary." Luke leans in closer, his mouth nearly touching your ear. "The point is, you made me think someone else was in my house, with my wife, and you thought it was funny."
"It was funny."
"You're not even sorry."
"Not even a little bit."
Luke pulls back to look at you, and his eyes are dark with something that makes heat pool low in your stomach. "You should be."
"Should I?"
you can read the rest of the fic (smut) on my patreon if you so desire 🫶🏽🫶🏽
Warning(s); Established relationship, SMUT, cursing, angst(?), edited once, not sure what else
Summary; Stars are eliminated from the playoffs with a 6-3 loss from Edmonton on home ice.
Word Count; 2k
Authors Note; I will be very shocked if Pete DeBoer is still employed by the Dallas Stars come next season. Absolutely asinine comments to make about your franchise goaltender. Anyways, my first time writing for Jake! Hope I did alright! ☺️ I honestly thought there would be a lot more fics for him then there is...Sooo if you have a favorite Otter fic please let me know 🙏🏽 -Honey
The drive home is a heavy silence, thick with the weight of disappointment and frustration that hangs between you like fog. Jake doesn't speak. Hasn't said a word since you left the arena twenty minutes ago. Doesn't glance your way, doesn't acknowledge the soft music you turned on to fill the void. Just stares ahead through the windshield, jaw locked tight enough that you can see the muscle jumping beneath his skin, knuckles white around the steering wheel like he's trying to strangle it.
The city lights blur past in streaks of amber and red, but you're not really seeing them. Your attention is fixed on the man beside you, on the rigid line of his shoulders, the way his breathing is still too controlled, too measured. You know better than to try to pull him out of it, you've been here before, in this exact passenger seat, watching him wrestle with demons that have nothing to do with hockey and everything to do with it at the same time. He's not ready, not tonight. Not after that game. Not after those words that cut deeper than any blade ever could.
Two goals on two shots in the first period. Pulled seven minutes in, walking that long, shameful trek to the bench while eighteen thousand people watched in stunned silence. And then DeBoer afterward, throwing numbers and blame like knives during postgame media, his voice steady and clinical as he dissected Jake's performance for the world to see. "The reality is if you go back to last year's playoffs, he's lost six of seven games to Edmonton. And we give up two goals on two shots in an elimination game...That's a pretty big sample size."
Your stomach had twisted hearing it, imagining Jake's face go blank in that way it does when he's putting walls up.
When you finally pull into the driveway of your shared house, the one you bought together last summer, Jake doesn't pause. The car engine dies with a quiet rumble, and he's out before you can even unbuckle your seatbelt. He doesn't wait for you, doesn't hold the door, just heads straight inside and makes a beeline for the bathroom. The water starts running almost immediately, too hot, the pipes groaning in protest.
You take your time gathering your purse, your jacket, wanting to give him the space he needs. The house feels different now that Jake's season is officially over, bittersweet in a way that hurts yet again. You change into one of his old practice shirts, the fabric soft and worn, smelling faintly of his cologne and something that's just uniquely him. Nothing else besides panties, and the shirt that hangs to mid-thigh and makes you feel wrapped in his embrace even when he's not around to give it.
You climb into bed with the TV on low, some late-night talk show host making jokes you're not really listening to. The shower is still running, has been for fifteen minutes now, and you can almost feel the scalding water he's standing under, trying to wash away the sting of failure and public criticism. You wait patiently, because that's what you do. That's what you've always done.
When he finally emerges, he's wrapped in steam and nothing else, a towel around his waist that he drops almost immediately. His hair is damp and disheveled, skin flushed pink from the heat, and there are still droplets of water clinging to his shoulders, his chest. He looks raw, vulnerable in a way that makes your heart ache. His eyes meet yours for a fraction of a second, brown and wounded and angry, and then he's moving with purpose and desperation.
Towel dropped. No words. No gentle preamble or soft touches.
He climbs onto the bed and kisses you like he needs to breathe and you're his only source of oxygen. Like he has to have this, has to have you, or he might just fall apart completely. His mouth is frantic against yours, all tongue and teeth and barely controlled hunger, hands tugging at your shirt with an urgency that speaks to something deeper than desire.
You let him. You want him to. You've been waiting for this moment, knowing it would come, knowing he would need this release, this way of proving to himself that he's still worth something to someone. His hands are everywhere—tangling in your hair, skimming over your ribs, pulling at the hem of his shirt until you lift your arms and let him strip it away.
He doesn't bother with your panties, just pulls them to the side with a roughness that only makes your breath catch, makes heat pool low in your belly. There's something intoxicating about being wanted this desperately, about being the safe harbor he runs to when the world feels like it's crumbling around him.
He slides his cock into you with one devastating thrust, burying himself to the hilt with a low, guttural groan that vibrates through both your bodies. He's thick and hard and perfectly right, filling you completely, and his body is tense above you, every muscle coiled tight with frustration and need. His movements are unrelenting as he starts to move, hips snapping against yours with a rhythm born of desperation rather than finesse.
"Fuck," he mutters, voice rough and broken in your ear, hot breath making you shiver. "Two fucking shots. Two."
The words are bitter, self-deprecating, and you wrap your legs around his waist, ankles locking at the small of his back, taking everything he's willing to give and asking for more. Your hands smooth over the broad expanse of his back, feeling the play of muscle beneath skin that's still damp from his shower.
"Team didn't fucking show up," he growls, the sound vibrating against your throat where he's buried his face. His hips snap into yours harder, more punishing, like he's trying to fuck the anger right out of himself. "Defense might as well have stayed in the locker room. But it's all my fault, right? Always is."
You thread your fingers through his hair, the short strands still wet at the ends, holding him close as his pace grows harsher, more erratic. You can feel the tension radiating from every inch of him, the way he's wound so tight he might snap at any moment. "No, baby." You whimper out.
"They skate around like it's fucking preseason," he continues, each word punctuated by a deep, punishing thrust that has you gasping, seeing stars. "Give up breakaways like party favors. But I'm the one getting roasted on national TV."
His breathing is ragged, harsh pants against your skin, and he's angry. He's furious at his teammates, at his coach, at the media, and at himself most of all. But not at you. Never at you. You're his sanctuary, his safe place to fall apart, and he knows you'll catch every piece of him that breaks off.
"They hung me out to dry for three fucking games," he groans, voice cracking slightly on the words. "I can't be in net and score goals too."
You press your lips to his jaw, soft and quick, tasting salt and frustration and something that's purely him. Your own arousal is building, heat spreading through your body like wildfire, but this isn't about you right now. This is about him, about giving him what he needs to survive another night, another loss, another public humiliation.
"I'm here," you whisper, voice steady despite the way he's making you shake. "I'm right here, Jake."
He groans into your neck, his rhythm faltering for just a second before he doubles down, fucking you harder, like he's chasing something he's afraid he'll never catch, some sense of worth or validation that always seems just out of reach.
"Pete wants a scapegoat? Fine," he bites out, and you can hear the bitterness in his voice, the way any respect for his coach was slowly going down the drain with every passing minute. "I’ll be it."
Your back arches off the mattress, body slick with sweat and heat and the friction of skin against skin. Your nails rake down his back, leaving red lines that he'll feel tomorrow, marking him as yours in the most primitive way possible. You moan his name, the sound torn from your throat as he hits that perfect spot inside you, as the tension coils tighter and tighter in your core.
He catches your mouth again, tongue sliding against yours with urgency, desperate to try and pour everything he can't say into the kiss.
"Fuck, baby, you take it so good," he growls against your lips, and his voice is wrecked, absolutely destroyed. "Always here for me, never giving up on me. Never putting the blame on me like everyone else."
The words make your heart clench, make you clutch him tighter, feeling your own climax build with the raw emotion in his voice, the desperation in his movements. He's falling apart in your arms, coming undone in the most beautiful, heartbreaking way, and all you want is to catch every piece of him and hold them safe.
"Come with me," you whisper, lips brushing the shell of his ear, breath hot against his skin. "Let go, Jake. Please."
And when he finally does, when he buries himself deep and moans your name like a prayer, it's a breakdown. A surrender, a need too big for words or logic or anything beyond the innate human desire to be held, to be wanted, to matter to someone even when the rest of the world seems determined to write you off.
You follow him over the edge, your own pleasure crashing through you like a tidal wave, clinging to him with everything you have, giving him your own surrender without question or reservation. Your bodies move together in those final moments, finding a rhythm that's purely instinctual.
After, he doesn't pull away like he sometimes does when the vulnerability gets to be too much. Instead, he stays pressed to you, still inside you, still connected in the most intimate way possible. His forehead rests against your collarbone, breath slowly evening out, and you can feel the gradual loosening of his muscles as the tension finally starts to drain away.
"I don't know what the hell I'm doing anymore," he murmurs, and the admission is so quiet you almost miss it.
You kiss his temple, and your hands move to trace gentle patterns on his back, delicate and soothing. "You're doing your best. That's more than enough."
"Is it, though?" He lifts his head slightly to look at you, and his eyes are so brown, so lost. "Because it doesn't feel like enough. Feels like I'm failing everyone. The team, the fans, you..."
"Never me," you say firmly, cupping his face in your hands. "You could never fail me, Jake. Good game or bad, you're still the man I chose, still the man I love."
He exhales slowly, a shaky breath that seems to carry some of his pain with it. His arms tighten around your waist like you're his lifeline, like if he holds you close enough, maybe the rest of the world, with its expectations and criticisms and crushing weight of professional sports, will go quiet for just a little while.
"I don't want to talk about hockey anymore," he says after a long pause, voice small and tired.
"Then let's not," you say softly, pressing another kiss to his forehead. "The rest of it can wait until tomorrow."
And he does. He stays curled around you, breathing you in, letting your heartbeat steady his own. In the upcoming days, they'll be end of the season interviews where he'll have to face the music again, locker room clean outs, or maybe a meeting with management. But tonight, in this bed, in your arms, he's just Jake. Not a goaltender or a disappointment or a cautionary tale. Just the man you love, holding onto you, finding comfort in you.
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Warning(s); Established relationship, fluff, alluding to smut, reader works in a hospital, edited once, not sure what else
Summary; Reader had a hard day at work and Quinn is finally home from a 10 day road trip
Word Count; 3.0k
Authors Note; I binged the show The Pitt and that inspired readers job lol. Also the title is sort of random, I just named it after Sex Therapy by Robin Thicke (the song I listened to while writing this, feel free to give it a listen while you read along) Any thoughts & reblogs are appreciated! 🩵 -Honey
The fluorescent hospital lights still burned behind your eyelids as you fumbled with your keys in the dim hallway of your apartment building. Your scrubs clung uncomfortably to your skin, and the familiar ache in your feet reminded you of the twelve-hour shift that had finally come to an end. The emergency department had been particularly brutal tonight: three car accident victims, two cardiac arrests, and a steady stream of patients that never seemed to end. Your body felt heavy with exhaustion, but more than that, your heart felt heavy with the weight of the day's losses and small victories.
As you turned the key in the lock, you noticed the warm glow of light spilling from beneath the door. Your pulse quickened slightly, Quinn was supposed to be coming home from the road trip today, but you hadn't been sure when exactly he'd arrive. The team had been gone for a week and a half, playing five games across the country, and you'd missed him with an intensity that surprised you even after two years together.
The door opened before you could push it fully, and there he was. His hair was slightly tousled from travel, and he was wearing the soft gray henley you'd bought him last Christmas, smiling at you with those warm hazel eyes that always seemed to see straight through to your soul.
"Hi, baby," Quinn said softly, his voice carrying that familiar gentle tone he reserved just for you. He stepped forward, careful to leave space between your bodies, knowing your routine by now. Instead, he cupped your face gently in his hands and pressed his lips to yours in a kiss that tasted like coming home. It was soft and welcoming, full of the longing that had built up over ten days apart.
When you separated, you leaned your forehead against his chest for just a moment, breathing in the scent of his cologne mixed with something uniquely him. "I missed you so much," you whispered against the soft cotton of his shirt.
"I missed you too. More than you know." His thumb traced along your cheekbone. "Rough day?"
You nodded, suddenly feeling the weight of everything settling back onto your shoulders. "Long day. Really long day."
Quinn's expression softened further, if that was possible. He'd learned to read the subtle differences in your tired. There was regular tired from a normal shift, and then there was this bone-deep exhaustion that came from days when the job took more from you than usual.
"I'll run a bath," he said, pressing another gentle kiss to your forehead. "Be right back."
You kicked off your sneakers by the door, your feet sighing in relief as they hit the cool hardwood floor. The apartment looked exactly as you'd left it that morning, except for Quinn's travel bag sitting by the couch and his jacket draped over the back of a chair. The sight of his things scattered naturally throughout the space made something tight in your chest finally begin to loosen.
You padded to the kitchen and sank onto one of the barstools at the island, letting your head fall forward onto the counter. From the bathroom, you could hear the sound of water running, followed by Quinn moving about. A few minutes later, he appeared in the doorway.
"Tub's ready," he said, and something about the simple statement made your eyes prick with tears. After the day you'd had, the thought of sinking into hot water felt like the most luxurious thing in the world.
You made your way to the bathroom, where Quinn had lit the small candles you kept on the windowsill and dimmed the overhead light. The bathtub was filled with steaming water, and you could smell the eucalyptus scent of the Epsom salts he'd added. Your favorite bath towel was warming on the radiator, and he'd even thought to put your silk robe on the hook where you could easily reach it.
"Quinn," you breathed, turning to find him leaning against the doorframe with a soft smile.
"Take your time," he said. "I'll be right outside if you need anything."
You changed out of your scrubs, leaving them in a pile that you'd deal with tomorrow, and sank into the hot water with a sigh that came from somewhere deep in your soul. The heat immediately began working on the knots in your shoulders and the persistent ache in your lower back from being on your feet all day. You closed your eyes and let yourself float for a few minutes, feeling the stress of the day beginning to dissolve.
A gentle knock on the door pulled you from your meditative state. "Can I come in?" Quinn's voice was quiet, respectful.
"Please," you called back, and the door opened to reveal Quinn carrying two wine glasses and a bottle of the Pinot Grigio you'd been saving for a special occasion.
"Figured you coming home alive from another shift was special enough," he said with a small smile, settling cross-legged on the bathroom floor beside the tub. He poured wine into both glasses and handed you one, the cool glass a nice contrast to the warm water.
You took a sip and felt some of the last tension leave your body. Quinn had changed into boxers and a wife beater, clearly settling in for the long haul. This was something he'd started doing early in your relationship, giving you space to decompress and talk through your day when you needed it. He'd quickly learned that your job wasn't something you could just leave at the hospital, that sometimes you needed to process the emotions and experiences out loud before you could truly be present at home.
"Tell me about today," he said gently, taking a sip of his own wine and settling more comfortably against the bathroom cabinet.
And so you did. You told him about Mrs. Patterson, the elderly woman who'd come in with chest pain that turned out to be anxiety about her upcoming surgery. You told him about the seventeen year old who'd been brought in after a skateboarding accident, how scared he'd been, and how you'd held his hand while they waited for his parents. You told him about the man who'd had a heart attack in the parking lot, how the team had worked for forty minutes to bring him back, and how it hadn't been enough.
Quinn listened without interruption, occasionally asking gentle questions or making soft sounds of understanding. He'd learned not to try to fix things or offer solutions, you didn't need that. You just needed someone to witness the weight of what you carried, to acknowledge that the work you did mattered and that it was okay for it to affect you.
"I'm sorry about Mr. Hendricks," he said quietly when you finished telling him about the patient you'd lost. "You did everything you could."
"I know," you said, voice thick with emotion. "It's just... some days are harder than others, you know?"
"I know." Quinn reached over and gently traced his fingers along your arm where it rested on the edge of the tub. "I'm proud of you. Every single day, I'm proud of the work you do, the lives you save, the comfort you give people in their scariest moments."
You felt tears prick your eyes again, but these were different. Not the exhausted tears of earlier, but something warmer, more healing. "Thank you," you whispered. "For this, for listening and stuff."
Quinn smiled and leaned forward to press a kiss to your damp forehead. "Of course."
You sat in comfortable silence for a few minutes, sipping wine and letting the hot water continue its work on your tired muscles. Finally, you looked over at Quinn, really taking him in for the first time since you'd gotten home.
"Now tell me about you," you said. "How was the trip? How are you feeling about the games?"
Quinn's expression shifted slightly, and you could see him weighing how much to share. The team had gone 2-3 on the road trip, including two particularly tough losses that you'd watched on your phone during breaks at work.
"It was rough," he admitted, running a hand through his hair. "The Boston game especially. We had it, you know? We were up by two going into the third, and then..." He trailed off, shaking his head. "Sometimes I wonder if I'm cut out for this captain thing. The guys look to me to set the tone, to keep everyone's heads up when things go sideways, and I just... I felt like I let them down."
You studied his face, seeing the frustration and self-doubt he tried so hard to hide from everyone else. This was Quinn in his most vulnerable state, not the confident captain the media saw, not even the supportive partner he was with you most of the time, but the young man who sometimes felt the weight of expectations crushing down on him.
"You know what I see when I watch you play?" you said softly. "I see someone who never gives up. Someone who's the first one back to help defend and the last one to stop trying to make something happen. I see you talking to the rookies between shifts, making sure they know they're supported. I see you taking responsibility for things that aren't your fault because you care that much about the team."
Quinn looked up at you, surprise flickering across his features.
"You're learning," you continued. "Leadership isn't something you just wake up one day knowing how to do perfectly. It's something you grow into, and you're growing into it beautifully. The team wouldn't have chosen you if they didn't believe in you."
"Sometimes I miss being able to just focus on my own game," he admitted quietly. "Now I'm thinking about everyone else's confidence, everyone else's performance..."
"That's what makes you a good captain," you said. "You care. But Quinn, you can't control everything. You can't save every game single handedly, just like I can't save every patient. All we can do is show up, do our best, and trust that it's enough."
Quinn was quiet for a long moment, processing your words. Finally, he smiled, a real smile this time, not the media-trained one he wore for interviews.
"When did you get so wise?" he asked, reaching out to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear.
"Probably somewhere between my third cup of coffee and my fifteenth hour on my feet today," you said with a small laugh. "But also, I learned from watching you. You do the same thing for me when I have hard days."
You shifted in the water, which was still perfectly warm, and reached for the small bottle of body wash on the edge of the tub. "I should probably actually wash up while I'm in here," you said, squeezing some of the lavender-scented gel into your washcloth.
Quinn watched as you began to soap your arms and shoulders, his eyes soft with affection. "Here, let me help," he said, moving from his spot on the floor to kneel beside the tub, his hand taking the cloth from you. "Turn around."
You shifted so your back was facing him, and felt his gentle hands begin to work the soap across your shoulders and down your back. His touch was firm but gentle, working out the knots of tension that had settled there during your long shift. You let out a soft sigh as his thumbs found a particularly tight spot between your shoulder blades.
"Better?" he asked.
"Much better," you murmured, letting your eyes drift closed as he continued his ministrations.
After a few more minutes of his careful attention to your back and shoulders, Quinn's hands moved to your hair. "Lean back," he said softly, and you tilted your head back as he cupped water in his hands to wet your hair thoroughly.
You felt him reach for your shampoo bottle, and then his fingers were in your hair, working the soap through from roots to ends with a gentleness that made your eyes flutter closed. This was pure luxury, the feeling of someone else's hands massaging your scalp, working away the stress of the day along with the antiseptic smell of the hospital that seemed to cling to everything.
"I love your hair," Quinn murmured as he worked, his fingers moving in slow, deliberate circles across your scalp. "I missed being able to touch it, to smell your shampoo on the pillow next to me."
You made a soft sound of contentment, completely relaxed under his touch. "I missed your hands," you admitted quietly. "The way you hold me like I'm something precious."
Quinn's movements paused for just a moment at your words, and when he spoke again, his voice was thick with emotion. "You are precious. You're the most precious thing in my world."
He continued washing your hair with infinite care, taking his time to work the shampoo through every strand before carefully rinsing it out, cupping water in his hands to pour over your hair while shielding your face from the stream. Then came the conditioner, which he worked through the ends of your hair with the same meticulous attention.
"You're really good at this." you hum, your voice dreamy with relaxation.
"We've been dating for what, two years?" Quinn said with a soft chuckle. "I have a lot of practice."
While the conditioner sat in your hair, Quinn picked up the washcloth and began to finish washing the rest of your body with the same attention he'd given your hair. His touch was intimate but not demanding, loving rather than lustful, and you felt yourself melting further into the warm water.
"Quinn," you said softly as he rinsed the conditioner from your hair with the same gentle precision.
"Mmm?" he hummed, focused on making sure he got every last bit of soap out.
"Thanks for taking care of me."
He pressed a soft kiss to the side of your neck, his lips warm against your damp skin. "You don't have to thank me, you never have to." he said simply. "I love you."
The water was finally starting to cool, and you could feel your skin beginning to prune slightly. Quinn seemed to notice at the same time, reaching for the drain plug.
"Ready to get out?" he asked, already reaching for the warm towel he'd prepared earlier.
You nodded, feeling refreshed and renewed in a way that went far beyond just being clean. As you stood up slowly, water cascading off your body, Quinn was there with the towel, wrapping it around you with the same gentle care he'd shown throughout the entire bath.
But this time, as he rubbed the soft terry cloth over your arms and back, there was something different in the air between you. The exhaustion was still there, but it was the good kind now, the kind that came from being completely relaxed and cared for. And underneath it, you could feel something else stirring, a warmth that had nothing to do with the hot water and everything to do with the way Quinn was looking at you.
"I missed you so much," you said again, your voice barely above a mumble as you looked up into his eyes.
"I missed you too," Quinn replied, his hands stilling on the towel as he held your gaze. "Every single day. Every night lying in those hotel beds, wishing I was here with you instead."
You reached up to cup his face, your thumb tracing along his cheekbone. "You're here now," you said softly.
"I'm here now," he agreed, leaning into your touch. His eyes were dark and warm, full of love and longing and something deeper that made your breath catch.
Without breaking eye contact, you let the towel drop to the floor. Quinn's gaze flickered down briefly before returning to your face, and you could see the desire there, carefully controlled but unmistakable.
"Bedroom?" you whispered, and Quinn nodded. He blew out the bathroom candles, before leading you out of the steamy bathroom.
The bedroom felt cool after the warmth of the bath, and you could see that Quinn had been busy before he'd brought in the wine. He'd picked up the clothes you'd strewn about earlier in a rush, cleaned off the bed, and opened the window just a crack to let in some fresh air. The action made your heart swell with love for this thoughtful, wonderful man.
You turned to face him in the muted lamp light, suddenly feeling almost shy despite everything you'd just shared. It had been ten days since you'd been together like this, and your body felt hypersensitive, alive with anticipation.
"We don't have to do anything," Quinn said softly, reading your expression. "If you're too tired, we can just go to sleep. I just want to be close to you."
But that wasn't what you wanted. The bath, his hands on you, it had all served to awaken something in you that had been dormant during your time apart. You wanted him, wanted to reconnect in the most intimate way possible, to show him with your body what your words couldn't fully express.
"I want you," you said simply, "I want to be with you, maybe just go slow? I'm a little tired."
Quinn's smile was soft and full of love. "Whatever you want, baby," he promised, his hands coming up to frame your face. "We have all night, and nowhere to be tomorrow except right here with each other."
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